Helium Moon

Posted on November 4, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

I know this will come as no surprise to my readers, but just let me say it one more time, that one of the reasons I’m still actively in Second Life (even after moaning that it has changed and the thrill is almost gone, see post: Slip Away) is the chance to meet with so many talented artists, musicians, poets, machinimatographers, scripters, builders, and do small collaborative projects together. This new poem recording is my latest example.
“Helium Moon” was born from listening to WaMark Basevi’s “Gone Girl” that he had sent me in a folder with some other original .mp3 songs he had composed. He thought that maybe I could find one useful for my poetry readings. Instead, I felt the urge to write a totally new poem, more a little spacey moon- mood , than an actual poem to go with his piece For this reason, I will not post the words here, but if someone really has to know what it says, I will include them in a comment below..so feel free, if you do, to just ask me.

Helium Moon…I hold your string


I have been floating o”er my sim for the last few days on helium balloons that my sim partner, Odracir, had left out for all to use (they are wonderful!) So it’s not hard to understand what direction my mind had been drifting towards, and the moon is a very powerful muse.
So to enjoy it, just click on the link that says “Helium Moon.mp3” and listen to it and maybe close your eyes and float along with me. This is a performance poem, more to be listened to and enjoyed than to be read. Thank you again WaMark for letting me use your piece..now Fly with me!
Click this link to listen to “Helium Moon.mp3” 

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Re-Cap of Halloween’s “Under The Spell of Poetry” Reading

Posted on November 2, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

…having just woken up from the dead… photo by Natascha Randt

I tried to be as welcoming as possible when the guests who had come to Steampunk Hall began arriving, but my oddly bent elbows and my rather pained and stiff expression I blame entirely on having just woken up from the dead. Still, I was looking forward to putting those mortals under the spell of poetry, for this was a spell I had been practicing casting, for a few years now. I found the growing group, to be amazingly sensitive, so much so, that without me even beginning to recite, or the music  streaming, they began floating horizontally in front of me…. such a delight to see them stretched out helplessly, for one undead as myself. Our pleasures are very different than the mortals.

“You are lying on my ethereal beach…” photo by Natascha Randt

Refreshed by the howling midnight winds, I began to weave the primordial spell of poetry

Steampunk Hall-the audience now trapped  in an invisible web…how delicious! (photo by Natascha Randt)

The spell was beginning to work, fog rolled in with the words of Poe…

photo by Natascha Randt

The listeners ranged from beauties to beasts and even a superhero…

Indigo, John and Shantz… photo by Natascha Randt

A Vooper creature snuck in amongst the mortals, I was too involved to cast him out, so he stayed until the end…

photo by Natascha Randt

The lighting changed, the room hovered between lovely dark and perilous light, the strain upon me was beginning to show, as many times I let my head drop to catch my breath…

photo by Natascha Randt

At one point, I felt my head spin, and wasn’t sure which way was even up…or down.


photo by Lunalinda Branwen

Beautiful creatures barely mortal also were in attendance, I thought to perhaps speak to this one afterwards, but as it turned out, I had to leave in a hurry!

not-nat_006 2

photo by Natascha Randt

photo by Natascha Randt

In between poems, I surveyed the room, and grew concerned that Warrior Natascha might poke Hoyt the Arab and start “something”, before I could finish my bewitchment…

photo by Natascha Randt

The dreaded time approached, I had to hurry, as the sky was glowing red with Dawn warnings…and I could not afford to stay up late

photo by Natascha Randt

I concentrated all my power that was beginning to ebb as the sky brightened in a miserable morning yellow..I unleashed my last burst to the words of Poe’s Conqueror Worm, and ****Wam** I snatched up their very essence, and the spell was released!

