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The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world
and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathe in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.


http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15722

Sometimes I need

only to stand

wherever I am

to be blessed.

— Mary Oliver, an excerpt from the poem “It Was Early”

By the Hudson River

Near the Hudson River, I sit beneath a tree that has flowers like a dogwood, pale, soft lit by the sun, a creamy golden white.  They waver in what can only be called a gentle breeze.  Bird cries fill the air, harsh and pointed.  It is spring.  The birds search for mates and want to have babies.  A biological imperative I suppose.

*

Time passes.  I still sit beneath the tree, staring up into the branches weighed down by blossoms.  The breeze reveals the sheer lengths of spiders’ webs weaving throughout the canopy.  Of the spiders I can see nothing, only their work.

*

A woodchuck, of all creatures, bounds by with baby in tow.  A light golden brown shading darker in places.  It could be a beaver but the tail seems too wrong.  Earlier I saw squirrels, quite fat, and birds in all sizes and colors.  But of deer I have seen nothing though they were the creatures I had been told to watch for.

*

And so there it is.  The deer.  A female, white tailed.  As it ambles by I am reminded to practice what I preach to a dear friend:  Patience and all will be revealed.

Traveling Light

If I were to travel light,  for a day, I would pack:

1 sketch pad

2 pens

1 pencil (plus sharpener)

Trail Mix

a bottle of water

Funny that I do not immediately think to pack my camera.  What would you pack?

A Childhood Memory

… a spider’s web dotted with rain, stretched between the porch column and roof.  The balls of moisture catch light, like neon bulbs, highlighting the web in sunlight and moonlight, streetlight and flashlight.  The adults around us don’t notice or at least they say nothing.  But all of us children, we just stare up in awe.

So the writing prompt is to describe a scent.  Okay.  Let’s see.  There are things that I wonder if they have a scent like cotton still on the vine, or beeswax candles, freshed formed and still dripping.  Cherry leaves all bereft after their cherry children have been picked.  Hay!  I know hay must have a scent, but I have never walked through a field of it before.  The sun.  Are there people in the world who can smell sunlight?  And if those people exist, then surely there must be people who smell the moon.  Colors suddenly flashed through my head.  What’s the connection between scents and colors for me?  Yellow is lemon.  Green is lime or forest.  Orange is citrus.  Red is cinnamon or cherry.  Blue is sky.  And sky smells … clean.  White is silk and soft.  Black is velvet and warm.  Brown is bark and trapped.  Gold is honey and thick, so sweet, and clear and binding.  In a romance, I could write he dripped it on my skin.  No … He poured a thin trail of honey, a web of honey!  That’s kinky.  My mind does wander with this prompt.  Butterflies must be blue and green and gold.  A chill wind and warm fire?  They smell of smoke and love.

Step 1:  Use stencil to cut butterfly images from old catalogs.

Step 2: Adhere butterflies to card stock with glue or double-sided tape.

Step 3: Use glitter glue to decorate and embellish (optional).

Step 4: Let everything dry.

Step 5:  (This is most important!)  Write note inside card and send to a friend.

Recycled Butterfly Cards

Mary Oliver is one of America’s most prolific and successful living poets.  In 2006 she produced a 71-page book of poetry that changed my life.  Thirst, like many of her previous works celebrates nature, but the poems also give voice to her love and loss of her partner, Mary Malone Cook.  When I first read Thirst, it did not inspire me artistically; i’m not sure that I was in a space to be inspired.   Instead, the words brought me calm during an aggressively reflective time in my life.  The poems were spare of word and rich with imagery.  They made me pause.   Even in the middle of a busy book store, reading her words felt like sitting beneath a tree watching a river flow past.  And in the quiet that was created, I began to acknowledge, for the first time perhaps, how grief need not be a burden but it does need to be acknowledged.

I did not discover the bright images of southern artist Jonathan Green until I moved to Boston.  I was walking through Bob Slate’s in Harvard Square.   The images spoke to me in a deep and familiar way, depicting southern people in all their varied hues and body shapes, adorned in big broad hats and voluminous skirts.

j-green I have such skirts and hats.  When I see a Green image I remember the heat that beats down in the deep south and surrounds you.  For now I purchase his postcards and notecards to send to friends.  One day I hope to see his actual paintings in a gallery.  To learn more about the artist, you can visit his website here:  http://www.jonathangreenstudios.com/