Ars Poetica is in its ninth year here on the west side of Puget Sound. Poets living in Kitsap, Jefferson, and Mason (that's me) Counties submit up to three poems to a jury of local artists who choose one or more poems to interpret in their chosen medium. When complete, the art is displayed in participating galleries, and usually culminates in author-artist events at the galleries, where the poets read their poems standing alongside the artwork inspired by their poems, and the artist speaks about his or her creation, and how the poem inspired it. This year, of course, everything is different. The events never took place, and most of the exhibits were cancelled. Thankfully, a number of poems and the accompanying artwork are on display during the month of September at the Poulsbohemian Coffeehouse in Poulsbo, WA. In addition, local artist Bev Hanson has put together a virtual exhibit of the Poulsbohemian exhibit, features statements from both the artists and poets. I love the watercolor that accompanies one of my poems: Outside My Window Outside my window in early morning fog eagle finds a salmon bleached in decay washed ashore the day before lays claim with anchored talons rips flesh with razored beak until it sees me looking out from behind glass too close for its comfort flaps its mighty wings flies out of view holding fast to the fish I walk to the kitchen for breakfast one life feeds another Why I chose this poem: Artist Andrea Tiffany.
Birds seem to provide my greatest source of inspiration to paint, followed closely by the local landscape of mountain- framed saltwater. Fish often come popping up to the surface of my artwork, as well. This poem contained all I needed, and though Eagles are not my favorite bird—a bit brutish, for my taste—they are spectacular creatures, and the partnership between Eagles and Salmon is a local classic. Media: Watercolor Price: $200 What inspired me to write this poem: Poet Cathy Warner Two-and-a-half years ago I moved to low bank fixer upper in Union on Anna’s Bay of the Hood Canal. There is always something to see out the window. At low tide, the bay is mud, oyster beds, and the Skokomish River. When the salmon run, occasionally a dead one washes ashore. This particular morning, I stumbled into the living room to find an eagle unusually close to the house feasting on a salmon. I think both of us were startled by our nearness to each other.” Enjoy a PDF of the entire virtual exhibit here.
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Midnight May 31, 2020
If a poem could keep the world from exploding, other lives from imploding I’d never put down my pen. I’d ink blank pages until fingers cramped, blistered, and bled, until the marks of artistic suffering smeared the alphabet of good intentions. I’d write until compelled to stop and look upon the streaked mess I’d made of creation. Forced to cease my frenetic struggle for self-expression I’d rub a tired hand across my neck and just breathe in and out because I can live in the present moment. I’d see tears of privilege smear my careful pages forming corona bursts that spread like wildfire consuming poetic constructs. Ink seeping into blood bleeding into grief that overflows its banks surging with despair flooding foundations that were supposed to protect our fragility but crumble under the weight of oppression. Exposing the rotten materials upon which we’ve built systems that promise to uphold everyone but never could support the weight of equality and that fail all of us now as illusions of protection and safety collapse. The walls tumble down and we are broken, shattered scattered along the streets cowering in quarantined homes victims of an unseen virus, supremacy, and privilege. Barely masked vitriol is such flimsy covering against what we truly need to face. I should be standing alongside those destroyed by the shadow side we once tried to hide but are now parading and tweeting. Our naked underbelly celebrated our worst selves shined up our deepest fears inflicted upon others we dehumanize in order to keep our motives unexamined our wounds unhealed. My voice is so easily spoken my words so easily heard my views so easily accepted my pen so easily plied. But you who’ve been silenced you who’ve been ignored you who’ve been shunned-- protest. Riot if you must. Burn your truth into my skin and may your cries haunt me to the grave. Ars Poetica is in its ninth year here on the west side of Puget Sound. Poets living in Kitsap, Jefferson, and Mason (that's me) Counties submit up to three poems to a jury of local artists who choose one or more poems to interpret in their chosen medium. When complete, the art is displayed in participating galleries, and usually culminates in author-artist events at the galleries, where the poets read their poems standing alongside the artwork inspired by their poems, and the artist speaks about his or her creation, and how the poem inspired it. This year, of course, everything is different and the displays as well as events have been canceled. Fortunately members of the Bainbridge Island Photography club have been connecting via email with the poets whose words they interpreted. Here is the beautiful digital photograph created by Chuck Eklund in response to my poem, "Drifting to Sleep." Drifting to Sleep We gather behind the curtain of imagination waiting in the wings as the orchestra conducts its overture before crimson velvet All our cares flutter toward the sky as our dreamtime ballet begins How quickly the fantastic takes shape beneath our star-fused eyelids galaxies glide through our minds like ballroom dancers spinning tales across the glittering floor and the universe bursts into story Here's what Chuck Eklund has to say about his art: This photo is set in Lake Brienz, in Switzerland. We hiked around the lake and spent the night in the village of Brienz. Even though it was summer, during the day it rained on the lake and snowed on the mountains. Amazing. The building, mountains, and growth are all around Brienz. The stars were beautiful that night. However, I didn’t have a tripod and could take only a limited exposure with camera balanced on a towel on a wall. No way to get the stars. The stars and Milky Way are from Idaho. I have always regretted not getting the stars in Brienz. Your poem made me think that I would combine the two images. Thank you, Chuck, for making such a beautiful photo. I definitely feel the flight into the dream realm as my eye is drawn to the upper edge of the photo. I'm glad we could share this virtually. In German, they call today Karfreitag (Sorrowful Friday).
