Arachnid I

When I opened

the sun umbrella for

breakfast shade,

the striped spider’s perfect

web ripped in half

and collapsed.

In remorse for the offhand

gesture that destroyed her art,

I gave the spider

a loose strand

of my long hair,

the exact silver color

of her skill.

And watched

—while eating watermelon

laced with chocolate—

the spider suspended on a thread

doing science with my own

slender spun

filament.

Two worlds

suspended and

interacting—

which is which?

After coffee and fiction,

the striped spider is gone,

where?

but there is

a new slender thread

now attached to my chair,

and I am

assimilated into the web.

Quiet in the House

Today it IS quiet in the house!  The past few weeks have NOT been quiet, however, as three rooms in our condo were improved with built-in bookcases.  Now we are retrieving our books from storage and placing them in just the right order in just the right room.  Living with books is a great pleasure we have missed for these few months.

The past two weeks were also enriched with family and friend visits, bringing much joy and activity. The first day after such wonderful visits is usually quiet to the point of deafening silence, but fortunately, we spent that day at the Newport Jazz Festival immersed in quite another level of joyful noise!

One of the activities of family "beach week" was the creation of short videos to be shared in a "film festival" on the last night.  Four teams worked most of the week on their scripts and props, filming and editing for hours at a time.  I wasn't going to participate until VC sent me a poem that inspired me to create a simple video of my own.

I read the poem by Wallace Stevens while my actors, VC and DP, performed the activity of reading.  Apparently the video is too large to post here, so I'll just include a few lines:

     The house was quiet and the world was calm.
     The reader became the book; and summer night
     Was like the conscious being of the book.
     The house was quiet and the world was calm.

Needless to say, we came in 4th (i.e. last) place. The winning videos included a lot of action and music and wit and charm.  Serenity, apparently, comes in last during beach vacations!  Still, we were warmly applauded and I was quite happy with the outcome.

Quotations

This quotation captured me yesterday: 

 "by 'poet' I mean the broadest sense of a creative maker of meaningful space."  

 (in Radical Hope by Jonathan Lear)

Here are a few others that are engraved in my heart:

"we live in a world of suffering in which evil is rampant, a world whose events do not confirm our Being, a world that has to be resisted. It is in this situation that the aesthetic moment offers hope . . . For an instant, the energy of one's perception becomes inseparable from the energy of creation. . . . All the languages of art have been developed as an attempt to transform the instantaneous into the permanent. Art supposes that beauty is not an exception--is not in despite of--but is the basis for an order. . . . . the transcendental face of art is always a form of prayer."  

(John Berger)

Don't ask yourself what the world needs.
Ask yourself what makes you come alive and then go do that.
Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.
(Howard Thurman)

Art Exstallation Manifesto

If art is cash,

credit, investment, and status,

I am dross.

Value is a flexible cup

that runneth over.

Beauty is a warm soldier

with nonetheless weapons

of brilliant harm.

If art is making and

giving, I am full,

and the glad opposite

of finite.

Color is a form of
consciousness, of spirit
holding faith in fountains.

Shadow is the substance
of waiting for euphoria.

If art is holding and collecting,
I am a loose thread meandering,
a loose cannon rolling
significant light shows
against the pregnant dark.

Line is a singular map
condensed and waiting
for a vision to release its direction, thrust,
and purpose.

Contrast is a multiplier
of sensation, a confluence
of rivers, and an omelet
both savory and sweet.

If art is a tiny gift
that magnifies a glance
into an embrace, and
a stitch into time itself,
I am wealth personified.

Abstractions are deep
reflections in the
skewed mirror of
the sky’s eyeballs.

  

If art is bold
along the seams of loss,
making a forever
juxtaposition of empathy
and grief, I am
the process of mourning that
beholds joy
and treasures delight.

Texture is the way fingers see
grains of sand
and the print of stars
on the bedclothes. Texture
is the nutritional supplement
on top of the nurturing meal.

If art is the measure of

 kindness is courage,
I am love.

The elements of art are
here, there, and
everywhere: the glare on
the pill bottle by nightlight,
the crumple of black leather gloves,
the myriad shapes of calligraphy,
the feather of down and the
feather of dawn.

Forbidden is but one of the ways
art is hidden and lost in this world.

If art is marketing, product placement,
and public relations, I am
an intriguing whisper
in an empty room.

