Alfresco writing, following landscape painting, is the art of simply Going-out-to-see, bearing the possibility of raising a poem or paragraph within the day. Its essential pleasure and tireless charge derive from its roots in elemental curiosity and, in the end, the word affinity.
More than once our Sunday drives … would end up being a daylong low-speed drive of two hundred miles, so seductive was the landscape, so instructive, given the simplest of Givens: the earth, as literal past; the sky/space a sort of implied future; and the Going-out-to-see a present, all informed by the principle that each Day-in-Place is one of a kind, negotiable One Day and One Day Only.— Merrill Gilfillan, from “Alfresco: The Art of Landscape Writing,” in Poetry (December 2013)
Hey this is sort of what I attempted today. I sent it to Richard and he sent me a vid of him reading it so I could hear it in someone else’s voice (gosh, he has a lovely, rich reading voice) an that really helped. Thank you, love.
where you wish you could reblog your relative’s fashion pins on pinterest just so you could say NO.
can’t remember the thing I thought of on my walk. I’m happy with the poem as is, but there’s this itch in my brain telling me that something’s missing. I’m planning to read it at open reading tonight. It’s a long one - four pages - and includes the taste of air above an outdoor ice rink, drinking from tributaries, Ahab’s whale rock, kissing, hawks marking an X in the sky, the poem that keeps getting written, two books ruined with tears, soaring, sandstone, blood and bone, a paper wasp nest, a cave, silver roots, and winter.
Given that list, you probably wonder what the hell else I thought it might possibly require.
Still. It’s going to gnaw at me.
that sleeps in me;
all day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. — Sylvia Plath (via thatkindofwoman)
where you’re walking the dog and you notice something that fits the poem you’re working on, but you don’t have your index card and pen tucked into your back pocket, and your hands are too cold to use your phone, so you say it over and over again so as not to forget, and then you notice another thing that ties that first thing in with another stanza and your heart skips a beat because it doesn’t get much better than that, but then you get home and you can only remember the first thing and you kick yourself so hard for not letting your stupid hand get a little cold for a minute while you send yourself a goddamn voice memo.
Emancipation (a poem from my first chapbook, c. 2003)
Nelson Mandela was determined to walk slowly.
He refused to surrender his
sense of space and time.
He created his own rhythm and
they had to wait
Your freedom can never really be taken away.
<3 Suzi Q