“Take that mortals!” photo Natascha Randt

I hung around long enough to ask this question, as the pale streams of light were causing me pain, and my tomb was the only respite,
“Mortals did you enjoy yourselves?”
(and I paraphrase)
The Walrus and The Carpenter
“O Mortals,” said the Poetess,
“You’ve had a pleasant floating fun!
Shall we be trotting home again?’
But answer came there none–
And this was scarcely odd, because
She’d eaten every one.”

photo by Natascha Randt

((It was great fun, thank you all who attended, and a special thanks to those who sent me photos. I am using them all on my looping picture board at Steampunk Hall))

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Under The Spell of Poetry~ A Halloween Special Reading Oct.31st 1pmslt

Posted on October 29, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

Wednesday, Oct.31st 1pmslt (poster by MarriellaAnna)

As fate would have it, a reading I had been planning for almost a month, was re-vamped (no Goth pun intended:) at the last minute and now it will be held on my own sim, in a beautiful structure given to me to use by my sim partner Odracir Wrigglesworth. I don’t think when he rezzed it one day next to The Lighthouse, that either of us thought it would serve as a venue for a Halloween poetry event, but it will be this coming Wednesday, and a very special one indeed. To keep a small bit of the surprise element alive, I will only say that all female avatars should make sure they are wearing their underwear. That said… I will say no more, except to invite you all to come and fill this dark Hall with warmth and share this hour with me, in a very magical location…trust me on that!

Magical venue that looks like it just walked out of the sea on great cement legs…

I have worked hard preparing this reading, and am mixing my own darker verses with those of Poe and Garcia Lorca. It’s always a humbling feeling for me to do that, to read one of mine after one of Edgar Allan Poe’s who was my childhood mentor ( via his collection) and the reason I am a poet today. So I invite you all, my readers, and those who might just stumble upon this page by accident to join me and (hopefully) fall be-witched under the spell of poetry this coming Wednesday, at 1pmslt.
Dressing up in Halloween regalia is very encouraged..Goth, Steampunk, Zombies… it’s all good, but come ready to get into the mood (whispers to the ladies again, “Don’t forget your underwear.”)
Here is your headless carriage- ride to the front bridge of Steampunk Hall
Steampunk Hall LINC Island
Hope to cast my spell on you….

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Afloat ~ My Scariest Nightmare ~ For Halloween

Posted on October 18, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

In honor of scary things in this month of honoring horror and fear and death *smiles, I give you my offering in this category. Natascha took me to a scary sim today in SL called Tim’s Dream It Was scary but I told her later, it made me want to describe my greatest childhood (and adult) nightmare, and then naturally share it. I ran to Kitely and began to carve out this poem you will hear below, into virtuality. I’m hoping to have my world ,”Float” open for any intrepid grid hoppers to stop by on Halloween. I want to make this poem, come to life, and all who visit will get a taste of what horrors our own imaginations can conjure up if we are floating in an ocean in the dark. I composed this strange piece, which reminded me of perhaps what large stalking fish might play if they were circling around before their dinnertime. I encourage all of you to click on the hyperlink in bold called “Afloat” to listen to me recite it to this odd music. It’s an mp3 file you can just stream in your browser or feel free to download…and Enjoy! The photos were taken on Kitely – Virtual Worlds on Demand  on “Float” I hope you will come take the experience on Halloween. (I hope I finish it by then too:)

“…and there are the nightmares that float you, and put you out to sea.”

Please listen to the mp3 file of the poem recited to my original music written for it.
 Click this link: “Afloat” by Karima Hoisan.mp3

“Your legs drag in the water like lures, but you don’t move,
for fear it might be your last.”

Afloat

There are nightmares that chase you, or trap you and enclose you inside,
and there are the nightmares that float you, and put you out to sea.
In the middle… in the middle of the ocean, beneath a moonless midnight sky,
a million stars too far away to save you.. you just float in dark insecurity

What could be under you, or what’s that sound, and what attaches to that fin that’s going around?
Are you the main course of a feeding- frenzy that below you, now begins to organize?
And what’s the little splash, and that silvery light that just streaked passed?
Your legs drag in the water like lures, but you don’t move, for fear it might be your last.

Helpless… you are helpless and there is no where to go to feel safe.
And the water is getting colder and the night is blacker than it was an hour ago,
and your imagination models every tentacle and tooth, until you begin to feel them and know, the brushing past your calves and ripping ‘n snapping at the leather of your soles.

No where and no one and nothing you can see above or below… but you’re not alone.
And the water ripples, and now and then something comes up hard and bumps your boat.
You’re trying to stay calm as you talk yourself down, praying you’ ll still be here by the dawn, 
as one -thousand cold blooded eyes, watch you fear-filled & paralyzed,
bobbing on the surface afloat.