Semiosis of Winter Beach, Days 15-20

Day 15

You put a lot of energy into

lifting me today:

a skipping stone, a scimitar,

bountiful eggs,

(even eggs the color of yolks).

And cups full of offerings

and leaves to show that

my dad was here,

and boats harvesting mystery.

Still, I am stone.

The only message that comes

through is the

reflection of reflection—

be gentle and rise

like tiny sandpipers,

flashing and bold.

Do not be soft sand imprinted by heavy feet;

Lift and be the bold.

Day 16

So quiet today

I can see your

rock bottom, pebbled

soul.

Day 17

Myriad

Incessant

Motion:

I found.

I found myself.

I found myself

Laughing.

Day 18

Intimate ocean

You lift the horizon

Both fore and aft.

I walk in the crease between

Two shores.

What feet are these?

I leave no marks behind.

Perhaps I am NOT here,

Just wishful

Or blind.

I am not blind

To profligate keys and tracks

And signs;

Blind just to my own.

Today is not for white feathers

And wishes,

But for the rubbish

Of others.

My own treasure

Skims and alights

There and there,

But not here.

Day 19

Emily says

Tell it slant.

You are inclined in

That direction today.

Coy, as if quiet.

Here and there

A sign of what you

Must mean

Down below: tangled hair

Or rope, or themes

Of love and loss.

Soft silent sideways,

No ebb and flow.

No evidence of your intention,

Just passing by,

Flat, hidden,

And, yet, inviting.

Day 20

I thought that

If I came every day, or

Nearly every day,

In the coldest season,

We would finally be alone

Together again, like that

Time I sat in the sailboat’s prow

On 360 degrees and

Recognized my birth and

Heritage at sea.

I thought I would find

A secret, a treasure,

a horse skull perhaps,

Or a stone so unique it

Would change galactic

Geologic time

and me.

But no.

I witnessed your moods

To be sure, sweet ones,

And angry, rugged. I saw you cover up

And I saw you reveal.

But surprise of surprises,

I was the one who did

Not change from day to day.

Still a miracle, still pulsing,

Still holding some in and letting

Some out. Still edging right

Up to the edge, and sometimes,

quite a bit

Beyond.

Today is the first day of Spring

Farewell!

Hello!

Mother Has a Wild Heart

I started out to make an apron. This project started with scraps. I can't let go of small triangles, rectangles, strips, squares, pentagons, and all other polygons that fall away when scissors or rotary blades cut intentions from fabric.  These "scraps" are unintentional bits of intrigue, provoking my imagination with their potential for quirky combinations.

The front of the apron is a domesticated patchwork of these scraps, organized in regions of colorful contrasts.  Some blocks of color are remnants from other projects, just like the olden days when no waste was allowed in any room of the house.

When it came time to select the reverse side of the apron, I rummaged through my stash and the "sticky" piece of fabric that emerged was images of wild animals.  Of course!  The woman wearing this apron is domesticated and frugal on one side, but underneath, in hidden places, in her heart, she is wild!  She is the wolf, the bear, the dolphin, and the owl.

Here are a few preliminary images of "Mother Has a Wild Heart."  She begs to be photographed out of doors, and when my own eagle heart/lion heart is in ascendancy, I will take her out and let her spirit dance in the world of elephant-legged trees and ocean-wild stones.

P.S.  While writing and posting this, I imagined another apron, this time, "Mother Has a Wild Tongue"!  Stay tuned!

What Will Save Us Today?

What will save us today?

Art will save us.

Flowing water will save us.

The shapes and colors of leaves will save us if we do not rush to rake

and blow

and burn to oblivion

or compost.

The feel of smooth wood in the hand 

along with the story of the wood’s ancestry,

along with the story of your ancestry and mine.

The portrait of the shapes of apples and oranges

by firelight might save us.

And one plum, or is it a fig?

Giving might save us.

Listening might.

Poetry and the impulse to poetry could save us if we let it.

That whisper of doubt and this toxic shout will most likely not save us,

but some will try,

nonetheless.

What will save us today?

Pandora and her

magic box—danger be damned.

Nina Simone, from afar,

might save me.

Chocolate?

Spice?

Flavor buds may not spark enough desire to

save me today, tired of taste, too.

That one tiny bird out there on a brittle

and frigid limb might have just

the lift I need. I’ll go out and try.

Hiding helps;

behind the sofa

is cozy and warm.