states of being

states of being

 

how is it

with you–?

 

declension

of midseason

variables

 

in the elements,

attach to storied lineage

as true

 

others, too wild

to hold their features

in memory

 

a long walk

in cold air

heightens

the illusion

 

certainty con-

tracts

 

if a dream is real,

it’s below,

in the arroyo

after the minus-y

 

in the saddle

of the parabola,

where all ends meet

 

where there is only ever after

 

 

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winter method

winter method

 

sound wavers within the altitude

 

small grains move between here

and the horizon

 

locus of the principe

 

territorial boundaries

 

in the repeat story,

as canyoned as marrow bones

 

*

 

a conifer grows northward

toward an anonymous star—

only a percent

 

ultimate joys

imprint

 

these roots gently in leftover nebulae

 

*

 

too, a story of fog—

 

molecules

stand up, begin slow movements

toward the hearer

 

*

 

hoof beats absorbed in the sand—

the she-horse escapes

east, down the road

 

everyone waits outside

infinity

 

 

ritual objects

ritual objects

 

the histories appear—

 

collective want—

 

in the abstract is One, but

sitting there, spoon in hand

curvature of the known universe

tooth,

mouth,

private historical moment

 

*

 

wondered of dawn, as the edge of

something—

but where begin?

 

small creatures in nested holes

fortify entrances

 

*

 

tables rise through the dark

toward an all-encompassing

in-between event

 

ritual objects such as the Placemat,

words,

 

silence

 

ritual-objects

Bones observed in the San Pedro Wilderness, near Cuba, NM–and digitally celebrated (embellished).

curate

curate

 

at odds on the landscape,

between here and the wellpump

 

what have you

may be enough

 

*

 

 

unwrap the remainder—

how many years now?

descent

of the gift into

memory

 

*

 

 

the point in question was not—

outside of doors,

the home state

changed

 

not the Place,

 

the feeling

 

*

 

 

at the first snow fall,

lines on her hands

unreadable

 

it’s not the matter.

who curates the fixity?

 

directed from within

 

 

uncertain the fate

 

of these trees

A new method

Trying a new art-making method=opening a path to endless possibilities. Isn’t that the real work at hand? Not the individual product, but the work itself.

The “opening-to-possibilities” part, an experience I may be addicted to.

Today you see my first attempt at carving and printing a lino block.

Well, to come clean: about 18 years ago, a group of friends got together for brunch at an artist-friend’s house; she taught us to carve and print a lino block. I carved one small block (of a rose–perhaps carving something so complicated prevented me from trying again till now?).

For whatever reason, only a few months ago I assembled all of the tools and materials needed to carve and print a lino block, and only this weekend printed my first “real”prints. Like many people, I suppose I’m better at generating ideas of what I want to do than actually doing it!

For this project, I used an unmounted lino block, and Speedball carving tool (the handy kind with the blades in the handle). I used Speedball water-soluble inks, mulberry paper, and Speedball brayer and baren. I also used a piece of glass from the hardware store (for inking). I plan on buying better carving tools for the unmounted lino (for sharper blades).

As a reference, I used several large Burr Oak leaves from a tree in our yard, and its one and only gargantuan acorn (the size of a golf ball!). I was fascinated by the thing and determined to represent it as best I could.

I first drew it on paper, then traced my drawing and transferred it to the lino block by placing it face down and then retracing the lines, on the back. Ah, graphite is such a wonderful thing–fascinating that it is the same stuff as a diamond, just on the opposite end of the hardness spectrum!

In the future I will also make sure to leave more lines in the back ground, since I love the effect in other linotypes I’ve seen. Lots of ideas now that this first print is free in the world; blocks of different sizes can be used for different purposes. Next, I’ll use a small (2.75″X5″) block to make a print for handmade cards–not ready to try another 5″X7” yet.

Nuance and unconscious skill comes over time; if you are intrigued by a particular type or method of artmaking, jump in and try it. We live at a time when we can watch a video on how to do just about anything–and if time (and funds) allow, take a class to commune with other newbies!

Pinterest offers a somewhat mindless way to do some pre-work, reflecting on artworks whose style you admire. See my growing “collection” on my Linocut board.

The beauty of attempting to make art is, hey, it’s just paper and ink, you can do no harm. But you may regret never trying!