Karima Hoisan
Oct. 18, 2012
“Float” Kitely – Virtual Worlds on Demand

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Skipping Stones

Posted on October 13, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

“Skipping stones over a glassy pond…”

Skipping Stones

for B.

Skipping stones over a glassy pond
reminds me a little of you.
It was so crystal clear at first;
you loved me, I loved you too.

Then came those growing ripples,
when perfection took a dive,
when the first stone was cast,
concentrically, we were less alive.

Consenting, we chose to carry on
but mostly round and round,
until we could no longer see
the reason to stay bound.

 No matter who was skipping them
the water lost its placid sheen,
when love, no longer was a crystal lake
and the skimming woke our dream.

 Karima Hoisan
Oct. 13, 2012
Turtle Point Art Gallery SL

 

 

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Sea Spice

Posted on October 10, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

Her sacks and bags with foreign tags…

Sea Spice

Surf-zest in her face she pounded in the first stake, for what was meant to be;
a tall round hut of imported spices she would offer to the public at the sea.
Her sacks and bags with foreign tags, laid piled upon the dampening sand,
while her wild hair blowing in the wind, escaped from its multi- colored band.

Passerbys stopped to criticize, to speculate about her choice of place.
They shook their heads, predicting her eventual failure and disgrace.
“Why in the world my dear,” they said, “would you set up shop exactly here?
The waves will take it down, the salty breeze will make your spices disappear.”

Her olive skin did glisten, her strong tan arms arranging, peppered by the briny spray.
She chose to remain silent, and only her large black eyes spoke up, sparkling like midday.
So soon her makeshift hut was done, and jars of spices stood lined up in casual rows,
and the barefoot curious stopped to look, squishing the soft wet sand between their toes.

The names were clearly written on the labels, although no prices could be seen;
ground nutmeg, turmeric, cumin, za’atar, and a tall bottle of rose water in between,
tart and tangy karkadey, sumac and cardamom, cinnamon sticks in honey to suck upon,
whole cloves and ginger root, ground cayenne pepper, curry and red and yellow saffron.

She opened up a jar and scooped a spoonful, holding it out in front of her as if to tease the wind,
and the little grains began to fly, forming a cloud that colored her hair and face as it blew in.
Then she opened others, one after another, until her hair and skin were like an ongoing painting,
that’s when the crowd began to realize, she was not selling spices after all, but instead was entertaining.

The breeze of salty water mixed with cardamom and cinnamon was an aromatic rinse upon her hair,
with full rose-watered lips, she sucked those honey sticks and fluttered dancing hands into the air.
The onlookers grew until they formed a throng now mesmerized, while she perfumed herself in dance,
and there was not one left upon that sunset beach, who was not spiced just right, into her charm-like trance.

Her finale was the offering of the fine- ground residue, flinging it generously upon those gathered there,
the pungent reds and greens and yellows mixed with salty briny gusts, now settled in their hair.
Then pressing cloves into the eager outstretched hands, ginger roots, red petals of  dried karkadey,
she thought, “The waves can have my make-shift stage, as I am all finished for today.”

Colored and stained artistically, abstractly painted by the brush of surf and breeze,
she ambled gracefully down the beach, smelling so exotically like the Middle East. 
Twirling her two bags as if they were scarves, she broke into her own fan-dance ballet,
until her figure finally disappeared into the coastline, for all of those who watched her walk away.

Karima Hoisan
Oct. 10, 2012
LINC Island Renacer SL

 

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Slip Away

Posted on September 30, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

When I arrived upon the shore of my salvation..it was a full moon night and I landed by the sea

Slip Away
For Second Life

When I arrived upon the shore of my salvation,
it was a full moon night and I landed by the sea.
There was a dolphin jumping and I could hear the waves as they crashed over me.
Is there a better metaphor for this our Second Life, than a looking glass or a rabbit hole that let us pass,
into a world we never could imagine, into a million possibilities?
Thousands of sims were fireflies of beckoning doors,
and there we stood, our key in hand, filled with awe and throbbing curiosity,
we entered them in hordes.

