Rhythms…

Turner

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Riding the currents

sleeping through storms

treading water in the dark

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sparks of harmonics

fly from my pen

~

my hand

the sentient animal

of my heart

~

~

An older poem …. words float and land. improvisational rhythms. their own kind of precision. different relationship each time. they’re just there….perhaps have always been

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Artist: Turner

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Blog Tour

Scan~

I was double dared to join in the Blog Tour by my friend, and fellow blogger, John Clinock over at Art Rat Cafe.  If you haven’t been over there, make haste and partake in some of John’s artful, sublimely  intimate and open armed hospitality.

The rules of the Blog Tour are to cite the person who asked you to join, answer a few questions about your own creative process, and to invite three (or so) bloggers to the tour.

Why do I write what I write?

I began writing seriously about a year and a half ago.  I needed to explain, also to myself,  an experience I had that changed the way I view my life and the world.

I started this blog, knowing that I didn’t want to work in a vacuum. At the time, my identity, that I considered once stable and solid, shimmed across the surface intangible as a heat wave. Uprooted from everything I’d known for decades, I was gravel in a hot dryer. It was a perfect time to begin something new. So I intuitively jumped in with enthusiasm if not vigor.

Within a few posts my word count distilled into a poetic language. I abandoned prose, for the most part, and embraced poetry encouraged by the fact I could say exactly what I meant without having to use so many words.

I’ve gone through many phases as they lead me along. Words are both holy and often an aphrodisiac. They are alive in me, as well as surrounding me. They provoke and prod, undermining my resistance and enlivening my humanness. They continue to puzzle me. Always intimate.

What is my writing process?

Poetry gave me the confidence, and the community, to consider tackling prose again. I prefer the way my life feels when I’m in the space for poetry though.

Writing poetry is always spontaneous and intuitive. The words just arrive … sometimes like a sneeze… short, succinct and full bodied. I know exactly what I want to say, understand it perfectly and then the words flicker and I lose it. These are the puzzles to unravel.

Some well up from the ground of my being … and release into a chest gripping harmony… old wounds healing.

In some I feel I’m treading water … way over my head. I put my swim fins on and dream through them for meaning.

Some are just romps through my day.

Prose on the other hand demands a method. I’m very disciplined in this regard. I usually start working straight out of sleep and begin writing the first draft, having a general idea. I continue to intuitively wade my way through all my thoughts on the subject. At this point I cannot attend to sequence or order. I arrive at a more cohesive sense of the subject by writing freely.

Then for however long it takes, I search for the rhythm. Now I can jump in at any time to work and I am able to work for long hours at a time. I write on scraps of paper, in various size notebooks but primarily on the screen and I quit when my eyes give out. When I have a reasonable draft, I used to read what I’d written out loud, but now I’ve switched to recording … over and over, listening for a genuine voice, possible repetition, awkward sentencing, lazy language and for sequence. This is generally how I find the ending of the post I’m working on and often times the beginning of the next one.

How does my work differ from other genres?

I haven’t a clue but I know each demands commitment. I’ve witnessed here on Word Press how combining different art forms compliment each other, giving a fuller experience. I’d like to have the momentum in writing to begin exploring a more visual language.

What am I working on at this moment?

I’m involved with an ongoing project attempting to artistically translate the work of a surreal, magic-realism flavored three-year mystical tour through the collective unconscious. In order to clarify my own understanding, I wrote a six-page text. Everyone who has read it, however, unanimously finds my initial text unreadable and incoherent.

So I’m learning to communicate. At this point, I am about half way through the text.

Right now I prefer the immediacy of this virtual community. I’m continually inspired and it makes a difference that I know who I’m talking and sharing with. There’s energy in this that moves me forward and compliments the work, which is still very much in process…and maybe this is what it’s all about.

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Of all the luscious in word writers I have the great good fortune of following, and of being in community with here, I had to consider my leanings toward the storytellers.

Bonnie spins the most curiously mindful, quirky rhythm-ed, uncannily insightful stories….a master Mistress Spider.    Maxada Mandala

Stacy … oh Stacy. What it is to be woman.When I see Stacy has posted…I know we are getting down to it. Her poetry is simply food.   the language we speak

Mark doesn’t so much as weave his stories, as immerse you in each word of his short fiction. His stories are verbal film noir….  each nuance palpable in black and white. Chris is a quick, spontaneous eyed photographer.  Each of her photos are captioned and worlds open up. Together they have begun working out a collaborative comic ….Mark writing and Chris drawing.  The Brokedown Pamphlet  and Spartan Eye

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Sketch: Self-portrait     “Start at the beginning and work towards the end?” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a clearing

Ice dreaming

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In a clearing

the ice covered pond

reflects the cool sun’s glare

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sleeping   dreaming   waking

The green light at the bottom of the pond is kept on

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The writings in books

are like skates on the pond

Cutting figures in the ice

while staying

on the surface of dreams

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 Mermaids come as night falls

 cutting holes

from the bottom of the ice

 singing their siren songs

 to awaken the sleeping minutes

of hearts and minds

keeping time

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While hurrying clouds congregate

rebellious against the moon

and I sit here alone

in dark wonder

watching the glow

from the warming fire

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The bright moon

My breath in the air

All I hear is stillness

 ~

A living journal,  my poems are weaving and circling around themselves…puzzles unwinding in a clearing…a dialogue now in waves more than starts and fits, editing me….

””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””

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photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/gomattolson/3238276252/”>gomattolson</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

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Singing shells

26195eec489fc6279bd5ac161a8f01e8~

Dark glasses in the sun hiding blindness

 I’ve been running ahead while looking back

until

collecting silent clues

I’m becoming a butterfly amongst the bees

winging it

as I find my way

down the dark passage

of singing shells

 ~

Finding a winter rhythm this year is a bit like being in a jerky elevator…..best laid plans, just get to the floor and open the door. The words coming slow in a weathered  suspension, collecting clues from poems becoming puzzles….meaning pivoting on just one word … the rhythm finding me in a slow molasses changing well- engrained routines, unsettling boundaries used to the intimacies of osmosis.