For a fun guide on lino, rubber, foam, and stamp printing try: Block Print by Andrea Lauren. It’s amazing the art you can create with even a few white rubber erasers as your printing blocks.

burr-oaks-bounty

saint -somebody-

 

saint -somebody-

 

in a sweat

time contracts but doesn’t change

I have the uncertain role

of presiding

over miniscule

pebbles in the rain

the rain drops to preside

“they have such beautiful. . . “

 

 

ha,

ha

 

 

at the edges

she wore the crown

and then, in prison,

thought it was good

to overthrow the trust

to the musical note

–c—

in the early morning the high

letter –c—is the high point

but her necklace

at the

perforation

 

 

cast shadows

illusion of a fire

on central

 

cut into

her daughter—

to unlearn boundaries

 

to cry out

at the edge of dying

 

__

 

she was burned

she was hanged

she was drowned

she sank

 

she was scratched

she was robbed

she was raped

she was dismembered

she was shot

she was only waiting to see whether she was

damaged or

left for dead

or instruction

__

 

having a hand

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on the Dynamic Image in Poetry

Thoughts on the Dynamic Image in Poetry

I think it is necessary to learn about poetry in high school. As a developing poet, it is an essential period of safe exploration.
But we must unlearn what we have learned in school, in order to fully participate in the dynamism of living poetry.

It’s true that as members of the human race, we need poems that can be memorized and shared, that connect directly with our own memories and emotions. Canonized poems are the ones we tend to read in school because they are repeated, repeatable; some were subversive at some point but now they are subject to analysis by teachers and students, and thus they become conventional and further from their origins with each reading.

I can think of many “conventional” poems that sing in my heart over many years. Poems I enjoyed for their cleverness, their mastery of form and device. Poems that contain a continuous narrative. Poems that speak to me. Sylvia Plath’s “Black Rook in Rainy Weather”, William Butler Yeats’ “Second Coming”. Theodore Roethke’s “The Waking”. John Donne’s “Daybreak”. These are only a few.

To fully understand the power and purpose of poetry, the poet must evolve over time. The alternative is to stay suspended as if in a clear gel, to relive the same patterns over again. To replay a greatest hits album. To live in a museum of sorts.

I’m no longer infatuated with derangement of the senses—a seemingly dynamic method of poetry–though I love Jack Kerouac, Arthur Rimbaud, my old party friends. Although there is dynamism when tapping into the subconscious, in this method and lifestyle, the experience is too random. If fueled by drugs, is tied up in the ego and is, ultimately, damaging. (Sure love Jack’s “Bowery Blues” . . .).

Some poems have a thesis, a persuasive point they are trying to make. I feel a little sad reading a poem that has the soul of a persuasive essay. I’d much rather read a poetic essay than an essay masquerading as a poem.

Ancient poetry is narrative, formal, memorizable. The most innovative, energetic poetry today is not.

Now, the image is everything. With an image, a poet creates a world. Creates the world.

The dynamic image does not come from a set of stock cultural photos one pulls down from a shelf.

The experience of accessing the image is a channeling—a tunneling—to make room, and then walls slowly peel away from the room leaving only the indifferent universe. And there lives and breathes the Image.

The dynamic image is not recycled or manipulated. The dynamic image is born.

 

 

Future topics: entropy in poetry; insight

 

unmastered

unmastered

 

 

to start, to walk

 

 

at the cusp

 

where is she founded?

 

awareness—

 

 

flesh around the bones

belongs to her

 

 

better her than the wind

 

***

 

this segment of the woods—

does not disperse

with the breath

 

sensitive to thought

noise and the wide open aperture

at noon

 

 

(an imperceptible hinge–starts

 

the continuous now

 

 

 

***

 

 

proliferate

small beings

flit

from an echo

 

peripheral

relations—

 

we read them in their bones

 

 

***

 

 

water

collects around an edge—

through—

beyond—

woven-in—

 

all, all the sky

the brush

the ribs

birds

breath

all, woven-in

 

 

***

 

 

one step

 

one step

 

 

in the sand

repetition

 

 

silence

 

 

***

 

there are no masters

no tether

no never

no lonely stone

 

***

 

 

when at the end,

 

 

keep walking

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not yet the story

not yet the story

 

it was matter

mixed with

reverberation

 

 

of light

 

it was she seeing,

 

against afternoon light

 

 

***

 

impossible reflection itself—

a glance of water surface

 

dark shadows and sky

bright

—to enter

 

as crossing a foreign wall

 

untranslatable

 

always an outside

 

***

 

it is said messages

come from within the nest—

 

difficult to track—

 

footprints continue to evolve

at each windburst

 

***

 

lyric in the underbrush

 

sky sky

 

 

 

 

breath breath

 

 

 

in/eternal

 

and the song

 

***

 

dis-memory,

drawn lines in the palm

 

illusion of gratitude or

an emptiness to wander

 

the old road for the sake—

is not yet the story