Tag Archives: poetry

What Are the Arts? A Hollywood Standard

After spending more than my self-allotted time on Facebook today, the running theme was the Meryl Streep speech. This blog is not a political debate and I will not go into politics. However, I will discuss “arts.” Ms. Streep made a rather bold comment that has sent MMA fighters globally into an uproar, whether her intention or not.

Per Ms. Streep, “So Hollywood is crawling with outsiders and foreigners. And if we kick them all out you’ll have nothing to watch but football and mixed martial arts, which are not the arts.

The question now begging to be answered is: What are the arts? Are the arts only limited to those on stage or in productions? Have we lost sight of what the arts are? Have the arts  evolved or devolved?

According to Oxford, art can be defined as 1) the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. 2) (the arts) the various branches of creative activity, such as painting, music, literature, and dance. 3) a skill at doing a specified thing, typically one acquired through practice.

I would consider definition #2 to include artists, writers, poets, sculptors, singers/song writers, and dancers. In there I would add acting as well, as this is a dominant basis to portray stories through creative activity. That would be my opinion. Using the given Oxford definition then, Mixed Martial Arts, football, even culinary chefs would fall into definition #3, as they have honed into a special skill acquired through practice. This can also absorb definition #2, as a writer works at his skill acquired through practice: the art of writing. Similarly,  the art of song writing, the art of basket weaving, the art of sculpting, the art of dance, the art of fighting, heck even the art of war.

So here is my kick: as definition #2 (the arts) can easily dip into definition #3 (acquired skill), can acquired skill also be considered the arts? The definitions are so broad. Have you ever watched Tai Chi? The slow and fluid motions are almost poetic in nature and mesmerizing to watch. Would Tai Chi not be a creative activity defined as the arts? Again, the definition is quite broad and could not encompass every example of the arts, but instead gave the more prominent ones.

Glass blowing: the arts or an acquired skill; the art of glass blowing? Tai Chi versus MMA; is there a difference?

Definitions give to evolution in an ever changing world, but are the definitions variant through the eyes of the beholder?  A husband and wife go to an art museum. The wife is in awe of the sculptures and paintings, to her that is art. They walk into the next museum, an air and space museum, and the husband sees the curves, the mass, the depth of an old WWII fighter plane and says that is true art. Which one is wrong? Are they both correct? Couldn’t building a plane be considered a creative art? I’m sure the Wright Brothers would love to hear that argument.

My blog today was not to bash or trash, and definitely not to make a political statement, but rather to entice people to open their minds as to what is art and what are the arts. Are only the beautiful aspects to be considered art such as Tai Chi versus MMA? Are some form of the arts higher up on the evolutionary art ladder than others: slam poetry versus Hollywood movies? Is it art to portray a fighter in a movie but not to be a fighter? Is it art to portray a fighter pilot in war but not to be a fighter pilot in war?

Have we evolved or devolved our definition of the arts over time? And if all of Hollywood disappeared today, would the arts disappear with it?

I would love to hear your “non-political” input on what you consider to be the arts, or on Ms. Streep’s thoughts that without Hollywood there would be nothing left but football and MMA. Maybe the world could read the book instead of watching the film adaptation, but I’m a writer; I can dream.

Tania L Ramos, RN BSN & Author of the arts

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Ghost

As I walk this shadow side by side
A recollection of a friend of mine
Memories hung in light of dreams
Shadows are nightmares too, it seems

As I walk this shadow walk away
Never a shadow is here to stay
Voices hinge on secrets passed
Never shadows could ever last

As I walk this shadow to the ending light
The ghost beside me dies to night
A weary hand beside the moon
The walking shadow gone too soon

As I walk this shadow to no sound
The ghost of you looses ground
A ghostly shadow next to me
Your never shadow should will never be

Lost Song

Lost Song

Sitting in night contemplating days, the music in my head
Running through madness, this beat found dead
Listen to the song of our life, hear the memories we left behind
An inspiring melody we drew
Fantasy poem as simple as you

In one beat your mine, in one note I’m yours
Memory fades, in what verse did we close the doors
Afraid in this song, alone too soon
Drowning in meaning, singing a different tune

Sweet lyrics tell me goodbye
Beautiful words say you aren’t mine
In a lost song the words become you or me
Love forgotten, in an unloved melody

Running between the music, grasping the lie
Tempted to sing, I try and I try
Under the stars, lost in words
Tear up our song
…In lyrics I don’t belong

lost song

 
© Tania L Ramos

Petals on a Rose

The poem my mom asked for only days before her passing. She said, “You need to write a poem about not being able to fix petals falling off a rose.” Maybe she knew her time was short. I never got the chance to read it to her.

