Ekphrasis - Where art meets poetry

© Robin Edmundson, 'Goose Pond' #530, watercolor, 10 x 14 inches.  $375. 
Available at The Venue on Grant St. in Bloomington, Indiana

A new season is upon us and change is in the air as the larger cycles of nature turn, turn, turn.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I was reminded of the larger cycles of life recently when I was invited to participate in Ekphrasis, a show whose purpose is to pair poets and paintings.  The poet has to write a piece inspired by the painting, without knowing any of the background of the piece.  On the day, the poet recites the piece and then the artist talks briefly about the inspiration for the painting.   What a gloriously fun idea!

Painting and poetry have come full circle in my family.  My grandmother, Emily G. Leisz,  was a gifted poet - and a painter - and she would have loved the idea of Ekphrasis.  I'll be thinking of her when I talk about the inspiration for my piece [above].  I wonder if any of my future family will become a painter or a poet. 

The Ekphrasis presentation is Sunday, Oct 20, 2019 at 6:00pm at the Venue on Grant St. in Bloomington, Indiana. 
 

 

P.S.  My current show 'Not Far Afield' is hanging at the Vault at Gallery Mortgage [121 E 6th St. Bloomington, Indiana] until October 29.  Gallery hours are M-F, 9-5.  If you get a chance to see it, I'd love to hear your comments.  

P.P.S.  The truth is that I'm a poet, too.   I have no illusions that I'm any good at it, but it sure is fun.  You can read my poetry HERE.

Another Rural Sonnet

It's been a while since I've posted rural poetry. Lately we've been cleaning a lot.

A lot.

And let me tell you this place is dirty.

Really dirty.

But I'm sure that has nothing to do with why we don't get much company.   Nothing at all. 

Or why, perhaps, we don't invite people over very often.    Nothing at all. 

[Ahem]


Rural sonnet number whatever....


Ode to a Dirty House

Accumulated dirt from twenty years
And more, of living on a gravel road—
[A rolling cloud of dust likely appears
When every auto, bike, dog, cat or toad
Goes by when things dry out]—At any rate,
That dirt fills every pore of this old house.
It covers everything. Our real estate
Will soon be mostly in than out. I grouse
Each time I clean the tops of shelves unseen
For years. Each surface traps and glues right down
Vast swaths of gritty, grimy, anti-sheen.
The cobwebs make it worse because they’re brown
With gunk. I’d keep ahead of all that grime
But I’d be doing housework ALL the time.

Happy New Year!

Thanks so much for being here!   I hope your 2015 begins with a lovely surprise and turns out to be as wonderful as you imagine.

We've got big plans for this year.   At the top of my list is a stairway that goes from the first floor to the new second floor - on the inside of the house.   Right now we're using a ladder - from the outside of the back of the house [and over the mudroom roof] and it's rather hard to move big things up that way.  

In the grand tradition of the blog, here is a New Year sonnet.   Because every new year should start with some bad poetry.     Don't you think?  [Others  sonnets are here.]

Sonnet #5
A quiet silken winter day of ice
And snow. So still. Devoid of any burst
Of movement, any fluttered wing. Twice
A liar is a frosty day. The first:
A blanket, wove of fallen snow. But one
most frigid, stilling life into a deep
Eternal sleep. The second: winter sun.
The harlot star does not her promise keep
To warm and nurture life. She offers nothing
But an icy, blinding glare. Or shrouds
Entire behind the mourning drap’ry swathing
Sky. Yet ice will melt. Below the clouds
Sleeps deep, not dead, with expectation rife,
Yes, there, beneath, inside, at last, still, - Life.

Late Summer Sonnet

It's late summer, the time when a gardener's heart turns to sonnets.

Yes, this is a poetry blog, too, and as you know, I am freakishly fond of sonnets. See the others here.

I can't help it. I love them.

It's ok if you don't like them though - I am no rural Shakespeare. That's for sure.



Rural Sonnet #4

Late summer bursts with color near my gates,
On roadside, hill and woods. The yellow blaze
Of daisies short and tall illuminates
The quiet edges of the woods when days
Grow hotter still and August sears. The grass
Blooms by the ironweed’s bright fuchsia knots
And bluing pools of mistflower as they mass
In lower spots beside orange touch-me-nots.
The golden rods of goldenrods sway high
Above lobelia’s lovely violet spires –
And asters’ paling pinks intensify
the almost hidden arum’s burning fires
‘Til jealous trees in autumn’s chilly nights
transform their own limbs into fiery brights.

Ode to a Country Road in Spring

A rural sonnet to celebrate an annual spring event.

We live for mud and potholes









Rural Sonnet #3

Our roads out here are covered in debris -
A winter's worth of cracks and holes and pits,
The asphalt honeycombed with fissures wee
and great. A mire in the center sits
In wait to swallow whole the car or truck
That dares to venture far into the wild
And messy reaches of the mud and muck
Unleashed by winter - by the monster child
Of spring, whose tantrums roar and wail in rain
And wind and hail, whose clutching, sucking, grasp
Refuses to let go who tries in vain
to travel here. Avoid the miring clasp
of country roads in spring. Far better yet
to wait a month or two until mud's set.


Yep.   For more rural poetry, see Sonnet #1 here  and Sonnet #2 here.   Enjoy.

More Rural Redneck Poetry

And now for your reading pleasure - another rural haiku.

Because we love rural redneck poetry.