 So now at almost five, I remember
like a remnant from a caravan or wagon  train,
the trials and errors and the pain…
but here I am to say that I survived.
Some times I find it hard to think how very long I’ve been inside
and nostalgia with a conscience piques me more each day,
until I wonder if it’s wrong to stay.
I’m still here today, but now I feel the magic start to slip away.

 There was a time I never saw the borders of my screen.
I was so deep inside, I lived here, and when I could,
I made my room surroundings disappear.
I loved and lost and that first time I cried I said, “Oh my” this is not a game!”
I wondered why they called it such,
then felt I should be more careful with those I touched.
Yet my innocence kept showing, as deeper I went in,
for all that I was seeing, was becoming part of me,
while I was forming the pieces of  creation that others now could see…
like a miracle, like a prepschool for the afterlife, relating disembodied.
We were all  demi god- creators, artists painting dreams.
Some were here to make a living, some pursued their fame,
and many turned into demi pawns for those who did not build a life,
but only came to play in -game.

I  found myself with a Blues Club in New Toulouse 1920’s New Orleans.
I was still new enough to find each night had a rainbow lining
that titillated, rustling like my petticoats.
It moved me to feeling and to sensuality,
that’s when I felt it all became so much more real.
I could smell the floorboards, the dockside freighter’s rusty hulls,
and Tom Waits sang over the stream, while I danced with lovers,
those tangos, sexy number 4  cheek to cheek, and slow dance number 3.

 I am  so thankful for all of it, even the bad left some good lessons, and I grew,
even the teenager who I thought was 33,  was still the best builder that I ever knew,
or the artist who stayed partnered less than a week with me,
but did leave a goodbye- gift, a pair of  shiny robots standing by the creek.
Everything and everyone in the end, somehow landed happily ever-afterly.
Its all been good for me… the loss of innocence, the coming of my virtual age,
the sharing, collaborating and true caring.

There still are some songs, that can take my breath away,
even though my heart no longer speeds,
and I seldom lose my head or abandon all caution to an untried lover.
I have more shoes than Imelda Marcos, more houses and castles than a queen.
There are times I feel I have seen it all and danced every dance,
and had every kind of variation of romance.

Am I a jaded oldie who only lives in her memories of how it used to be?
Have I seen a full moon every night of my virtual life,
until it no longer means the same to me?
I remember when they laid the tracks down on the West Atoll,
that was just a year ago but we lagged and laughed in hopeful celebration.
Now the tracks sometimes lead nowhere, and the railroad line is looking bare,
I watch the sims and stores, dance bars and places I adored,
closing down around me.
People who I thought they really cared, vanish into smoke and are no longer there.
I spend too much time in solitude, lazy easy listening,
and readings of my poetry are far and few between.
I’m still here today, but now I feel the magic start to slip away.

Karima Hoisan
Sept. 30,2012
LINC Island Misty Shores SL

 

* Footnote the expression “prep-school for the afterlife” was coined by my SL friend Knor Lane. I always give him credit because….well it’s such a great description:) 

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Way With Words

Posted on September 28, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

“When I worked in the Circo de Verbose…”

Way With Words

for Umahmad

I lost my way with words when I lost you.
I had this way with them, I was the gentle trainer,
and words were pigeons, squabbling,
until I coaxed them to their place.
And even if I let them go, a thousand miles from where you lived,
I know…because I know…
you felt their wings aflutter, trying to get back home upon your chest,
and there they stayed a while, before they laid upon my sheet to rest.
The odd thing was,
you did not speak the language that they carried deep inside,
nor could you decipher tomes of books, that were written just for you.
You only smiled because you felt them coo.

When I worked in the Circo de Verbose,
I used to line them up, those wild words,
like rearing elephants adorned in plumed helmets,
a Byzantine Army of lines,
in perfect rhythm, marching to endless time.
Majestic, regal, powerful, they could crush those underneath,
but when I felt them crushing me,
I raised my arms and they went limp and willing,
until I took control once more, that they might continue to return.

I needed no whip, no self imposed “write or else.”
It came so easily for me.
The day you cracked open wide my heart,
and out they spilled upon the floor,
of course you were not there to see…
Your absence, and the hope you would return, was really what made the mystery,
permitting them to turn back into poetry.