Petals on a Rose

moms roses2

Rose petals from mom’s casket spray in her favorite green vase

If you were here with me you would see
A million memories of us drifting free

The days we laughed and days we cried
The years we spent together side by side

Those days are now remnants on weary dreams
And yet I hear your voice in all I see

Your scent has left, but your smile not lost
Those days we owned were worth the cost

I want you back, but my heart now knows
You can’t put petals back on a rose

 

Tania L Ramos, BSN RN

Spring Girl

Thought I’d share one of those 4 a.m. poems. I’ll let you figure out what its about, but damn!

Spring Girl

Spring is a place to live so free
The fields of gold, the hurting tree
The spec of a girl with eyes blue as the sea

Summer sun burns so unfair
Words and snickers also there
The spring girl with the burnt brown hair

Fall drops pain from its fingertips
Shunning and bruising wicked tricks
The spring girl with the rosy pink lips

Winter shatters and freezes out sin
People are cruel again and again
The spring girl with the pasty pale skin

Retrieved from: http://vi.sualize.us/face_hair_eye_face_woman_picture_a3WK.html

A season turns like a wily fox
Laugh at your joke, throw your rocks
Stare at the spring girl in the pretty wood box

Copyright @TaniaLRamos 2014

Tania L Ramos, RN, Author

The 4 a.m. Poet

Every day we live, we learn. If you think you know everything about yourself then you are most certainly wrong. Opinions change from day to day, and one simple bad experience, or one wonderful great experience can sway you in an entirely different direction.

There are paths in life; some you chose, some you follow, some are pre-designed. For example; my daughter was adamant that she would hate surf school, that she would drown, be left out in the big waves alone, and most likely die. After much convincing, and the promise that she only had to try once then could walk away, she gave it a go. Wouldn’t you know (because I knew) that she loved it!

We just don’t know what we can do until we do.

I for one appreciate poetry, but a poet I am not. My brain thinks in long strands with elaborate situations, much to wordy for poetry. Then I had a two day run with messing up my internal sleeping clock. Day two was quite unique in that I promptly fell asleep at 9 p.m. then promptly woke up at 1 a.m. Wide awake! About 3 a.m. I was able to fall back asleep, but by 4 a.m. my brain was back on. Well, I assume it was back on, though the part of the brain that tells the body its awake was off. I remember 4 a.m. like I remember 10th grade geometry.

aa4But there on my phone was proof that some kind of electrical function was fusing at 4 a.m. Three poems on my phone, all written within 45 minutes of each other. Three very very different poems from heartache to funny to surreal all stared at me at 7 a.m. with the option to “save.” I was amazed; dumbfounded! They weren’t half-bad and one made me laugh. Maybe I’ll be sleep deprived a few more days, because apparently I’m only a poet at 4 a.m.

Tania L Ramos

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Epic Ode to Pinkie Toe

~My ode to the pinkie toe~
pinkie toeLittle piggie pinkie toe
wee wee wee
Why run all the way home

Stubbed and wounded
Nail with a noose
Hanging–hanging

Pain and curse words
She bangs she bangs
against the bed rail

wee wee wee
Water stinging
Don’t you cry little piggie toe

Then the stupid shampoo bottle falls on your injured toe as if it didn’t have an ENTIRE shower floor to fall on. NO! just smack dab on the teeny tiny little baby toe that has been brutally assaulted over the past 24 hours by that flippant little thing we call fate! Why does fate have to pick on the smallest toe? Because fate is a big fat bully…ugh. Wee wee wee, this is what it sounds like when pinkie toe cries

Maybe pinkie toe should have went to market with big toe!

Tania L Ramos RN, Author Who Knows why Little Toe Ran All The Way Home
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