Plus haiku is dead easy.    Here's your creative challenge for the day:  Leave me a haiku in the comments.   No doubt you'll far outshine me.

*clears throat and waits for the room to quiet...*

Snow drops from the sky
With freezing rain, sleet and ice.
Still, arise snowdrops.


The end.  

Happy New Year!

I hope you're not too hung over after last night's festivities.    We really partied here!   There was music and sushi and eggnog and fizzy water and we finally dropped into bed around 11pm.  Or maybe it was 11:30.   It was really really late.

Yeah.  We're real partiers.  It'll take us a couple of days to recover. 

I've been thinking a lot about sonnets lately.   Partly because of the Christmas sonnet I wrote you last year and partly because I'm teaching a homeschool co-op class on poetry.   I've mentioned before that I am no poet.  In fact, I didn't even get poetry at all until after I had my first baby.   Then, magically, one morning I looked into her beautiful face and she smiled at me.   And wha-BAM.   I understood poetry.

That is a true story.

It may have had something to do with hormones.

Anyway. I have discovered that I really like writing sonnets.   Who knew??   The trick for me is getting the first line.   Once I get the first line, I can wrestle with the rest and end up with something interesting, which is all I'm after.

So I wrote you a New Year's Day Sonnet in celebration of the junk so often seen surrounding our rural homes.   I hope you enjoy it.  The poem, not the junk.  Though you're welcome to enjoy the junk, too, if you like.






Rurification Sonnet #2     Rural Yards

Our yards are full of things we don’t need yet
but might, some time, need right here close at hand,
like last year’s papers (good for mulching). Let
nobody touch them there! Yes, I have planned
a dozen ways to use the mower that
expired in ’10 just past the giant yew,
and other ways to use the one the cat
likes sleeping on. You see?! We need the two!
The piles of wood, junked cars and trucks -- the goats
and chickens live quite happy in the mess
of wires and bales and windows from the boats
My cousins got the year the cider press
became ‘antique’ instead of just plain old.
All fine just where they’re at, till used or sold.

Christmas Poetry 2013

I thought I'd start off with a little bit of cheerleading for those of you reading this Pre-HolidayFestivities:    

Today is going to be a great day.  Whatever you have planned is going to go just swimmingly.   Remember to watch for those little moments that are just for you.

And if you're reading this Post-HolidayFestivities, then: 

Yay!!   You survived the holiday! You can sit down and enjoy the next little while in the quiet, just you, your cup of whatever and a candle.  We'll have a nice little visit.

I'm so glad I know you!  You deserve some poetry.  Last year I wrote you a sonnet for Christmas.

It. Was. Awesome.

Seriously.

As I mentioned then, I am no poet and I don't pretend to be one.  If I ever write a masterpiece it will be accidental.  The only goal I have is that I write an interesting poem.

As in:  That was......interesting. *cough*  

Luckily, that bar is pretty low.

This year I have written a poem a la William Carlos Williams' 'The Red Wheel Barrow', which is a fine, fine poem.

Feel free to leave your own rural redneck poems in the comments.

I hope you have a wonderful day today.  Thanks so much for being here!

Rurification Christmas Poem 2013

So much depends
upon

not running out
of tape

before all the gifts
are wrapped.

If all the tags
are switched

by little hands
who reach

to 'help you please',
then know

that half the fun
will be

in seeing grandma's
surprised face

when she opens her box of
deer scent

and the peals
of glee

as everyone
looks around

to see if what they got
was meant

just for them.
Or not.



The End.  In case you wondered.

Rural Redneck Poetry

If you're reading this, then you are either 1. gathering up your courage to face the ravening hoards,  or  2. you've survived the holiday and you are putting off cleaning up the mess or 3. you are hiding from the relatives.

I don't blame you.   In fact, I think you deserve a massage and a four course meal at the fanciest restaurant in town.    Unfortunately, I have no way of giving you either a massage or a four course dinner of any kind.    So instead I opted for poetry.

Because seriously, nothing says 'I survived the holiday without killing Crazy Aunt Sally or maiming my children' quite like a sonnet.  

Yep, a sonnet.

A rural redneck sonnet.

Disclosure:   If you're new to the blog, you need to know that I am no poet.   Seriously.   I am fully aware of this.

Which is totally liberating, because since I have neither the desire nor the ability to write decent poetry, I can write whatever kind of poetry I want instead.    And I do.   Here is some of my previous Rural Redneck Poetry.   It includes both a haiku and a limerick - I'm diverse that way.  The Dead of Winter.   It's not for the faint of heart, just warning you.  

Feel free to leave some of your own rural redneck poetry in the comments - whatever kind you want.   It'll kill some time while the kids are running around the house having a Nerf war and the in-laws are discussing both religion and politics.   If someone asks what you've been doing you can say that you were reading and composing poetry.    They'll be impressed.    Or fear you.   You're good either way.


Rurification Sonnet #1

I am no rural Shakespeare; that's for sure!
No poet's soul have I. I lack the skill
of lilting verse, vocabulary pure.
Poetic metaphors I often kill.
Like vermin in the house, I plan and trap
and execute my words until they scan.
They scuttle out, unpleasant as the tap
of little claws and teeth upon a pan
of last night's cake.  My talents lie elsewhere
in hives and holes and beds of sand and soil.
My seeds and shovels are the tools I care
For most, not words. Not words! Words want true toil.
They’re too much work.  Plus - words that flow like honey
are pleasing, yes, but will they earn me money?

The End.  In case you were wondering.