Saturday, January 31, 2009

Three new poems with drafts in journal

I wrote three "prose poems" or flash fictions pieces (I intended them
as prose poems) in the car today on the way to and from skiing. I
left them here in the journal I was typing in the car so my process is
evident. Maybe.

Saturday, January 31, 2009,11:18 AM we are riding in the car toward
Shane's to drop off Graham and then we are going skiing at Stoney
Creek. I hope we have fun. Sometimes it is fun and sometimes it is
essentially an ordeal. Depends in part on how well I slept (not at
all well) and in part on weather and conditions (16 degrees here and
colder I am sure out there, windy and gusty, snow crusty with some
fresher snow on top.).
Mozart's 10th piano sonata is on, my favorite composer and my
favorite form, cheery and pleasant. Graham is gone now (at Shane's)
and we're headed the back way toward the highway, but it is anything
but sunny and cheery outside--the sky is a dull blank grey.
I was thinking that some of my dream material would be good in novels
(the business, for example, of crawling along the outer edge of an ice
covered ship with hungry black waters below, very treacherous, to
perform some necessary task or retrieve something.
I need to add Keryl and her sister into Frog Haven for the sake of
the Slovenia sequel, but dunno if I'll live long enough to write all
the sequels and novels I've planned when I can't even get this one
done--too many things I want to do!!
I brought water paints to try painting in the car. But then I
dropped the Psion accidentally, picking up all the paraphernalia I'd
piled up to take on our expedition. So I wanted to make sure it still
works, seems to. I also wanted to send off a packet to The Bitter
Oleander because of the new poem I wrote for Paul Roth (might as well
send more than one, but most of my poems are not Paul Rothish.) so I
thought I'd try to construct something, but feel utterly uninspired.
Keith asks, are you still my sweetie? and I answer yes. Are you
still mine? Yes. Yay! We're on the highway now, "We're off," I say,
"Like a Turd of hurtles."
I brought painting stuff, I was going to paint in the car but I think
I will try for a poem.

A woman paints in the car while her husband drives. She paints
peonies, large and white; lays little paint where the petals grow,
paint green and brown leaves soft around the faint lemon and light of
petals. Outside the window, snow falls, lazy in the meadows. It
pelts into the windshield and she paints around the snowdrops, leaving
the paper white for every flake. She paints snow into her husband's
beard and onto the collar of his jacket, paints her knees and the
dashboard, each flake piling on the next until the car is so full of
peonies and snowdrifts that it disappears in the fields and muffles
the rings of searching cell phones.
1st draft, 090131 11:40 AM for Paul Roth.

Her Husband's Aging Beard
A woman paints in the car while her husband drives. She paints
peonies, large and white; lays pale paint for petals, green and brown
in soft spreading splashes for leaves to define the faint lemon and
light of petals. Outside the window, snow falls, lazy in the meadows,
lazy in the bare branches. It pelts the windshield and she paints
around the snowdrops, leaving the paper white for every flake. She
paints snow into her husband's beard and onto the collar of his
jacket, paints her knees and belly and the dashboard of the car, each
flake piling on the next until the car is so full of peonies and
snowdrifts that it disappears in the fields and muffles the rings of
searching cell phones.
090131-1149-1b; 1st draft, 090131 11:40 AM for Paul Roth.

Her Husband's Aging Beard
A woman paints in the car while her husband drives. She paints
peonies, large and white; lays pale paint for petals, green and brown
in soft spreading splashes, leaves to define the faint lemon and light
of blooms. Outside the window, snow falls, lazy in the meadows, lazy
in the bare branches. It pelts the windshield. The woman paints
around the snowdrops, leaving the paper white for every flake. She
paints snow into her husband's beard and onto the collar of his
jacket, paints her knees and belly and the dashboard of the car, each
flake piling on the next until the car is so full of peonies and
snowdrifts that it disappears in the fields and muffles the rings of
searching cell phones.
090131-1155-1c; 1st draft, 090131 11:40 AM for Paul Roth.
A woman stares through the viewfinder of her camera. There is so much
dust on the lens that she thinks she is in the midst of a flock of
birds. The birds are large and heavy, and their wings are so small
they do not look capable of flight. But they pick the woman up and
fly over the blank sky with her. The sky is the color of nothing, the
color of stupidity, but above the clouds, everything flares into gold.
When the birds drop her, she bounces several times on the mattress of
cloud and then sinks into a fog so thick she can swim in it. But so
can the sharks. So many they look like dust spots on a lens. And
hungry.
1st draft, 1-31-09, 12:07 PM 26 mile road, approching Stoney Creek backwoods.

