Brushing the Dust Off

I live in Portland and I’m surrounded by artists. Painters, poets, musicians, shamans, dancers, blacksmiths, bakers, clothing designers, woodworkers. Friends who shape and reshape their world of contemplation, history and future, hurt and joy, and make an invitation of their love in motion.

Some friends created an art gallery in their garage, called 1122 Gallery, and it’s wonderful. They host artists and great opening parties, and there are readings of poems and other pieces, and wine, and cheese, and kids playing in the grass.

Recently the AWP was in Portland, and the friends at 1122 hosted a bonanza of readings in relation to it. Folks from all over the country came to the mic and offered their voices, while the walls held the great art of Stacy Elaine Dacheux.

All of this is to say that I’m so grateful to be surrounded by people who are doing such exciting work, and the sheer radiance of it pierces the haze around my own practice and inspires me to to dive back in.

So, here I am again, sending a few words at a time into the ether. Perhaps some of this will organized around my work. And some of this will be in service of honoring others’ work. I haven’t posted here in years, but I’m going to offer two posts back to back, if the rusty gears of my wordpress can handle it.

The first one, this one, will end by letting you know that my friend Melissa Reeser Poulin is a fantastic poet who recently published a fantastic book of poetry called Rupture, Light.

My second post, coming in a few minutes, will be my review and reading of that book.

These words don’t exist in darkness – thank you for offering them light. 


The Challenge of Language Accepted

When I was a rock I didn’t realize I could sing. When I became water I sang the multitudes. It does not matter if it was a dream. One day you will realize the dream is more real. Before the real everything was nothingness until the Someone began to hum. Chords of light played out of the void and suddenly there was a universe singing itself into being. I was quiet as rock until it began to rain, and rain and water, rambunctious in its early season like spring, became waves. When the waves broke I began to shout and sing. I shouted plains into mountains, I sang a season for color and because I sang I was, and because I sang creatures moved in water on land, part of me and their own being. I could not separate fin from wing, it was one creation. I kept singing and the world grew light. I paused in a breath of silence and watched ripples go out, bounce against sky and return in language. In language I had a body, I could speak of the world we had made. I felt desire shape my sensual mouth, I couldn’t help but create forms from my tongue, all the pleasure and suffering. I loved the multitudes and their songs. loved how they praised the broken heart of this new and aching world. The multitudes sang the prayers that were born of words and free of them. They made songs to feed on sun and moon, they made love songs and they made a song of shelter. They sung to the stars to remember their way back to dream.