But now you’ve traveled further than my words can ever reach,
you have gone beyond the need for words, and I have lost the touch.
Because there is no longer any hope of seeing you,
I let my animals out, now they all roam free. They no longer work for me.
They no longer parade and line up prettily,
nor do they fly and soar to raw emotion that used to be my poetry.
But words become afraid to leave, and huddle in the shadows
if they stay too long in cages, and you open up their door.
And I, who once thought I had a way with them,
now find, I have a way with them no more.

Karima Hoisan
Sept. 28, 2012
LINC Island SL

 

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Stabbed In The Ego (aka) ~ I Bet I Thought This Poem Was About Me ~

Posted on September 27, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

“Leaned on elbows in white linen caress…”


“Large frame windows staring out at the sea,
 a ballroom restaurant pre-rush and scurry.
 Leaned on elbows in white linen caress
 her smoky accent winds ’round her dress….”

Stabbed In The Ego
(for that poet)

Am I really not as good, not as inspiring nor mysterious
not even deserving of a couplet, or a quatrain in fixed rhyme?
To be a muse, there must be some fireworks and wine,
to be remembered, pined and worshiped in the dark,
there must be a play to play in, with some memorable lines.

So it wasn’t my smoky voice, my table-clothed restaurant by the sea,
nor was it your nervous passion when you approached our intersection.
My eyes stung in lemon tears, to realize the tidal wave was not for you and I
and no debris of love’s alchemy, nor spuming over- flow contained my name
I collapsed, a big balloon who met her thorn, a hope now pricked to die.

Ahh, The silly luxury of wishing to be someone’s special one,
one who moves a bard to song, a poet to tears, to rhyme or drink
Don’t we all wish to engrave ourselves deeply inside a wandering heart
to be a GPS that tracks their thoughts and poetry back to go,
and then we realize we’re not the starting line? Oh…stabbed in the ego!

Karima Hoisan
LINC Island SL
Sept.19, 2012

* How embarrassing! I thought that little excerpt of a poem in the beginning was written for me…then I found out it wasn’t… (cringes but I can laugh about it now) Well it did move my muse to write a few verses…:) and No, not saying who wrote it…I’m just keeping that part to myself.

 

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“Take Charge”

Posted on September 15, 2012 by Karima Hoisan

“We can be the passenger wondering where it all will lead…”

Take Charge

We can be the passenger wondering where it all will lead,
or take the wheel and drive the engine down the laid out tracks.
The tracks we know exist, but where they’ll take us, is what we cannot see,
and all that we might encounter on our way, is at best, a theory or a fantasy.

At times we shudder, for the unknown is like a cold wind that blows us forward,
around a bend there could be danger, and we find it hard to trust the one in charge.
So we sit, the helpless passenger of our daily journey, while the years go flashing by,
and if we don’t wind up where we think we should, we face our palms to heaven asking, “Why?”

The Driver is not alone when he or she is driving, for someone else surely laid those tracks,
and logic tells us, that we can see more plans than randomness, when we look outside our windows.
Even with our wheels riding down the rails, we are free to stop and stay along the way,
we have choices, who we pick up and let ride inside, and learn lessons when they choose not to stay.

Taking charge means taking risks, shouldering the lion’s share of all responsibility,
but if we don’t, we are doomed to wonder, if we had grabbed the wheel, how it might have been?
We could even be a passenger in someone else’s train car, that is not a contradiction, that is Life,
but to drive our own, brings its sweet reward; for even if we get it wrong, we still can make it right.

Karima Hoisan
Sept 15, 2012
Historic Lapara Towne (along the SLRR at Lapara)

* Footnote: First, I want to give a big thank you to my friend f.d. who took this great photo.
I discovered this little imaginative, very entertaining town along the railroad tracks. The landmark says and I quote,
” The ORIGINAL mainland city with the streetcar tram train line.  Stroll the old fashioned streets or take the train down 4 levels to  Lake Lapara’s Protected Clownfish Estaurary and habitat.”
It seems to be the combined creation of two very talented avatars, I have yet to meet, Ponce de Clownfish (israel schnute) and Yume Rizel (yettie.glom) I have been here several times and always find something new, and some unique little things to buy too. If you like exploring on the Mainland, this is a fun and a well done attraction. Here is your locomotive coming down the tracks Link to Historic Lapara Towne

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