Midas Quilting
A woman stares through the viewfinder of her camera. So much dust
covers her lens that she thinks she is in the midst of a flock of
birds. Though the birds are large and heavy, their wings are so small
they appear incapable of flight. But they pick the woman up and carry
her through the blank sky. The sky is the color of nothing, the color
of stupidity, but above the clouds, everything flares into gold. When
the birds drop her, she bounces several times on the mattress of cloud
and then sinks into a fog so thick she can swim in it. But so can the
sharks. So many sharks approach that they look like dust spots on a
lens. But hungrier.
090131-1215-1b (On Inwood Road almost at the parkinglot!); 1st draft,
1-31-09, 12:07 PM 26 mile road, approching Stoney Creek backwoods.
* * *
A woman skis across a shooting range. Because in the flat light, she
cannot tell where the hills and valleys are, she suddenly slips away
from herself, lunging sometimes forward and sometimes back. The
marksmen fire white guns. Some are dressed as invisible polar bears,
some as snow-covered pines and spruces. White balloons pop here and
there, white champagne corks fly into a white sky. The reports echo
thunderously off the invible hills and snowy trees. The richochets
turn her to Swiss cheese with ketchup. She remembers a classmate
telling her Swiss cheese with ketchup tasted like chicken. Also
rattle snakes and polar bears. The woman who might taste like chicken
leaves a red trail in the snow. Behind her, the world is a little
less flat but crashing like armagheddon.
1st draft upon leaving Stoney creek from cross country skiing--I had
forgotten how horrible the shooting is, all the gunfire from the
shooting range. UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH I HATE IT! ;-(
1st draft 1-31-09 3:21 PM
* £ * £
Midas Mattress
A woman peers through the viewfinder of her camera. Because a
plethora of dust covers her lens, she thinks she is in the midst of a
flock of birds. Though the birds are large and heavy, their tiny
wings appear incapable of flight. But they pick the woman up by the
elbows and carry her through the blank sky. The sky is the color of
nothing, the color of stupidity. Until suddenly ends and begins anew.
Above the mist, everything flares into gold. When the birds drop
her, she bounces several times on the shining mattress of cloud and
then sinks into fog. She swims, one long stroke after another, swims
among the thickness and fog sharks. So many sharks approach that
they look like dust spots on a lens. But hungrier.
090131-1530-1c (On Inwood Road almost at the parking lot!); 1st draft,
1-31-09, 12:07 PM 26 mile road, approching Stoney Creek backwoods.
On Van Dyke and Chicago, headed home from skiing.
$ $ $
A woman skis across a shooting range. Because in the flat light, she
cannot tell where the hills and valleys are, slips she suddenly away
from herself, lunging sometimes forward and sometimes back. The
marksmen fire white guns and disguise themselves as invisible polar
bears and snow-covered pines and spruces. Thousands of white balloons
pop around her and white champagne corks fly into a white sky. The
reports echo thunderously off the invible hills and snowy trees. The
richochets turn her to Swiss cheese with ketchup. She remembers a
classmate 52 years ago telling her Swiss cheese with ketchup tastes
like chicken. He also said rattlesnakes, frog legs and polar bears
taste like chicken. The woman who wonders if she too tastes like
chicken leaves a red trail in the snow. Behind her, the world is a
little less flat but exploding and collapsing in on itself like
Armagheddon.
1st draft upon leaving Stoney creek from cross country skiing--I had
forgotten how horrible the shooting is, all the gunfire from the
shooting range. UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH I HATE IT! ;-(
Draft 1b written on I 94 coming home from skiing
090131-1547-1b; 1st draft 1-31-09 3:21 PM
* £ * £

