Word Picture June 4, 2021

 

Word Picture June 4 2021

 

The air is still and moist.

Etched into a lush green carpet of lawn,

The pond is a dark sombre mirror 

Polka dotted with lily leaves.

It is the magnolia that is magnificent

With its deep magenta buds,

That fade into enormous pale pink blossoms

 as they open for business.

 

Viridian green, olive green, sap green

Satiate the meadow.

To the west, the hawthorn,

Redeems itself in its one week of glory.

Even the cedar and  apple trees

Are now in their summer foliage.

A glowing yellow patch of wild mustard

 stands in for the forsythia and maples 

that have also rejoined  the status quo.

 

Framed by dark green silhouettes of spruce

The distant salt marsh is 

Delineated only by the island grave of beloved pets

And the soft hummock of Acadian Dyke.

Beyond, a light ashen veil obliterates

The bay,  the far shore and the sky.

 

This sets direction  for our day.

We push aside the future of

Old age, pandemics, global warming,

And  savour the tones and textures of today.

 

 

 

 

 

May 30, 2021

 Today’s musings on creativity and what creative people do to make art out of ideas.

I have always said that the most important characteristic that any artist must possess is tenacity or pigheadedness (no offence Wilbur).  We can’t decide to paint a wonderful painting or to write a wonderful book, we just have to start and invest our time with work  to try to drag an idea forward.  Creativity  is never easy.  I am convinced that the challenge is part of the process.   Just because there may be no money, or accolades from others doesn’t mean that the work isn’t worthwhile.  In fact, often it is the need for money or at least an end product that destroys the nebulous germ of a creative idea.  The freedom to mull over something and then to “play” with the ideas is where all art begins.

I have spent the past week sitting out by our small pond.  While Fen dug and ate the violets, I have tried to capture the beauty and abundance of the violets in watercolour.  The day I began this pond painting, I started  with the hosta  because it wasn’t quite fully out and I liked the tight shapes.   For many years, I thought that especially with watercolour, the entire plan of a painting should be decided ahead.  Now after experiencing the spontaneity and the ability to go backwards while working with oils and acrylics, I am using this approach in my watercolours as well.  By being willing to use my tiny scrubber brush and occasionally some white opaque paint, the creative decisions can be decided as the painting develops.

This morning, on our ramble with Fen, I was gobsmacked by the transient beauty of apple blossoms.  At the top of our path are three wild apple trees.  One was full of intense magenta pinks, another had buds that were subdued pale pink and the third was all white flowers with no hint of any colour.  When we returned from our walk, I was still thinking about apple blossoms. I gave myself permission to scrap what I had planned to work on today. Since apple blossoms seem to be calling out to me, I decided to listen and to try to capture their elusive beauty.

(This morning while painting these apple blossoms, I listened to Mary Haynes interview Amy Shearn on CBC Tapestry.  I agree with everything this author said.  If you are interested in the above thoughts on creativity, you might also want to listen to this podcast which is the first thirty minutes of Tapestry from May 21.)

June 1, 2021

  

Every Morning for the past couple of months I have been starting the day by reading one poem a day from the new collection “While Crossing the Field” by Deborah Banks (published Pottersfield Press 2020). I have decided that this is the way I love to savour poetry, one each day with time between  to savour the images and ideas.  It’s been a long while since I have been really been inspired by poetry.  This collection is marvellous with just the  perfect amount of description and always leaving me with a thought-provoking resolution.

 

As a young child, I delighted to my Grandfather reciting Robert’s Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee”.  One of the highlights of my trip to the Yukon with Jim was going to Lake Lebarge.

 

 In high school, I was besotted with Dylan Thomas, reciting “Under Milk Wood” (“never should have married- if she didn’t have to”) and  I loved Thomas’s “Altar-wise by Owl-light”. Every Christas when my children were little, I read them “A Child’s  Christmas in Wales”.

 

In University, I delighted in the quirky writing of  Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot”.  

 

Now for many years, I have let poetry disappear from my life.  I myself write word pictures, my attempt to capture beauty with words instead of paint.  I occasionally write rhyming verse to celebrate an occasion.  But I haven’t given other poet’s my full appreciation as I raced from one passage to another, not lingering to absorb the resonance.  With Deborah Banks collection, I am again excited about poetry.  It is like a huge gift to anticipate discovering the entire genre of poetry in small daily bits.  Of course, I will never get through very much poetry with only one or two selections a day, but I also know that I won’t run out of this pleasure in my lifetime.  So all of my other friends who are poets (Rosalee Peppard,  Sheree Fitch, Harry Thurston, Lesley Choyce, Rita Wilson) are next on my list!!!  And although I am a trying hard to help my friend Laurie, make the the Elizabeth Bishop House sustainable, I haven’t given Bishop’s  poetry close attention.  She’s on my list too.

 

 

Loons in April By Deborah Banks (shared with permission)

 

At last the loons have returned to the land.

Quietly coupled, they drift on a soft wake.

I have missed their hollowed winnowing

and the weighted aftereffects of it,

how my life in those moments is enlarged

and diminished simultaneously.

The riddling universe is asking us

to consider this sharp duality.

Both moments are the other and neither.

the loss in the loon’s call and what is found

in the residue of the silence after,

the deep wrinkles growing in my skin

and the fact that it does not matter-

only the lake echoes now and always.