summoning

summoning s

songs rising, the path becomes
a spiral intersecting
the surface of forgotten
dreams, the edge of the held breath
which abides in all places,
a luminescence engraved
on the far side of the light

A sevens poem (via Jane Dougherty) for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.  Once again, even as I am constrained by what images I find in my collage box, they manage to take me somewhere I would not have found on my own.

summoning close up s

Also linked to OLN on dVerse, hosted by Lillian.

 

indigenous

indigenous comp

I am nowhere indigenous.  Born in the midwestern United States, I have moved through many other regions.  My genetics are blended and confused, my blood relations scattered.  Even within the city I have called home for 45 years I belong to no single neighborhood.  No land or culture claims me as their own.

accumulating
roots of tangled earth and air
unfixed, wandering—

I occupy each season
refilled, resampled, revived

indigenous close up s

For Frank’s haibun prompt at dVerse, considering our relationship to the word indigenous, as we celebrate both Columbus Day and the native peoples who inhabited this land long before Columbus discovered it.

!!!

trump compt

Pop goes the weasel
goes the world out
the world reeking of
weasel out of it

I missed the window for the dVerse Pop Art prompt from Victoria last week, but I had an idea for it and I wanted to follow through.  I also wanted to try a Lewis Carroll Square Poem, which I saw on Paul’s Poetry Playground recently.  My attempt is far from perfect, but it’s a start, and the fact that it doesn’t completely make sense seems appropriate.

I don’t agree with the designation for the most of the artists Victoria found that were listed as pop artists (Kurt Schwitters?  Jasper Johns? Rauschenberg? has the person who made that list looked at their art?) but Andy Warhol certainly falls into that category.  My digital art, above, is inspired by his work.  I used to dismiss him, but his art is wider and deeper than just the soup cans or iconic repeated images.  And all his imitators prove that it’s harder to do than it looks.

He did not have Photoshop either.

 

 

self portrait

self portrait comp

Once again
I study the lines
on this face,
reflecting–
depending on the angle
both parents appear.

At different
ages both of my
daughters looked
like I did
in those black and white photos
I inherited.

How do we
become who we are?
cells that form
shapes of hands,
a certain transcribed motion–
time in a mirror.

Ammol at dVerse has asked us to write a portrait poem.  In the past I’ve done a series of self-portraits in the style of other artists (with poetic accompaniment), but in this case I just took 3 recent drawings in my own style, an occasional morning exercise.

hand s

I also like to draw my hands.

 

severed

torso 2s

to set in stone–
the whiteness of marble
polished, glowing,
rendered with light

an image meant to be immortal

plundered and abused
by the movements
of men and time—

faceless and unlimbed now

the imperfection of decay–
reassembling beginnings
over shadows
of the end

Merril is the host for the dVerse quadrille, using the word “set”.  I drew this Greek sculpture torso a while ago, and added some watercolor on top of the drawing.  What remains of the original figure has its own beauty.

Postcard Haiku 1

postcard 2s

I’ve been doing some postcards in combination with the Collage Box and its Oracle.  For this one, I took a postcard of Van Gogh’s “The Seine with the Pont de la Grande Jutte” and added a few elements and a poem.

constructed out of
the shadows–transparent soul–
my body here undone

Also linking to Open Link Night on dVerse, hosted by Grace.

repast

repast 2s

The table is full of noisy ghosts–
they are woven through
the cloth that warms the bread–
simmering in the bowl of broth,
poured into the wine glasses,
reflected in the blade of the knife.

They gather in unrelated absence,
unknown to each other or themselves–
their years are few and many,
ages compressed into moments in time,
their stories fed by seasoning,
by the harvesting of lives.

Lingering beyond sustenance,
beyond hunger, an ache
that vibrates both blood and bones–
faces shadow the vacant chairs–
they whisper into the ceilings
and behind the dark walls.

Jade (hosted by Grace) at dVerse has us writing about food.  I first wrote this poem for an Ekphrastic Review challenge, but it was rejected.  I wanted to rework it a bit and do a collage, so this was the perfect opportunity.

repast close up s

If you want to see the artwork, by Anne Vallayer-Coster, that was the inspiration for my poem and art, and see the responses chosen, you can find them here.