Another Week

1.15.16

1.13.15

1.11.15

Another week, another seven small poem collages.  I’ve managed to fit in enough textual/visual — visual/text art work in the last week to have created something every day.

The interplay of what happens between the poem I write and the collage I make, editing the poem, moving images around the page, adding and subtracting shapes and colors, faces and symbols, getting the poem on the page, is shaped in part by a right brain that doesn’t always get to talk when I’m straight ahead writing.

David and I are in Brooklyn for a long weekend, spending time with the grandkids and some time in the city.  Yesterday we had breakfast in a cafe around the corner from the BedStuy Brownstone where we’re staying, and I was finishing the drawing and writing on the collage I’d started the day before.

“Is she an artist,” the waitress asked David.  Ah.  Yes.  Just like a writer is someone who writes, an artist is someone who makes art.

1.11.16
wind breaks against the front of the house
where we sleep
I wake
to the growl and whistle slapped back
a path

1.13.16
Yesterday:
Big white in flight
stops in a tall pine
at the edge of a graveyard
bald vision
bald view
still white.

Today:
White overnight enough
to hold dawn’s peach.

1.15.16
Ball
Orange & black
soccer
arcs from high
above the road
bounces at the front
of the car.
Quick check
for the child. No, only
a wall that contains
the game
unseen, unheard, unhidden.