a dialogue with a friend

This is a collaboration between George Angel and myself.  

A narrative and a study of inspiration. 

my image, his words

  "It was particularly before a storm that the legend of Jack Nimble seemed to linger in a small coastal village founded by Dutch immigrants just north of Davenport along the rocky cliffs. Presumably a tall, lanky youth with sad sleepless eyes, he would sour milk, tangle little girls’ hair, and frighten livestock off cliffs; all without ever being seen. He would burn your house down because a wedge of cheese you had in your cupboard enticed him. Bells rattled without ringing whenever he passed. He had only ever been perceived in the shadows, and then more as a kind of flicker than as the silhouette of a figure. Children could be rid of him by simply opening a window wherever they were. Jack shared the mirror of every pond and puddle with his brother Quick, each from his own side, each yearning to drown in the other by hurling himself at him. Jack made trees bloom wildly and left tobacco stains on shirt cuffs. Jack Nimble was alleged to help sailors’ sons remember their fathers, and he was said to enjoy making young women drowsy. The food was always salty wherever he decided to take up lodging. Some of the children had wooden dolls in his likeness, always with one leg stretched out horizontally before him, as if he were about to push off and unlatch from the face of the world."

his words, my image

Aperture

Stolen for a clapper,

The fence slat left an absence,

A summer’s long shutter.

The first rung of the latter

Was a teeter-totter in a yard.

Tintinnabulation from a sprinkler,

Squeezed pungent of all its green shade

By the leaf prickle of loose-legged drowsing,

Within which a radiant stain pulses darkly behind bone,

Inclines to polish its has to say,

Purpling across night’s brass murmurs.

                        --George Angel

George Angel is an author, play-write, artist and musician.   For bio and published works of George Angel please visit Poetry International

George's book, The Fifth Season is available at Amazon and I highly recommend it.  

Thanks George.

a poem

A cage of sound 09:


GOOD ADVICE

"Beware of repetition, the malignant
dawn, the looming threat of meals
on the dining-room table; resist

the film of her end when you lie down,
every night – get up, refuse. Again and
again, it will not help. Sit down then

at the piano and flee into your fingers.
Translate notes, limit yourself to
a modest review, two measures at most.

Gradually the music consumes you. You slip
through the bars of sound you have raised,
patiently repeating the healing notes."



© 2013, Anna Enquist
From: Een kooi van klank
Publisher: Stichting CPNB & Poetry International, Amsterdam, 2013, 9789059651852

© Translation: 2013, David Colmer
First published on Poetry International

dots and thoughts of you

Kiss - A Love Story from RACECAR on Vimeo.

As Paul Auster once said

"As Paul Auster once said “The sun is the past, the earth is the present and the moon is the future.” In our first independent short film we explore the consequence of something as innocent as a kiss. A love story between the sun and the moon. We believe that every solar eclipse is the moons attempt to reach the sun... x"

On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.

Extreme Wisteria

BY LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO

On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.

The hydrangea

Of   her crushed each year a little more into the attar of   herself.

Pallid. Injured, wildly capable.

A throat to come home to, tupelo.

Lemurs in parlors, inconsolable.

Parlors of burgundy and sleigh. Unseverable fear.

Wistful, woke most every afternoon

In the green rooms of the Abandonarium.

Beautiful cage, asylum in.

Reckless urges to climb celestial trellises that may or may not

Have been there.

So few wild raspberries, they were countable,

Triaged out by hand.

Ten-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Intimacy with others,

Sateen. Extreme hyacinth as evidence.

Her single subject the idea that every single thing she loves

Will (perhaps tomorrow) die.

High editorial illusion of   “Control.” Early childhood: measles,

Scarlet fevers;

Cleopatra for most masquerades, gold sandals, broken home.

Convinced Gould’s late last recording of the Goldberg Variations

Was put down just for her. Unusual coalition of early deaths.

Early middle deaths as well. Believed, despite all evidence,

In afterlife, looked hopelessly for corroborating evidence of   such.

Wisteria, extreme.

There was always the murmur, you remember, about going home.

Bill Schwab

seen through your eyes

The Art and Poetry of Mark Erickson

It's music in paint, it's "spectrum" and curves. 

Anatomy of Flight - 18x12-canvas

the single sheet of lyrics

in the temptation of nature

her tree limbs sway

the leaves

swirl along in the rhythm

of the wind,

the ground underneath

folds amongst the rocks

and the dirt,

while the bugs climb through

their forest of grass and twigs

the size of skyscrapers and towers,

secrets hidden under the pebbles

soaring into the mountains

as the sun pours down

in her naked body

cooking the land

her legs move

her hand touching

in her single sheets

of her lost paradise

by Mark Erickson

For more art by Mark Erickson please go here.

Thank you Mark. xx

"For last year's words belong to last year's language...

And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning." 

 ~ T.S. Eliot

"May you always have walls for the winds,

a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,

laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,

and all your heart might desire."--An  Irish blessing

It's a nice dream I think.

Don't Worry About Me

"When the twilight shadows fall
and the nocturnal creatures call
from the place where you are,
Still! I see you in each star.
So, please don't worry about me?

When the song birds awaken the dawn
and the starry night is gone,
Though I wander ways apart,
where the shadows stir and start,
Still! I will hold you in my heart.
So, please don't worry about me?"

Joseph T. Renaldi