margaret gibson

And if you are the burden you carry,
you are also
the road you walk on,
whose stones are here to teach
balance, strength,
and a grace which, if hobbled, is fully
human—as is that hard-won
holy face whose eyes from the golden ceiling of the dome
looked sternly into
your humbled, wordless heart.

Margaret Gibson, closing lines to “Taking the Byzantine Path to Monastriri Aghiou Ioannou,” Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 64, Winter 2009-10)

hollywoodreporter.com
'Mad Max' Director George Miller Is Way Too Sane to Be a Mad Genius
The Cannes jury president — a surprise pick for the influential role — opens up about childhood trauma, 'Fury Road's' Oscar haul, his shock at Mel Gibson's meltdown and venturing into comedy (his wife thinks it's to prove to her he's funny).

Adorable bit on the day of the Oscars:

“I was surprised we’d [gotten] 10 nominations,” he says, “and I didn’t have any expectations. I knew, having been before, to really temper expectations. People say, ‘You’re going to win!’ and you don’t. We had breakfast, just Margaret and I, and [talked about] very mundane things. Margaret is someone who never wears makeup, but she decided a makeup person should come along. She only bought her dress the day before. I said, 'Margaret, why don’t you wear the same dress you wore to the BAFTAs?’ And she said, 'People will have seen me.’ ”

…Afterward, the couple piled into a car with some colleagues and headed to the Vanity Fair party. They had not been invited. “When Happy Feet won, they said, 'Oh, you can go to any party with the Oscar,’ ” explains Miller. And Margaret said: 'We’ve got an Oscar. Here’s the Oscar.’ “ When they arrived, a security guard looked at the statuette with skepticism, then began checking it over, inch by inch.

"I said, 'Why did you check it so carefully?’ ” recalls the director. “The guard said, 'We’ve seen two fake Oscars already.’ ”

I am what it means
to wander—Ukifune
a boat long adrift
in the sound of dark water
Outside the house at Uji

where I have been put
I hear rain swept hills calling
and the cry of deer
the rush of water falling
the slow tolling of a bell

Who is it that hears?
So smoothly, so smoothly glides
my boat, that were I
to merge with the winter sea
would there be any ripple?

Margaret Gibson, from: “Drifting Boat”

In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass
the autumn moon takes refuge
The cricket’s song is gold

Zeshin’s loneliness taught him this

Who is coming?
What will come to pass, and pass?

Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air
not-knowing
knows the way

And the moon?
Who among us does not wander, and flare
and bow to the ground?

Who does not savor, and stand open
if only in secret

taking heart in the ripening of the moon?

—  Margaret Gibson, Autumn Grasses

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Ella Margaret “Gibby” Gibson (September 14, 1894 – October 21, 1964), generally known as Margaret Gibson or Patricia Palmer, was an American stage and silent film actress who had leading roles in Vitagraph westerns, often opposite William Clifford. She also appeared with Charles Ray in The Coward (1915) and later worked in two Westerns with William S. Hart: The Money Corral and Sand!. In 1999 it was reported that on the afternoon of October 21, 1964 she made a dying confession to the murder of director William Desmond Taylor http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Margaret_Gibson_%28actress%29

East Window, Moon - Margaret Gibson

It shadows the bed with a lattice of light,
this moon whose ridge pole sinks beneath its own weight,

rising slowly, laboriously, late.

I’m in a new house, unfamiliar to my feet,
strange to fingers that touch the walls uncertainly

as I walk through the dark of it at night.
Outside, different trees, different stones on the path.

Closer to death I want to know great faith and great doubt.

What no one taught me, that’s what I want to remember,
immersed like Blake, his inner eye

a storehouse for the infinite
flashings the fontanel let in, before it knit the bone door shut.

I have always been alone, and I have never been alone.

What I used to call the self is a windowing of light
in the flood plain of the boundless

Fox Fire at the Changing Tree

The burning that must
have been coming from me—


these are lines I’m stealing
from someone else’s poem, just after

I’ve resolved not to lie, not to steal
to live in my evergreen

integrity as long as I can manage it
I’m much like these foxes

gathered on a night whose stars
might be flakes of snow

They have their burning torches 
to lift and bear

down the road, fully camouflaged
once they’ve put on the stolen forms

of pious pilgrims
The bare, spreading tree above them 

is fit for owls to inhabit
when a savory hunger makes them take

deadly aim
on any small rustle in the dry leaves

That’s their true nature
however haunting their melancholy cries

But the foxes—for the love of me
(and it’s exactly that)

I can’t see why
I shouldn’t want to touch them, stroke them

I might just rub the ruddy silk
of their coats against my cheek

And often have, you tell me bluntly 
That friction, however

slight, sufficient to make me
spit fire, gnash my teeth

and lunge for the soft parts of your body 
lifting my chin moments after

to say hotly, I didn’t mean to
I didn’t sense it coming

As if I were the innocent one
blindsided, bloodied

Margaret Gibson