Contemplative
Brush and Creative Writing
Contemplative
Brush
Contemplative
Brush is the art of "one stroke" painting. Using a large
brush and black ink, the artist visualizes an image that reflects
a feeling, mood, word, or phrase and draws it on paper.
Calen Rayne also produces a new
style of brush painting, incorporating use of acrylic paints with
traditional Chinese brushes to produce dramatic works on canvas.
Calen teaches Contemplative Brush
painting and also creates original art for all of the programs associated
for his workshops or services.
For
more information or to schedule a Contemplative Brush training session,
contact Calen Rayne at raynemakers@gmail.com.
Below
are examples of Contemplative Brush
Click any for a larger, higher resolution view.
Creative
Writing
Calen
Rayne has an MFA in Writing and Poetics from the Jack Kerouac School
of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa
University in Boulder, Colorado. Calen studied with many of
the great writers of our time, including Allen Ginsberg, in Naropa’s
program. Calen also taught a workshop on haiku during the Naropa
Summer Writing Program. He presents workshops on haiku and creative
writing.
You
can read some of Calen’s works here.
• Chakras
of Compassion
• Choice Point
• Connecting
to Spirit
• Dependent
Origination
• Illness-Wellness
Continuuum
• Living
in Balance
• Lower
Church of the Black Madonna 2007
• Music
of What Happens
• Opening Eyes
• Quality
of Attention
• River
of Wisdom and Compassion
• Serpent Ropes
• Times
They Are A Changin'
• Wisdom
Tabernacle
• Wisdom Working
• Work As
Prayer
Here
are some examples of Calen’s poetry.
• Haiku
: A Disquisition
• Original
Haiku
Migrating
Bird
A lone, twice-sized full moon
scatters restless gold across mountains.
Empty peaks, silence, among sparse stars,
not yet flawed it drifts…all white,
all ten thousand miles at once in its light.
And now, on its way west to paradise,
a migrating bird.
Solitary, unable to join you,
I remember when I was young,
unable to sleep,
never minding how long the night was
because you were there.
I think of past times
so swift in their vanishing,
the present soon to follow…
dew on the morning glory.
We see you off
and returning through the fields
I thought morning dew
had wet my sleeves,
but it was tears…
Were it only in a dream
could I but see you again
along the floating bridge
of times’ swift river.
Across time and distance,
I share this thought with you…
Morning glory,
even though you wither,
dawn will break anew.
And we,
often silent friends,
will meet some day in clouds above…
Nonsynchronization
I finished school and turned my attention to learning.
Through contemplation of space-time continuums,
boundary conditions, Heisenberg's uncertainty principle
and Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Theory
I surmised that Father Time was probably a cross-dresser.
A rose opening its petals to greet new dawn
is in reality actually closing its petals
in anticipation of impending darkness.
Zazen is a lonely ritual to the unknowing
who fail to understand a spider in a web
in complete control of enigmatic complexities.
I search for truth down narrow corridors of illusion.
Listen, do you hear?
Jelly Roll Morton...
Boundless Sky
Women are always enmeshed in waves of time,
passed on down since ancient times,
flowing round and round in my memories…
My world rushes on and now Spring is over.
It seems that only yesterday
everything I saw was in full flower…
My heart moves from one time to another,
and in the struck bell’s lingering vibration,
listen… listen…
In now unspoken thoughts
I find myself always remembering you.
If only on those high clouds drifting across the sky
I could send out but one question…
“Where will I be tonight?”
After much, much wandering I cross beyond those clouds,
riding on a rhythm of fresh winds toward a boundless sky.
I lose sight of my past
and a brilliant moon wraps its arms around me.
And there is no mystery…
Reality
4:30 a.m. on West Lake,
a "river" of reeds stretches
before me
like a roller coaster ride
I do not wish to abandon.
Pink-orange-red of dawn
rises from Quebec
to guide my solitary sojourn.
Fly rod in hand
seemingly motionless,
flicking
a green black floating #7 frog popper
toward infinity and beyond
before returning to reality...
Thanksgiving??
Thanksgiving...
Automobile, train, bus, airplane, airplane, airplane,
bus, subway, bus, train, bus, train, bus.
I am removed from
turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie,
football and once a year conversations:
"pass the potatoes (or is it potatos?) and gravy."
Fueled
by udon noodle soup and black tea
I stand alone
near Fujisan.
Email: raynemakers@gmail.com
