Sketching with Words
Morning, my studio
Recently, I was talking with a dear friend about sketching and drawing. It’s been years since I’ve been an avid sketcher, and I tend not to draw much these days-- I really prefer the fluidity of paint vs. the dryness of pencil or charcoal. However, I do think a lot about a painting before I start. I try to visualize standing in front of it... what might the subject be? How big? Is it full of imagery or a field of pattern? Often the way I start a painting is just to think about color, for example the one sitting on my desk in picture above is (so far) predominantly green. This green was inspired by two sources: the gorgeous and in some ways irreplicable greens I see in nature; and a dream I had back in 1994 of an exquisite, green patterned painting. In the dream, I was admiring a large oil painting that I had done in my San Francisco studio, rich with variation of greens, turquoises and subtle browns. I’d say at least once every year or two, I attempt to paint that painting, or to capture the green patterns I envisioned… and yet it’s never quite the same. This week, I’m back at it!
So my sketching happens in my mind, but not often on paper. And as I was thinking about this, I realized that the poems I write daily are sketches, except I’m sketching with words. I’ve been a bit hesitant to share these with the world, but encouraged by my friend (who hasn’t read them, by the way!) I decided I should just put myself out there. So why do I say they’re sketches? Well, for one, I have a rule: I don’t edit them later. These are pure and direct thoughts from my mind and heart, that I conjure up and then let go, and I don’t go back into them. This makes them kind of raw, and not polished, but I like them this way. I don’t profess to know anything about writing poetry, other than that I love doing it. These verbal sketches are, at the very least, completely honest.
I also only write these poems in the very early morning, before I’ve looked at my email, the news, or social media… before reading texts, or listening to anything. It’s a time of day when I feel the most open, receptive, and perhaps still suspended in that liminal space between dreaming and waking.
Like a drawing, they have images, and rhythm, and the mark-making takes the form of different voices, language and metaphor.
I have hundreds by now, and I hardly ever reread them, but the other night I did read a lot of them and noticed they fall into categories. Many are about (in no particular order): my dog Reuben; or sleep (or lack of); the natural world; my dreams; my own version of spirituality; chronic illness, creativity, and my family.
I’m going to share some of them over a few posts, but below you’ll find six. Every artist loves feedback, so if you have any response, or want to read more, (or less!) of these, I’d like to hear from you.
Bedtime
The breath rolls through his body like a wave
rippling through his chest, then his belly
softly, rhythmically, it mesmerizes me
as I watch for signs of the impending end.
It occurs to me that death lives with us now, or with me.
Always one ear listening, observing, assessing
the corner of my eye self-assigns to night watch, day watch.
But he doesn’t seem bothered, he is present and alive,
this beautiful life is his other companion: the smells
of deer, and other dogs, rotting food, and dewy grass,
the sounds of birds, and approaching cars,
the click of Tupperware containing his food,
the padding of my footsteps up the stairs,
the slight groan of the bedframe when I crawl into bed
Signaling the beginning of rest, an entry to dreams.
This is our playground, where we frolic together,
where the laws of nature don’t exist
and we can eat whatever we desire,
where afflictions evaporate, and life is endless,
where time is plentiful, bountiful and open
and light is always morning, long and golden;
where our thoughts whisper to each other
and my companion will forever be by my side.
What it’s Like to be an Artist
Maybe each one of us thinks
we are a magician, a sorceress,
a superhero in the world of the unconscious,
only because we create something from
nothing. From a vapor of ideas
or a hunch, from a fleeting impression,
a glimpse of something, a sense of
personal truth. For example:
One night I see stars that are large as
clementines, glowing so brightly,
radiating, luminous and other-worldly.
I blink my tears of gratitude away
so I can witness them another minute.
Or the sum of a thousand waves of love
I feel when pondering the impending loss
of a furry creature, who lives alongside me,
the depth of sadness too great to comprehend.
Or the enormous cerulean blue sky
to which I frequently request,
especially at the first sign of sunrise:
for a sign, a hint, even a suggestion of
the evasive yet palpable meaning of life.
Or the feeling that I am the earth’s canary
a sensitive bird, the world’s warning to
a toxic environment we humans create.
We are magical thinkers, groping, and hoping,
we seek the essence of whatever It is.
We spend hours alone, cultivating
a voice that may never be heard,
believing and doubting, delving into ourselves,
pulling something out, a white hare
from the black hat containing our viscera
and presenting it proudly
to the world, never knowing if
it will be received
in the way we perceived,
but still stubbornly baring the torch
to our personal visions, like millions
of shimmering stars in the infinite sky.
Inside/Outside
There is an enchanting moment
when I open the door to the outside
each morning.
The cool, damp breeze hits my face,
running its fingers through my hair,
lifting it off my neck, intimately
kissing my forehead, like a mother.
It’s the daily meeting of inside and outside.
My body leaves the cocoon of the house
And the wilderness meets me, greets me,
Everyday
A new story to whisper about.
Maybe it’s the bear who visited last night,
Leaving its scat by the compost.
Or the porcupine who treaded
through the yard, a trail
that only Reuben can discern.
My senses absorb the morning’s news
viscerally.
The scent of last night’s rain,
the chill of this morning’s frost,
the moonlight shifting to sunlight,
gradually articulating the landscape.
This moment of entering the world
lifts me, lightens me, wiping sleep away
and filling me with courage again,
with wonder,
and anticipation,
an awareness that my story is just a small part
of the greater legend of this
beautiful earth.
Reuben Haikus
I.
Sniffuggling his fur
He sprawls, relaxed, half asleep
Our hearts beat in sync.
II.
Why I love him is
Unnecessary to say
Our souls are aligned.
III.
Clicking of toenails
On the cool, tile of morning
Awakens my heart.
IV.
Hello furry face
Arousing me from slumber
I’m lucky you’re here.
V.
I bury my nose
In your downy, silken fur
Comfort swells in me.
No answers
How is it possible that the identity, the ego
the magic of creativity, the soul-lifting
feeling of inspiration, the experience of the divine…
is housed in a small organ, folded up,
gelatinous and colorless, weighing
less than the average barnyard chicken?
There are brief moments when the impossibility
of life, of existence, renders me sick.
It reminds me of the feeling of hurtling
through space at 550 miles per hour
in a silver bullet, surrounded by strangers,
miles above the good green earth, thinking
the thought that at any moment we could fall
right out of the sky, and spiral into the
depths of the cold, deep ocean.
Integers
Eight by Eight lie prostrate, waiting
Seven and sultry Six are dating
Twenty-one’s a sad one too
Tuts my brain each Fifty-two.
Nimble, supple, simple One
Negative, Zero have no fun
Thirteen crossed the road ahead
So Four is hoping Five is dead.
Nine remains the best of June
Summer, twins, strawberry moon
Twelve is festive, winter fun
Surrenders back to icy One.
One Hundred is the goal of many
Ten on Ten make baby Twenty
Three and Sixty-five renew
Integers have drama too.