Why must we always quantify? 4, 3, 10. Add, subtract, multiply. Divide.
My prose poem, Aggregated, based on a painting by Hilma af Klint, was among those selected as a finalist in The Ekphrastic Review Women Artists contest. You can read the entire poem and see all the finalists here. The three winning selections are here.
“Ecosystems are so similar to human societies—they’re built on relationships. The stronger they are, the more resilient the system.”—Suzanne Simard, Finding the Mother Tree
we keep dividing designating a hierarchy to pull what we share apart
and so each of us is missing parts each of us is incomplete
why do we cling to our separation our isolation who we think we are alone?
the foundation is faltering and still we hold on
collapsing into the deep hole of ourselves
During a presentation Suzanne Simard made, early in her career, about her research into the interrelationships between trees and other species in the forest, and how all were necessary in order for the forest to thrive, she mentioned also the threat to climate from disrupting these systems. “Climate change means nothing in Canada” one of the audience said afterwards.
Well of course it is. Easy is monotonous. Uncomplicated is boring.
What is possible must first be imagined.
Am I looking for the Land of Milk and Honey? Am I waiting for my Ship to Come In? Do I yearn for Promised Lands? Do I search for the Pots of Gold at the Ends of Rainbows?
Do I ask to be One of The Chosen Few?
No. I do not.
Weep at the world.
I am too busy.
Sharpening my oyster knife, so to speak.
Calling to the ocean, sailing on its moontides, seeking kinship on its shore. Culling only what still contains life, nourishment.
Cutting through the shiny exterior. Prying open the closed doors.
To see. What has been kept from me.
Secret, hidden, suppressed, denied.
A pearl or a grain of sand?
You can’t have one without the other.
Jade at dVerse has provided a quote from Zora Neale Hurston from “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow for this week’s prosery: No, I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.
these names that have lost their origins names that have lost their sounds that have lost their meanings lost meanings without references without words words that once rolled off the tongue rolled off the tongue immense with meaning with meaning now lost now untranslatable immense and untranslatable these names without meaning
these names belonging nowhere belonging nowhere to no one to no one at all invisible undernourished undernourished and withered into invisibility without a way a way to put sounds together sounds that together form words words that become names these names that are lost
these names without scripts without scripts or context without the context of language a language of mirrors mirrors now empty mirrors that yield no answers answers to questions questions without context how and what and where and why are they lost and where did they go who knows the names the names the names the names that have lost their meaning
I am still waiting for clarity– sometimes I think about the things I can’t see and I wonder how to place them inside my mind–
Out of the dark and still I am dreaming of colors liquid currents of sound moving in all directions between the gaps–
Do our visions swim cataracted with refractions– flooding the invisible barriers of the portals into our eyes?
As I told Phil, this week’s Kick-About prompt, fundus photography, was made for my watercolor mandalas. First, photographing the inner eye naturally makes for roundness, and the liquid state calls for watercolor to represent it.
I did 4 watercolors and embroidered on 2 of them. If I exaggerated the colors a bit, well, my eye often does the same.
always digging deeper– roots that grow below, restore– listening through decay beyond stillness,
a place that is neither dark nor light, yet full, aware, gathered germinating into witness,
distilled light casting words that linger as counterpart– revealing mysteries in all that is
held on the wings of birds, circulated through the heart, absorbed into the spiraling axis
It’s poet’s choice of form at Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, and how could I resist a syllabic form called “kerf”? I meant this also to be for the earthweal challenge this week, earthcraft, but obviously did not finish it in time.
The same foolishness everywhere. We talk over each other, repeat words until they are erased. The lines become solid form.
We can’t see either forest or trees. We respond without listening. The same actions, recast, broken up, taken down. Angry
outlines drawn like guns. Hanging over cliffs, waiting. Holding on, out, back. We banish heart, soul. Burning every single bridge. Drowning.
Early in my blogging life, on memadtwo, I did a series of paintings titled what is it good for? Then I did some embroideries titled war is not healthy (for children and other living things). Unfortunately, it’s (always) (still) relevant. Even in my city (mostly) young men are killing and being killed every day by gang and turf wars that are little more than macho posturing. And of course, as in every war, civilians are merely collateral damage.
I do not wander randomly but I also do not follow a map. Unlocated, I listen, I look. The Earth claims me, returns me with her favor. I cannot name all the colors, nor sing all the songs she has nested in my heart. They are unmeasurable, eternal.