A podcast appearance

 

via Unsplash

I'm on the very first episode of the Down to Art podcast, talking with my friend Kristy Gordon about the creative process, making room for the muse, and my new solution for self-loathing. You can listen here. 

Meet Me in the Woods

 

David Hurley on Unsplash

A very cool thing: this past weekend, my work and voice were part of an installation called "If trees were lone women what would they sound like" in the Dark Skies Park in Galloway Forest in Scotland. To learn more about the project, click here. You can watch and listen to moments of the installation on the project's Twitter page.

One New Poem

eberhard grossgasteiger on Unsplash

My therapist's armchair creaks. Tell me: what is it

about hope that feels so challenging?

My poem "Pink Light (2021)" is out now in Moonchild Magazine. 

This publication is special to me for a few reasons. First, it's a sequel, and its predecessor also appeared in Moonchild, in 2019; and secondly, it comes with an extra-special audio version. I recommend listening with headphones and the volume up for the most immersive experience.

New Music from Squid Pro Crow: At Sundown, When I Am Busy

Here's the latest from Squid Pro Crow.
Words by me, music by Grant.


At Sundown, When I Am Busy
Remind me: 

mourning doves. Remind me always 
to live where they are. Remind me: 
that sound. 
That sound. Remind me. 
Mourning doves: that sound:

Remind me.

A New Thing! Sort of!

It's not written down, exactly, but it is the latest offering from Squid Pro Crow:
 


Thirty
Maybe it approached gradually, 
Like the three-toed sloth 
In the zoo’s reptile house. 
I didn’t think the mossy thing 
Was real, or really coming, 
Until it was nearly upon me. 

Maybe it all showed up at once— 
So fast I’d never have seen it, 
Even if I knew where to look. 
One day last summer, I blinked. 
The empty feeder suddenly 
Offered two hummingbirds. 

Regardless of how, it happened. 
I recognized her this morning 
In the ladies’ room at work. 
She was washing my hands. 
I adjusted her tasteful earrings 
And smoothed her messy braid.


words by me; music and everything else by Grant.

The Hits Just Keep On Comin'

More new music from Squid Pro Crow: Volvox Minuet. Words by me; wonderful, wonderful music by Grant.


Volvox Minuet
In one old studio my round instructor
is warming up her knees. Always the knees,
she said. You don't know what you've got
til it's gone. And then the music:
plaintive songs from long-
forgotten instruments.
My hair has slipped
from its braid. My teacher
counts, a hypnotist's trope,
and I am five hundred years ago.
The braid there has slipped too,
but there someone has bent
to mend it.

There is a pond on the way home,
a rich green plate of single-celled forms.
And in there two algae awaken.
A shy current pushes their arms
to preparation. The music begins.

Like new stars we all have been,
so blind to the cosmos and any orbit
but our own.


For more of our music, visit our Bandcamp page.

New Music from Squid Pro Crow

Barnard's Star is reborn! Music by Grant; words by me; ambient sounds from the Voyager Golden Record.



Barnard's Star
I send my heartbeat to you,
and the sum-song of my dreams.
Someday you'll unpack the impulses,
muscle-clicks like cooling cars.
Through endless fields of fire and dust
we send whale song, one noisy kiss.
Bach. A baby's cry.

Every other romance will wane
and waste away. Symphonies
are lost without their listeners.
Even the whale reduces
to a cage of bone and air.
But fast to you, Ophiuchus,
one whispered love is dancing.

For more of our music, visit our Bandcamp page.

Good News, Everyone!

Big news, too: in collaboration with Grant of the Guild of Scientific Troubadours, I've set some of my poetry to music, and may even be dabbling in songwriting. Our first team effort is a spoken-word version of "Watasenia Scintillans Addresses the New Graduates."



Watasenia Scintillans Addresses the New Graduates
She clutches the podium with translucent arms.
She is older than her picture.
She closes her eyes slowly.
We all lean in.
"Life…" she says, tasting each costly letter,

"Life is short. Light your whole self up
every chance you get."



You can download the track over at Bandcamp if you're so inclined. Grant and I (collectively now known as Squid Pro Crow) have all sorts of good stuff in the works, so do stay tuned.

Across the Universe

In a gesture that embodies the spirit of the Voyager project in a very real and wonderful way, Grant from the Guild of Scientific Troubadours has written a song called "Golden Record" in response to my poem "Barnard's Star." I've reprinted the poem below, so you can read it and then go check out the song.

Barnard's Star
after Ann Druyan

I send for you my heartbeat,
the rhythms of my latest dream.
You are just now finding the frozen clicks
of muscles, cooling like just-parked cars.
Through endless fields of fire and dust,
we send whale song, one noisy kiss.

