Tag: Poetry
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Carpe Amaryllis
An unfurled flame;a wind whippedpeace pendant dancing, daring;a pearly ribbonuntwisting, untwisted;a clarion calltrump-pump-pump-iting porcelain secrets…Seize winter now.
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Sitting Sentry
Sometimes a poem is born of an idea once removed from reality. This even even supposed imagines Carley on “guard duty”, sitting outside the icehouse while I’m composing a tribute to her. I imagine myself looking down from the window above, observing her. A sentinel observing a sentinel. After all, isn’t a poet, a sort…
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Gray Day
What a persistent stretch of rainy gray days. It seems to me that February or March of this year marked a transition from *typical* North Country winter to rain-dominant weather. Then a rainy spring followed by a rainy summer. When autumn arrived, everyone was in agreement that the rain was behind us. Certainly September and…
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Holiday Homecoming
What a wellspring of euphoria this evening! We returned to Rosslyn after briefly sojourning in Santa Fe, returned to a delicate frosting of snow underfoot, early dwindling natural light, holiday lights glowing in windows, 28° outside, toasty inside, the promise of savory stew and spicy cider wafting like a whimsical Christmas carol,… Rosslyn welcomed us…
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Porosity & Permeability
Porosity and permeability. Words. Ideas. Aesthetics. Biases. So many opportunities to mis-listen. Misinterpret. Assume… We volley language and visions without ever knowing whether or not we perceive the same boundaries. The same winning. And losing. Sometimes an image, less answer than visual poem, is the only way. Other times a poem-poem, less answer than question,…
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Crescent Moon Haiku
Sometimes it’s the little things. Often, actually. Like this slender sliver of a crescent moon tipped sideways, a celestial smile. Like this volute capital — atop one of two ionic columns flanking Rosslyn’s front entrance — glowing warmly from the pendant light hanging above the stone landing. Like that improbable glow silhouetting the trees despite…
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Lone Leaf
Sometimes a “fallen feuille” is a timely reminder. A lone leaf brave in its sensuous strength and solitude. Pretty apart. The ache and isolation of individuality. The irresistible siren call of winter… Lone Leaf Once sylvan whisper,once breezy dancerfree, fallen, silent,so solitary,a long way from thecanopy’s embrace,damp and delicateon rain ambered deck. Thanks, Pam, for…
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Aerial Arborist Haiku
As often, Aaron spent his Saturday at Rosslyn, whittling down the bottomless punch list. His demeanor, perseverance, and smarts are a perennial hat trick, but his arboreal aptitude has proven again and again to be one of his superpowers. Yesterday and today his whittling was not metaphorical. High up — some 100’ to 120’ above…
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More Real than Realism
What, you ask, is more real than realism? Perhaps nothing. Or, perhaps plenty. Poetry, for example. Also art, stories, and so many other creative and curatorial initiatives. “Nothing is less real than realism. Details are confusing. It is only by selection, by elimination, by emphasis, that we get at the real meaning of things.” —…
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Enclosure
A mid morning meditation on enclosure inspired by ongoing deliberations on the height and porosity of the privacy fence that will screen the mechanicals, propane tank, etc. behind the carriage barn (south of the icehouse terrace). So muchdepends upona borderenfolding,a framedefining,a hedge ora tree linescreening,veiling,a yardencompassing,a paddockor a stycontaining,a ringencircling,a cageconfining,a courtyard’ssanctuarysheltering,a harborprotecting,an embracewelcoming andnurturing…
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Lumbering Home
Hymn-along a song ofhomegrown timber,harvested within sightof the renewed icehouse.Hum, drum, and struman anthem hailinghyper local lumberloved, labored, arrayed.Felled and milled on site,then stickered and stacked,courses upon courses,a dozen years cured,between hemlock floor,and fir paneled walls,ceiling stained from fivequarter centuries.Once towering ash,elm, and poplar treesreborn as flooring,balusters, newels, railings. Canopied colossimetamorphosed intostair treads and risers,door…
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Persimmoning
As autumn and winter braid themselves into a textured tapestry of yesterdays and tomorrows, persimmoning is upon us in all its nectary extravagance. Hint of honey. Scent of cinnamon. Bliss. I began my morning with the tender caress and sweet kiss of an hachiya persimmon. These photographs tell the story. But the backstory, that’s better…