It wasn't much of a walk this week; our smoky air makes it difficult for some of us to get out & about. So, the garden:
This iceberg rose is my third try. The first lived several years; the second just one. This one -- a climber -- will be the charm, I hope:
A big hydranga blossom hides behind the lilac tree:
The garden wall:
The Three Graces:
And a few details:
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The walk and the photos were taken on Thursday, though it's later in the week now, and later in the year. The mountain ash trees are heavy with berries:
A pink sky glows in the river:
And above it:
And from the flowerbeds:
Bright color still blooms in pots:
But winter is on the way:
You can smell it, and feel it, even in this air that's heavy with smoke from nearby -- and distant -- forest fires.
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Glorious poppies, almost done:
A very old mountain ash tree:
And a younger, but aging, park bench:
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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]
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Rachel has generously sent me a translation of the China Daily article that was linked to Watermark:
I'm only hemidemisemiliterate in Chinese, but this is what I think it says:
A Creative Landscape Indicates a Romantic Existence
Aren't we always looking to lend our lives something of a romantic sensibility? So--have you experienced the beauty of artistic representation? People often regret the lack of poetry in their lives. What would happen if you took every incident of your life and expressed it through a picture and a poem? Well, you'll have to savor the sensation yourself. Don't hesitate--throw off your trepidation--once you've tried it, you may just find the romance that's been missing from your life for so long.The word for "romance" or "romantic" in Chinese, pronounced langman, is a transliteration from English. The first definition given in the Dictionary of Modern Chinese, the dictionary in most common use (it seems to me) in the PRC, is "rich in poetic feeling; full of imagination." I don't think the word has acquired as strong associations with vapidity and silliness in Chinese as it has in English, but instead has sort of attached itself to a set of traditional attributes of the scholar-poet.
Ah, of course -- a scholar-poet. Just how I've always imagined myself.
I am no Pollyanna, and generally averse to the too-quick assurance that every cloud has a shiny lining -- but it's true that one consequence of illness is a widening, and sometimes a deepening, of time. Time to think, to read, to look.
Together with time, I have been blessed with the technology to share my observations -- a digital camera; a little laptop. Interesting, and sometimes beautiful, things to look at. This columbine comes back, year after year, and seeds itself in neighboring gardens.
This van, which sits in the parking lot, offending some neighbors and intriguing me, has aged -- perhaps not with grace, but with style.
Like me.
We each have our own way.
Today my way is somewhat incoherent -- too tired, but determined to post. Please bear with me.
[My Bread Van photoset on flickr.]
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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.]
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b. asks [in response to The Blue Bed]:
how do you keep this up? do you wear poet's glasses all the time, or simply put them on like mr peabody from bullwinkle when you want to do this thing you do?
Ah, yes -- those poet's glasses. So attractive.
Good question, though. What is this thing I do? I don't just sit down and write a poem; it requires an ongoing practice of attention; a willingness to be boring, to be trivial, to be mundane.
It's like prayer, or my understanding of prayer -- not a solicitation, but an acknowledgement of how it is: this hurts, this is beautiful, I am afraid.
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We've often been seeing this couple on the river path, taking their constitutional at the same time we do. They are unfased by the dogs, seeming to know that they are restrained. I think they may have begun a family, since this is the first I've seen them in several days, and there they are, safely down in the water.
I look forward to the ducklings.
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