Every other romance
is nothingness now, every whale
a great cage of bone and blue air.
But fast to you, bright Ophiuchus,
one whispered love is dancing.

Solace

The heaviest clouds are memories now,
and each thorn gives up its rain.
I dreamt I saw your shadow,
a flicker at the edge of the meadow.
Every step took me hours and hours,
and when I reached you you had gone.
In the trampled grass where the doe makes her bed,
a damp and budding armful: peony, lavender,
strawberry, thistle.
These are the flowers of my heart,
and in new sun they will bloom.







painting by Cassandra Barney

Presence

I could be blind on this gold day,
not know the honest sun
save for its tender warmth.

I could be deaf as a desert stone,
not know the drowsing murmurs
of one lamb to another.

I could be mute and never tell
another soul the size and shape
of all these breathing beauties.

But I couldn't be here,in this sweet meadow,
and not know your love
by its scent. There is no life
without this bounty, there is
no day without fruit.





painting by Cassandra Barney

The Language of Flowers: Lily of the Valley

sweetness, humility, healing, spring, a return to happiness

I sleep late. The lawnmowers
do not wake me, nor the landlord's
angry wife. The light
finds my eyes gently,
as the rain begins. The house
is empty. The bright street,
deserted. The comforter
has been rejected, a cool white dog
at the foot of the bed.

All the clocks are wrong or gone,
I guess he took his with him. I force open
a window. It is time to start the day.





painting by Cassandra Barney
another season of floriography begins.

Next Year in Cannon Beach

Cassandra Barney and I will not be appearing at the Spring Unveiling in Cannon Beach, Oregon this year. Ernst & Ernst Collectors Gallery, our host from last year, has closed its doors. However, Cass has parlayed her relationship with nearby Bronze Coast Gallery into plans for next year.

So! Next year, in Cannon Beach! And with all this time to collaborate, you had better believe we're going to put together something fierce.

Interlude: Other People's Poetry

Atonement: new work from Cassandra Barney.

I would love to write something to accompany this image but the painting itself is so eloquent and poetic that anything else would be overkill.

Interlude: Happy Birthday, Cassandra Barney

Today is the anniversary of the birth of one miss Cassandra Barney, my inspiration, collaborator and friend. Take a minute today, if you will, to cruise over to her blog and send her birthday wishes, or just think glittery thoughts in her general direction. She works hard, plays hard, dreams hard, and loves hard, and I only hope today is all that it can be for her, that she is inundated with affection and children's drawings and good wishes.



Thistle
Hard work, love that endures hardship, defiance, protection

I never saw my mama’s feet sleeping.
Mornings they trod a triangular path:
garden, fire, table.
Mid-day she walked in circles sewing,
mending our dresses as we read our lessons.
As the sun set she strode stripes through the fields,
barefoot among the thistles to bring the cows in.
When the stars pricked holes
in the black paper above, her heels creaked
a half-moon of floorboards around the big bed.
I dreamt every night of fragrant weeds and grasses,
and knew that when I woke
the footsteps below would always be hers.

A Public Service Announcement, for You Specifically

To the angels of the anonymous confession, to the benefactors
of jagged burdens, to the stars that fade
upon inspection, to you for what you said:




photographs by flickr users jillalyn and glass_doorknob

Got something to get off your chest? Tell me.

October 25th: Tree of Life/Men and Angels

To those of you in the New York City and Connecticut area*:



Come say hello! There will be art, and book signing, and Cass, and Emily, and James, and me! It's sure to be a fantastic show.


*The gallery is about an hour outside of the city, convenient to train stations, and you really have no excuse.

What Remains

We found the bones on the beach—
blanketed with gray feathers,
hollow like drinking straws.
Overhead the late gull’s children
mourned relentlessly. The carcass,
stripped as it was by crabs and wind,
was not new.
The waves crept closer. With a snap
you split the wings, a ragged break
down the brittle breastbone.
You sent one wing to sea. The other
capped a driftwood crucifix,
the waterlogged wood dripping
with kelp and spinning shells.
My numb fingers traced the tracks I knew
in the sand. A pile of cold stones
for ink, shifting shoreline
the blank page.
Your wings departed, but I stood
by my word. Six letters in the sand:
remain.

More from Cannon Beach: My Wing Sailing

My Wing Sailing

You can read more about the project here.

Anima del Paradiso

I.
As the thick clouds slid
A cold blanket on the sun
You came, dear ones, with
Little feet that tickled like
Sunshine on my skin.

II.
You ate the small green evils
That fed on my sick heart, and
Spread your love across
Its damp cage.

III.
I will make this place
Heaven’s garden for you,
My angels, and fill
It with the sweetest flowers
I can find.