Watermark

foxglove

Thursday Walk|Poetry Thursday

   

Andrew, in reference to yesterday's snapshot poem, asks what is my process?

It varies some, but lately I begin to think about the snapshot poem on Tuesday, just paying attention and considering what I might write about. This week, I was blocked by my despair about politics, so had to write that out first; and of course I had the special occasion of Mariah's birthday. I wandered about for awhile, thinking about Mariah and taking note of what was in front of me, writing without thinking or editing.

It's rather like this, really -- I begin with lots of words and ideas, and then a rain comes and strips the stems down -- fewer leaves and flowers, more shape -- if I'm lucky. Sometimes I go back through my notebook for images or thoughts, dreams or fragments that feel like they might fit into what I'm doing.

For quite awhile it's mostly about feeling my way -- then I put it on the computer and begin to work it into shape -- shape being exactly what I mean, here. How does it look on the screen? Where are the rhythms, the natural line-breaks?

Rarely, I get something complete and dramatic. More often it's like what I intended to do today, to try the suggestion at Poetry Thursday to weave together a piece from fragments of overheard conversations. But then it was a day to stay home, where there were no conversations on which to eavesdrop.

So I offer this visual collage instead, and hope it will do -- especially for you, Cathy, instead of a poem.

[The Hockney'd honeysuckle was made with fd's Flickr Toys]

Snapshot Poem 31 May 02006

lazy lazy morning
sun pads into the bedroom

like a friendly yellow cat
another drifty hour

in the blue sheets
later, the park churns

with colorful herds
of small children

grownups shooing
at their heels

trying to organize
delight

solomon's seal

Recently Noticed

Yet another conversation about Where Are All The Women Bloggers at Scobleizer. Lots of comments and, of course, dispute -- but so far, civilized.

Just a note, that I began reading this blog because Robert recently visited Montana, in sad circumstances. Both the real world and the virtual world are small. Click that photo up there and read the comments for another example of small worldness.

From the comments on the above post, I found two interesting sites:

The Remembering Site makes it easy for anyone, anywhere, to write and publish their life story and add to it as life unfolds. It says it is a non-profit initiative, but it does charge a fee ($25 USD) to register and get guidance in writing an autobiography. There is a Remembering Site Blog; the author says she started The Remembering Site because her father died too soon and she realized she didn't ask him all the questions about his life that she should have.

Then we have Tales from the Reading Room, which has lots of interesting stuff, including some intriguing posts on blogging: The Blog as Surrealist Legacy, for example.

Daily Linkport points to deep quote, which promises to create links to specific quotes on the Web -- links that will never expire. Now this sounds useful.

Linda Plaisted has a post at Utata on writing an artist's statement; it strikes me that this might be helpful in writing a blog/ website About Page as well -- having just struggled with this myself.

I'm feeling a bit tired, and uninspired. Also slightly worried that there has been minimal response to all the changes around here. Positive response, but minimal.

How do you motivate yourself to keep doing whatever it is you do?

Thursday Walk|Poetry Thursday

   

Why is the poet fearsome?

Because she speaks the tabooed word, she tells the hidden truth. She looks, she sees.

Because her sustenance comes from something that cannot be sold, or withheld, or rationed.

Because, sometimes, when she meets a fence, her muse demands that she climb it.

Sometimes dangerous poems are hidden in drawers, but still -- they have been written.

The internal life is less easily ruled, restricted, than the external life. it cannot be marketed, and there is no profit beyond the spirit.

If everyone wrote poems -- if everyone read poems -- what would happen then? If we all were just a bit more connected to our internal selves, our animal selves, our spirited selves, our sensual selves -- would the made world unravel? Who would we be then?

Suppose we all heard god speak in tulips, in pollen, in the hidden languages of the body?

If we could reach our hand into the river and lift out the sequined fish, what then?

[Thank you, Ivy, for the pointer to the FEAR THE POET T-shirt! My first -- let's hope my last -- impulsive internet purchase.]

Angelique Tulip

early spring

The Day After Easter in Montana

crocus

for Erin