Lisa Zaran was born in Los Angeles, California, yet spent less than one year
there. She moved over 40 times before the age of 18. Since then, she has
slowed down considerably, moving only 8 times so far in her adult life. Born to Norwegian parents who enjoyed living a nomadic lifestyle, Lisa too,
is always on the lookout for the next great adventure. Although, now that
she has settled down with a family she finds she can experience as much
fulfilment through music and poetry as she used to experience travelling,
meeting new people and always being the new kid in town. She is the author of four poetry collections, ‘the sometimes girl’ (InnerCircle Publishing), ‘You Have A Lovely Heart’ (chapbook, Little Poem Press), ‘Clipped From Our Days’ (online collection at Argonauts' Boat) and The ’Blondes Lay Content’ (Lulu Press) She writes and lives in Arizona. Many of her poems, essays, and artwork can be found in literary journals, ezines, and anthologies worldwide. Visit her website here.
PEOPLE WHO HAVE INFLUENCED AND INSPIRED LISA IN LIFE AS WELL AS IN HER OWN ART:
BOB DYLAN
The depth of influence this man has had on me with his art,
poetry, and music is incalculable. On any one of many bad days, his music
can always cause my feelings and disposition to take a turn for the better.
Someone I deeply admire.
Click image to listen to tracks from the album on Bob Dylan's official website; for the Expecting Rain Dylan website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here
THE BOOK OF DISQUIET by Fernando Pessoa
Especially, The Book of Disquiet. One of the most
tragic, yet joyful and demanding books I have ever read. I don't go
anywhere without my well worn copy.
Click image to read an extract from the book on the Art Seen Soho website; for a selection of related links on the Fernando Pessoa in English website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE - The Sorrows of Young Werther
The book that broke my heart. I was sitting in the parent pick-up line at my daughter’s school when I finished this book, tears streaming down my face, completely unaware of the bewildered looks I was receiving from the other parents.
Click image to visit The Sorrows of Young Werther website and subscribe to have extracts from the novel e.mailed to you daily; for an overview of Goethe's life and work on the Kirjasto website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here
SYLVIA PLATH - The Bell Jar
Completely enraptured by this tale. This book inspired me to go out and buy The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath and to reignite my own passion for journal writing.
Click image to visit the Sylvia Plath Forum website; for the Plath Online website, click here or for related books on Amazon, click here
THE BLUES
Any and all blues but I am really partial towards Howlin' Wolf, Jimmy Reed, Mississippi John Hurt, Blind Willie McTell, and Robert Johnson.
Click image to visit the Howlin' Wolf website; to read about Jimmy Reed on the Blues Harp website, click here; for a profile of Mississippi John Hurt on the Mindspring website, click here; for the Blind Willie McTell website, click here; for the Richard Johnson Tribute Homepage, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here
5 SMALL THINGS THAT MAKE LISA HAPPY DURING THE COURSE OF EVERYDAY LIFE:
Waking up and realizing I still have another hour before the alarm goes
off
***
Low traffic days on the US 60 to work
***
That first cup of coffee
***
My iPod
***
Spending any amount of time on any day or evening in the poetry section at
the bookstore
I feel I should
try to find out
what is real
and what I have
imagined.
There are many things
about you that
I love.
But do those things
actually exist?
Are they any more
a part of you
than a bird is,
for instance,
a part of the air?
Have I,
in fact, made them up?
How you smell
warm like cinnamon
while outside
snow is falling.
The way you bristle past
in the morning
before you've had a chance
to drink some tea,
barefoot perhaps
across a sky blue carpet.
Even your kiss
might not be real
pressing like
an urgent need
against my borrowed mouth.
Show me your hands.
Just as I thought,
a minstrels palms, love-lines
that fall over the edges.
10 delicate fingers,
each with its own story to tell.
And isn't it true
you wear your present life
like a sweater
you can slough off
at any second?
Transient-like,
changing directions.
And always by either pure luck
or accident find the brightest route.
Meanwhile I, in my uselessness
rearrange my dreams, try to discover
signs you may have left behind.
Shudder once again at the thought
of losing you.
Don't look back,
for when you do,
I discover in your eyes,
my own reflection,
a background for unhappiness,
and in your hair, a place to hide.
Desire has no home
and so it travels
from place to place,
knocking on doors,
asking anyone who answers,
can I stay for the night?
I won't be a bother,
I'll be gone before you wake up.
But, desire leaves traces behind.
Strands of hair in the borrowed comb,
dampness on the borrowed towel,
flakes of skin in the borrowed sheets.
Reminders.
An unbearable day,
for though I have tried
in every conceivable way,
I can not remember the sound
of my father's voice.
Ten years he's been gone.
Too long but not long enough
to excuse my forgetfulness.
I remember his face,
sloping forehead, intelligent eyes,
soft contours of his cheeks
and the sharp angle of his Norwegian nose.
I remember his smile,
his favourite shirt.
How he never wore ties.
I remember being his particular girl,
part of me courageous while the rest of me
tucked my head in humility against his warm side.
I can return to my earliest memory
as if it were yesterday, two years old
and walking into the kitchen with my father’s
hat on backwards. My mother laughing and fetching
her camera to take a picture. I can remember that.
Unaware his scent will sneak up on me,
tilting my mind back 25 years. Here in the present
where without warning every shocking part of his life
is nearly existing, when even the backdrop of a certain
sky will bring him almost to me, face and warmth,
scent and touch. Why can I recall how my hand felt in his
but not how he sounded when he spoke?
It's almost as if, his spirit lifted but his voice sunk
like a stone. It troubles me deeply that I have become
so lazy inside of my head, losing his accent behind
a blank wall.
I pick up his portrait and I tell it to say something to me. Speak!
He just stands there inside of that scene in 1967 and smiles.
His eyes glowing with happiness at the fish he caught
as he holds it up in display. The wooden frame
I hold in my own hands reminds me of a view from a window.
I can see him but there is a pane of glass between us.
Life is not fair.
There will always be
another hill to climb.
Another Saturday night
spent waiting by the phone.
Another bloody rag to flush.
One day when you think
you finally know what it is
you want, you'll discover
you don't want it anymore.
Money can not buy happiness.
But, it can buy almost everything else.
There's a reason he's a long distance lover.
You can fill your mouth with many things,
I won't go into detail, but the best thing
by far, is laughter.
What is there to worry about.
If Cesare wants to eavesdrop
on your dreams, let him.
He only longs to take a walk,
to smoke his pipe perhaps
and listen to the sounds of night.
He is as lost in time as we are.
The three of us like tiny blue flowers
creeping up from a crack in the side-
walk.
Why concern yourself
if Rilke decides to borrow
a cup of sugar for his morning coffee.
He has no way of buying it himself.
We are all imprisoned in the carpet
of our skin. Even them.
Do not disavow the dead.
Their spirits can not be extricated.
Their wills are stronger than ours.
The soul is not an accusation.
Now that you have peace,
you should enjoy it.
It won't disappear.
Nothing can destroy it.
It does not hide or cry
out in vain.
It spins
flowers
into wax.
When it talks, God listens.
Your beauty is like a dark Alaskan sun.
Your beauty is like a soft, grey moon,
deserving of immortality.
Your beauty is without calculation.
It exists in a world full of regret,
guilty of sins without substance.
Your beauty walks
and I follow after,
naked on all fours.
BOB DYLAN 
THE BOOK OF DISQUIET by Fernando Pessoa 
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE - The Sorrows of Young Werther
SYLVIA PLATH - The Bell Jar
THE BLUES
