Tag Archives: Poetry

‘Have you ever interviewed yourself ?’Guest Post

Guest Post :  Scott N Loveall ofInnersongs.com


Have you ever interviewed yourself?
That was the task given to me by our InnerDialect and Lyrix & Life blogger Rayla Noel – lazy that one, right? I mean how long could this take?
So anyway, she asked me to talk about the inspiration and/or origin of my poem Summer Rains. I’ll do that shortly.
I’ve read over and over, heard it said by many, comments by those that they ‘love the rain’. And indeed we seem captivated by it as a species. We stare at it for hours, respond to its tempos and moods. It is of course a practical matter to be dealt with as well – our hair, clothing, soggy feet, being on time to appointments.
As well it can be a calamity – flooding, suffering, and death.  Water/rain is a force in our lives. Yet on an emotional level, maybe a metaphysical level, if we are safe from its wrath, we seem to have a cellular connection to rain. Is it just that we are instinctually inclined to look at the elements more closely. Is it a matter of cellular memory… our primitive roots when rain and fire were primal forces. A life changing foes?
But you don’t see dogs starring at the rain with any sort of reverence. I’m sure the birds could do without having to fly into it with such velocity. Most other mammals just cringe or go on about their mammalness. Humans, however, romanticize it, create movie dramas, and tell ‘myths of arks’. As well we fixate on the anti-rain that is drought. Rain / water is after all crucial to our existence. We must hydrate. The plants must thrive. Vegetable ‘Good’! Pestilence and desert ‘BAD’!
So we look at rain as danger, and nourishment, a sort of food, and a wonder of nature. A magical fluid that we drink, bathe in, rinse our dishes, and count on for hydration and life. In a way that is how Summer Rains got started.
Summer Rains began simply enough one middle June afternoon when a large thunderstorm came ashore. I live a few miles from the sea. A gust front had whipped the trees like marionettes into a frenzy, their canopies dancing with downdrafts, the wind shear strong. As it darkened from lilac to violet, the winds eased, and first drops began to fall in huge plops. Huge droplets hit the windows and the garden wall with muffled bangs. I wondered at their size in the air. Then curtains of rain began, those great walls of blinding silver and steamy mist. The roar of a summer storm.
The first drops reminded me of a song from a DVD and CD called Natural States, by the great Seattle, WA based pianist David Lanz and collaborator, guitarist Paul Speer. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avAa5TA5jocDavid and Paul had done that collaboration and two other brilliant sets called Canyonlands and Dessert Vision during the late 80s.  A song on Natural States called Behind the Waterfall came to mind. It starts with a few simple drops and traces how those drops and a bit more rain, collect into a rivulet – to a stream, then to a small cascade to a racing stream to a river – to a larger river… culminating in a huge waterfall, and then to rapids. Their music builds and runs as the water grows with more and more power and dance. So my words hear are partly evoked by that musical and visual experience. I imagine chasing the water and eavesdropping on places it traveled. The rest as they say are ‘mysteries of the mind’.
Summer Rains
I don’t measure my heart by the harvests,
nor in the coming days
when the winds will grow bitter.
Not the days of first gloom,
nor the first days that follow,
the tender cries and whispers of bloom.
My heart comes to dance
when the skies start to argue.
When the summer rains fall,
sheet-rapping the glass,
tap-spattering the walk,
snapping plops on the awnings,
the urban grime
wetted down to a shiny sardonic smile.
The summer rains fall,
liquid grains through the sieve of the sky,
the sizzling city, hissing…
gossips in the sewers,
trickles running to torrents of chaos,
racing through the vale to the river.
The summer rains fall.
Wet sloppy kisses,
wanton advances to the countryside slopes,
the lush shadowed corners,
and mysterious fringes of meadow glades.
Their aftermath… are cryptic notes,
an organic staccato on the forest verdure.
They cross the heart of this poet.
Their passing, shadows subconsciously counted.
I don’t measure my heart by the harvests,
nor in the coming days
when the winds will grow bitter.
I wait for the summer rains
And admire them
one by one by one.
If you have stayed with me this far, my thanks.
Dry stuff sometimes… that rain. 🙂
I’ll leave you with an older piece… After the Rain
After The Rain
After the rain
          when the air smells like copper
          and the greens in the trees
          seem bright like wet paint.
After the rain
          when grass wants to sparkle
          and the birds speak like bullies
          whose bravado has faltered.
After the rain
         when the winds sigh, exhausted
         and the puddles lie tranquil
         as mirrors for the clouds.
After the rain
        when the asphalt gathers steam
        and the sewers chat like
        housewives gathering to klatch.
After the rain
        when the wires string like pearls
        and the sorrows in my heart
        seem dim and washed from view.
All rights reserved and © Scott N. Loveall – InnerSongs.com, 2014
Please visit me on www.InnerSongs.com, or my FB page Scott N. Loveall – InnerSongs and pass along your comments and thoughts. Or post them here. Rayla will, I’m sure, pass them along.
Carpe Lumen


“.. reflective to liquid and delightfully double-e, you can taste the colours and listen to what his words are singing.  It is there you feel the reverence he has for the written word, and the careful respect he has for what he chooses to share.  Scott draws from the deep pool where we all go down to drink, further out where the wild and wonderful things are.  At times his intensity affects me so deeply my throat aches in sympathy. – B.M., Vancouver, BA
Scotts’ work provokes me to listen to each others’ voice, to reach past the dark.Thank you Innersongs for your honest   ‘muffled questions’. Ay I’ve since felt the  ‘Pressure of dawn’, have ‘looked for plots’ among ‘Dusks that fell like a hammer’. The imagery is 3 D ! One  ‘Dances with fireflies’ / stares at Silences, thru’ pain, thru’ survival; Scott writes with  a sensitivity so rare in these days of indifference….
Innerdialects :
Orchid Tree Bloominnersongs.com

Orchid Photograph credit: Innersongs



Filed under Writers


5 am day 3 pray

In the Quiet, Peace arrested me. 

