Thursday, May 28, 2015


Bearded iris were among the first flowers I loved as a child.  I waited for them each Spring.  Magic.

I still think dirt & sun & rain & birds & wind & chance are magical dining partners.

Imagine a bowl of ruffled iris.  Who to invite?

And the words which form conversations.
And the words which form poems.
Some ruffled.  Some plain.  Magic!

Magic is rooted & plated.  Magic abounds.

1 comment:

  1. cp 269

    Paintings/ biography: when a few lines tell a story of one's life, why does the painter repeat them? Is there a new way to look at them each time theyv are "written"/"painted"? This remains to be seen over the life of the series, and perhaps thereafter.

    One essay on H.D.(origin ??): her palimpsest writing over other writing imperfectly erased, defaced, fading changing revising itself.

    Can one achieve the sense of antiquity in the present? Or must it be time which determines how long an object lives?

    These questions nestled in my mind as I paint in my newly set-up studio, using gesso, pencil and canvas in recurring layers.

    The words? To be announced shortly.