Friday, January 30, 2009

Easter Gift From a Dead Mother, Take 2

Easter Gift From a Dead Mother

I lift them from the floor, two crisp dollar bills
folded in half as they came from the card
twenty years ago. Cadbury Creme Eggs
from my mother because that year, like so many,
I was dieting. I had not yet learned I was allergic
to chocolate. The dollars were meant, like candy,
to be as fleeting as the words, "Hello, I love you!
Delightful to see you. Here's a little Easter treat." Yum
yum, gobble, gobble. But somehow, the paper eggs
never got eaten. I, who pride myself on imagination,
could think of no small treat both safe for a dieting palette
(or mind) and sufficient to honor my mother's boundless
love. She meant only to include me and would laugh or cry
at such agonizing deliberations over twenty years.
This morning, I knocked the precious dollars
from their perch beside my bed—perhaps to remind me
that when I pass on, no one will know the value
of this money. Maybe someone will stick them
in a wallet and spend them with ordinary money
for gas, dry cleaning or a soda for my son.
May that soda explode in rainbow flavors
and free the burden and glory of two
generations of love (hallelujah!) onto
that cherished and unsuspecting tongue.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090130-0942-1e; 090130, 1st
(hated the illo, had to do it over!)

Easter Gift from a Dead Mother (and a bit of silliness)

Easter Gift From a Dead Mother

I lift them from the floor, two crisp dollar bills
folded in half as they came from the card
twenty years ago. Cadbury Creme Eggs
from my mother because that year, like so many,
I was dieting. I had not yet learned I was allergic
to chocolate. The dollars were meant, like candy,
to be as fleeting as the words, "Hello, I love you!
Delightful to see you. Here's a little Easter treat." Yum
yum, gobble, gobble. But somehow, the paper eggs
never got eaten. I, who pride myself on imagination,
could think of no small treat both safe for a dieting palette
(or mind) and sufficient to honor my mother's boundless
love. She meant only to include me and would laugh or cry
at such agonizing deliberations over twenty years.
This morning, I knocked the precious dollars
from their perch beside my bed—perhaps to remind me
that when I pass on, no one will know the value
of this money. Maybe someone will stick them
in a wallet and spend them with ordinary money
for gas, dry cleaning or a soda for my son.
May that soda explode in rainbow flavors
and free the burden and glory of two
generations of love (hallelujah!) onto
that cherished and unsuspecting tongue.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090130-0942-1e; 090130, 1st

With a silly collage illo! :-D Brand new poem this morning! I may
make a new illo for this, as this illo is kind of foolish for the
poem!

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Self portrait start

A new Self portrait start. The latest version is on Imagik.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Slow Reader

Slow Reader

I gnaw the flesh of a poem, tearing it
from the bone. My teeth rip
into the juicy meat. I chew slowly, savoring
each bite, rolling the sweet umami on my tongue,
sucking the juice from every morsel. One bite,
a pause to consider the flavor, and then another.
Slowly, I devour, tidbit by tidbit, the whole poem,
then suck the long curved bone until it is as white
as if it had lain on the desert for years.
Though may take months to consume
the entire carcass of the book, my mouth waters
at the prospect of such prolonged delight.

The next book may be a pear tree.
I could pluck a single pear, hold
its smooth curved, ripe body and examine
the pattern of its speckled skin. The shape
pleases me. I caress it and admire its taper.
When I bite into it, it squirts; juice runs
down my chin. And the stone cells—such strange
and inviting texture. Leisurely, with careful attention,
I sample mouthfuls of pear poem, eating it
down to the stem and seeds. The rest of the tree
remains, full of pears. They blush in summer light
and whisper my name.