Here there are no words or requests, just a being, a balance between things you know and do not. A willingness to see more, but after a while my eyes shut so tight I could not see. That was, is the real me, unwilling.

How strong my will is, did you ever guess, how strong.

RN Water colour


Filed under Artists, ASIA, Friends, Habits, Hope

What d’you mean ‘Defyd’ ?

Top Post on IndiBlogger


Give me more

Show me you care, that you are real,

that you walk

where angels fear to tread,

that thru these Times of hate and so much unsaid,

you care beyond the visible things ;maybe some place you broke, even just a bit, died inside and rose again, said what you might never have unless you were Defy’d

these are more than Songs …

/ more @ http://raeindia.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/def-yd-no-illusions/




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If I had this one thing

How beautiful the Feet of those who spread good news – on the mountains of division, discouragement, despair*;

see, though I speak with the voice of an angel and have not love, I am a clanging cymbal a noise in the wilderness, a desert in a stream ;

if I give my body to be burned and sell all my wares for charity but have no love in all my ‘speaking’, I am no reminder of One who  is patient, kind, endures, does not keep account of wrong, is forgiving, does not gossip, nor tears out anothers’  existence for personal agenda…

if I ran every mountain, won every war for the good of humanity but within I have words of hate, what am I what am I –

but if we had this one thing,  I think of all we could accomplish against all odds, among these places of derision, hate, division ; we might say to this and that mountain, Go fall in the sea and it would obey, if I had the Power of true love,

true love.


(* from Mathew Henry’s concordance, Song of Songs ); this Post inspired by verse in the Bible.


Filed under Faith, Hope, Human rights, Humanities, India, People, Personal, Personal Reflections

O Perfect Love

His letters wrapt in leaves and tree –

every vein a message for not just me



Filed under ASIA, Biography, Blog, Culture, Design, Faith, Homes, Hope

‘Birds born in cage think flying is a …


Indian Tribe RN

What was wrong : that I was a woman, that I talked, objected, asked questions ? That I am left-handed, that I speak up ….whaaaaaaaaat ?!

” We are different cultures, ” he was now saying and I failed to see how, seeing that I too am South Indian but that my parents gave me the freedom to say it like it was ; there were no sons in our home, except dad and he taught us to walk tall, “Girls please wear pants it’s safer than skirts or that sari!”

Now I had this man staring hatred asking me who I thought I was to say anything at all, which gets me writing this post after all these years. Yes, it takes a while to remember/ know who one is. I’ll say this.

Most Indians are taught two things : One, to try be good and two, respect elders. Somewhere between that, there is the tendency to  push self into a back-back-back of the backiest closet, lock the door and throw away the keys. What will the neighbours think if you object to them throwing garbage all over the place ? Open front door with a smile and welcome even if they knocked your door bell silly, be a great hostess, never confront people, time will take care of it..

This was a few years ago, and I had to let a so called ‘ friend ‘ go, because they took friendship past the point of decency, because it got to a gender issue where women weren’t supposed to speak up. Which breed of humanity dehumanizes women ? 

I’m asking.

( And lets not blame just ‘culture’ anymore. Our grandparents were beautiful people and there are things in our traditional values that still bless us. What is questionable is some contemporaries, not just Indian, who are killers of body, soul, mind, and they won’t stop with women).


Filed under Writers

Stared at by Love


You are brown earth, green trees, budding fields, harvests of skies and wings ; the race the tide, kneeled- on odds,afraid and yet  

Dear Child, you are so much more than things I know to write…a mother can understand only one little moment at a time..

how do I say what I know most : Daughters mean Continuity, not Crime.

2013-07-27 12.16.12


Filed under Writers

The way he loves


He sent me flowers, songs, words and tune, silences and chord ; but not till he forgave me and loved me again as if I were the best one e’er born yet, not till then did I understand the height, the depth the width and endless expanse of Love that leaves no boundary

of a Love that covers every little wrong, as if nothing happened at all. I will not take that for granted ever again, nor forget, that’s the way He loves,

He loves…





Filed under Writers

‘Yes, but don’t go.’

Last night, all plates and dishes put away, the lights low in the bedroom where our youngest son went into his blanket ; the girls were yet to fall asleep, I peeped in at Joh, and he lifted that dark head calling me for a second kiss, then a whisper –

“Ma,I feel lonely.”

My heart missed a few beats ; it had been a long two months, there had been illness, a trip, school year starting over, uniforms that did not fit, unfinished assignments, a lingering cough and so many unfinished things…

“Why son ? We’re all here aren’t we ?”

“When you ‘re all busy with other things, I feel lonely,sometimes. “

Speechless, I hugged him close, closer, a third a fourth kiss.“You feel good now ?” 

“Yes, but don’t go.” He said nothing after that just smiled and the room filled with feelings I have no words for.

Human touch. How abused, misunderstood those two words are : and so very easy to ignore in all our busy-ness. We sat there an hour, not just Joh and me, but all five of us, an hour in that quiet gentle dark as the little ones fell asleep.

Dearest Lord God, the worst disease on earth : ‘loneliness’ and such a simple cure right from the mouth of Babes.


Filed under ASIA, Culture, Disability, Dreams, Humanities, Inspirational, Literature

When Questions are Answers

How dense the city, how wide the littlest petal, inside..

Picture Courtesy :Pranoti Kumar

Related Post http://raeindia.wordpress.com/2014/01/17/prayer-can-empower/


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