collage
5 x 6 3/8 inches
Count two in tracing
the raptured line
Of childhood’s faith
this is the shrine
Category: Collage
B
collage
5 x 6 3/8 inches
Bright and reckless
sound the sorrowing bells
Till the threads of being
shot swift from soul to soul
A
collage
5 x 6 3/8 inches
A song, a prayer,
A fleeting vow,
Fond memories gather
As I bow.
This is the first in another alphabet book of reworked poems by my very favorite Very Bad Poet, Wallace Bruce.
Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost
There’s been a spate of goddess worshipping in one of my feminist groups. I tend to be turned off by that, but whatever. If some women need to feel like their ladybits are holy and magical, that’s their problem, right? But then, when I said that I wasn’t too interested in the contemporary, new agey spiritual appropriation of medieval “goddess” sculptures, I was scolded and told that my negative reaction was due to the fact that I’m uncomfortable with my vagina.
The entire exchange reminded me of the ancient and still thriving theory that women’s irrationality is caused by their ladybits. Specifically their wandering uteruses. Which then made me think of that famous quote from The Lord of the Rings. My point being, that if my uterus and I are wandering, it’s likely for good reason. We ladypeople are righteously angry about something. It’s not PMS. It’s not fear and loathing of our bodies. It’s a reasonable and rational response to the world we live in.
I mean, how could we not be pissed off?
Still Raining
Building an ark…
Y-Z
As promised, a day late, but finally and truly finished at last. The full set can be found here. All the text was taken from Wallace Bruce’s Wanderers, a book of very, very, very bad Victorian poetry.
You smile at the story,
you call it absurd —
That far-away evening in June
disturbed
Carved deep in the stone
like a rune
I have heard,
True to the letter, and every word.
Zodiacal light lingering bright,
Up which the white-winged angels fly
Mercy and hope in the starlit sky.
W-X
What of the voyage
and what of the night?
Serenely sleeping
in soft moonlight
and their hearts grew calm
as the waters bright
X and Y
What shall they do
When stranger than legend
and fiction is truth?
S-T-U-V
Strange phantoms taught
of that remorseless date
A tale that a mother
might sing to her babe
To anchor at last
in the Harbor of Dreams
A land of love
where memory sleeps.
Ulysses-like
from the misty deep,
While over the wake
the shadows sleep
Vision or dream, prophetic still
Of all the land wherein we dwell
Older hears are waiting
still
P-Q-R
Pin-cushioned dolls
white with snow
Where are the wanderers
years ago?
Questions never fully answered
Cold comfort
for the weary head
Returning across the horizon blue
Is this the ship our fathers knew?
Paper Boat Under Full Moon
Paper Boat Under Full Moon
3 3/4 x 5 1/2 inches
collage, acrylic wash, gesso, and beads on 140lb Cartiera Magnani hot press watercolor paper
My supervisor is retiring at the end of the week. Her bon voyage party is tomorrow, and we’re presenting her with a scrapbook. This is going to be my contribution. It’s an older piece, but I think she’ll like it.
red paper boat 