Mary Stebbins Taitt
090121-1107-1b

This is a brand new poem. Click the "broadside image" to view it larger. For Creative Every Day art and words.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

starting a new painting

This is the beginning of a new painting that was supposed to be a self
portrait. You can see the finished painting at Imagik.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Frogs for Dawn D

This is a collage + art that I did for Dawn D. Then I added texture
to it. That image is on Imagik.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Water Media Class

I am taking my second-ever water media class at the war memorial. The first class was today. I had fun. You can see the unfinished piece that I was working on. My good friend Mick would probably tell me it was a "tired" subject, by which he means a cliche. But I like it and was enjoying working on it---nice shapes and opportunity to practice techniques I am learning.
And many nonartist friends are happy to receive such "cliches" as gifts. (Charlie Myers, the teacher, took the picture of me after almost everyone else had left.)

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

The Dream of a Common Language

The Dream of a Common Language, by Mary Stebbins Taitt.

This was going to be the beginning of a collage piece, but I dont have
time for it!

I may or may not start over later.

The title is from a book of Poetry by Adrienne Rich.

The exciting thing about this is that I am sending this from my Mac,
Leo (Leopard). I just got Picasa, the new Beta for Macs. YAY!

Thin as Our Fingers
(Turning Flowers to Garbage)

A lake appears along the trail, above the cliffs
and pounding surf beneath. Bounded by cliff-side rocks,
it stretches nearly as far as we can see. Huge,
like the ocean below, but calmer. More welcoming
than the crashing waves of the sea. The trail
enters the lake and continues out of sight under the water,
as yellow as the yellow brick road in the Land of Oz.
I plunge in, eager, excited. Warm as air, the water
caresses me. Soft. Buoyant, delightful. I exhale, sink into it,
and rise again. “We can swim to the left, we can swim
to the right!” I tell you. And demonstrate. A smile
blossoms on my face and fills me with light
like the first sunny day of spring. You hesitate, then follow,
slowly. Wade, then swim. Then smile, too. We drift together,
above the yellow path under the water. You laugh,
bob, sway, almost seem to dance, until you see
the snakes. Green snakes, hundreds of them.
Some are as thin as our fingers, some as thick and long
as our arms and legs. The snakes float on the water like lily pads,
hold only their nostrils above water, heads suspended, tails dangling
like the long stems of water lilies. I swim and glide among them,
easy, relaxed, smiling. No clouds crowd the horizon; the sky
wears the clearest, deepest blue robes imaginable. Reflects
the endless blue water. But you stiffen. Hang back.
“Look,” I say, “they are harmless.” Snakes surround me,
and pay me no mind. Still frightened, you refuse
to swim forward. Suddenly, you yell and splash at the snakes.
In an instant, they all rear up, draw scaly lips back
to expose their fangs and hiss. They charge us both.




Mary Stebbins Taitt
For Keith and Janine
090113-1229-1eb


Snakes in the Water

Read more about the dream that caused this poem at my dream blog, Hidden Rooms.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Catching Rainbows in a Butterfly Net

I chased thousands in a field of spray, thought they'd slip
through the net like air, like fog, like the spray itself,
but it held them, shining fish, softer than fish roe,
slipperier than eels.   I swallowed them whole
in a whirl of cherry, strawberry, orange,
lemon, lime, blueberries and concord grapes
They wriggled and slid into the cage of my ribs
and swam there, lighting the cold cinder of heart
with color.  The sun when I caught it didn't burn
the fibers of net.  It tasted like fireballs, cinnamon
and cayenne and  roosted in the cinder of heart
like a banty taking to the trees at dusk.  Whoever told
you chickens don't fly never had banties!  Even
most of the white leghorns fluttered to the rafters
when the fox came in.  (Which wasn't the point
you were making, of course.)   Meanwhile, the sun
flapped its yellow wings, fluffed its white belly
and puffed out the cinder of heart into a great balloon
that thrummed in my chest glowing and shimmering
with rainbows, throbbing and singing: an electrical
tinnitus that seemed to be chanting: Oh Joy, Oh Love,
oh Glory.  Halleluiah.  Say what?  Hello?  Did I mention
the word dream?  None of it could be my fault.

Mary Taitt
For Kay Ryan, Rhonda Walsh, Lottie Spadie, Dawn McDuffie and Jim Doran
090106-1603-1d from a dream
brand new poem today