Here's a poem I wrote in response: Bowl of Sorrows On Good Friday 2020 This morning I place an empty bowl atop my coffee table a vessel in which to pour our suffering and sorrows -- our beloved dead we cannot mourn together our ill and dying lying in isolation our elders in lockdown waved to from windows our incarcerated overcrowded and incited to riot our perilous pre-existing conditions our harrowed healthcare providers working in horror our first responders risking their families our homeless without a place to call or stay home our immigrants and refugees who can’t find refuge our fear of black men wearing masks our fear of everyone unmasked everyone who lacks the privilege to shelter in place the classrooms closed field trips furloughed the commencement ceremonies unscheduled the valedictory addresses vanished the college tours cancelled libraries locked the athletic seasons suspended the wedding festivities forgotten the dissolutions of marriage delayed the tempers flared the doors slammed the abuse behind curtains closed ever tighter the mutual understandings unraveling the first loves by distance fractured the workplace identity whittled away the blurred boundaries between work and home the emptying pantries and pocketbooks the layoffs and lost jobs the indecipherable applications for assistance the travel plans terminated border barricaded the birthday parties banished the beaches bunkered campgrounds closed the worship services via wi-fi the hugs held hostage smiles masked the stress-snacking and viral insomnia the gray roots exposed the ends splitting the things I cannot even think of The heartbreak of being healthy and happy the shame of sacrificing nothing for my safety No grief is too insignificant to acknowledge or too monstrous to mourn When Jesus suffered the unspeakable he pleaded for our pardon Before it was finished he fashioned a family Together we carry this bowl of sorrows A young woman lit up with new love
the radiant smile of a groom the inner glow of a pregnant woman beaming parents, a newborn child the long-married luminous and dancing under the moon the light that gentles us from this life into the next. Each brush with love transforms us if only temporarily and like the sun it burns so bright we must look indirectly or go blind. We can only come so close to the Great Source before we catch fire from the inside out. Like Moses our beards shimmer Like Jesus our garments blaze white. This is transformation-- shining from the mountaintop in momentary perfection dumbfounding those in our presence. As the blush fades we descend from the peaks to the plains of our existence uttering our small prophecies. We are no longer dazzling or set apart but, oh, we have been changed. ![]() How are you doing these days? I have to admit, I've been struggling. There are moments when I buckle under the weight of the news and the violence pervading our society, when I don't know how to bear our collective anxiety and suffering, as well as my own anxiety and fear. Moments when my prayers, my words, my actions, feel utterly insufficient in the wake of such great injustice. Earlier this week, In response, I did what I often do. Wrote a poem: Feeling Powerless in the Face of Everything Out of nowhere a massive meteor passes between earth and moon bypassing all our space aged tracking systems nearly obliterating the planet and all of us on it Out of nowhere in the course of a week in three U.S. cities three young white men steeped in hatred wield automatic weapons and open fire on festivalgoers, shoppers, friends out for drinks obliterating dozens of families and futures in mere seconds Out of nowhere officials of our government raid cities and towns ripping parents from children creating chaos and inflicting wounds that will never heal families obliterated under the guise of law and order Out of nowhere a helicopter thunders overhead one evening while I wash the dinner dishes I step outside to see an orange bucket suspended from the copter dip into the bay yards away than track its flight toward a plume of wind-whipped smoke billowing from the steep hillside less than a mile from my home Out of nowhere a can of Diet Dr. Pepper falls from my hand hits the floor, punctures the aluminum, and through the tiny hole a thin virulent stream of brown sprays the wall, the curtains the cat food in its bowl, the kitchen floor Deadly interstellar debris hurtling through the solar system assault weapons available more readily than birth control human dignity destroyed by fear and false power brush fires caused by human carelessness extinguished only by herculean human efforts a leaking carbonated can… It is the soda catastrophe too infinitesimal on the scales of tragedy to register at all that I curse, that I attend to that brings me to my knees, wet rag in hand, head bent in sorrow trivial minutia over which I feel a modicum of control the only disaster in which it seems my response has any impact I also admit that when I'm feeling fearful, anxious, and my reserves of hope are low, that writing a poem seems like a frivolous and completely insufficient response. I should be protesting and circulating petitions and arguing for my beliefs and demanding change. I have done all those things before, still felt inadequate, and often more anxious awaiting longed-for results. What do we do when we feel powerless and want to avoid toxic responses like blaming and demonizing others, self-medicating, or living in denial ? How do we empathize with the terror and suffering our sisters and brothers are experiencing without being undone by it? How do we keep from succumbing to existential angst? What gives you hope? Where do you draw your strength? These aren't rhetorical questions. I ask because I'm looking for connection in my wrestling and questioning, and for inspiration—if you have any. Please join me in conversation by leaving a comment here or on Facebook, or sending me a message. We're in this together! As for me, I'll keep turning to small acts of creativity as an antidote to destruction, to see the beauty that exists along with the violence, remembering to remind myself that every act of intention contributes to the greater good, no matter how small it seems. Writing a poem—even if it's a poem about powerlessness—and taking photos of the beauty around me are what I can muster right now. How about you? |
I began blogging about "This or Something Better" in 2011 when my husband and I were discerning what came next in our lives, which turned out to be relocating to Puget Sound from our Native California. My older posts can be found here.
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