Twitter Smile

I was on the phone. Sara overheard my conversation with someone, about how Twitter works. A few minutes later, she handed this to me. Happy Friday, especially to my Tweet Friends.


"Twitter Follow" by Sara B, age 12. Used with permission.

INSIDEOUT NEWS:
Catch me and musician Brooke Campbell, at IAM's space in New York, on January 29, 2010. I'm reading. She'll do the singing. :)

Thanks, Unsolicited

The pile was getting too high. Messy.

It was time to sort.

So I sat in silence and began. This-goes-here, that-goes-there.

In the middle of the pile, I found it. Simple brushstrokes. Raw line and color. Her painting asked nothing of me. I simply held it in my hands and looked. And looked.

This is my Thanksgiving, I thought. And in that moment, I did not feel the need to explain why. So I shall not, now, try.


Fall Abstract, by Sara, 12. Used with permission.

____

Come share your Thanksgiving reflection or tradition at HighCallingBlogs. Just drop your link in our comment box...

Turning Up Emeralds

The world is filled with poetic jewels. Sometimes it takes a while to find them. That's what happened with me and George Seferis, a Greek poet. I stumbled upon him, and feel enchanted by his every word.

Here are a few of his lines...

A little farther
we will see the almond trees blossoming
the marble gleaming in the sun
the sea breaking into waves...


And here is the poem his lines inspired in me...

Almonds...
I remember the scent
and how you crushed them,
their brown skins
turning to dust
scattering like spilled cinnamon.

Poetry Prompt: Next Friday at HighCallingBlogs, we're going to branch out and do another aspect of "Culture" besides poetry. RAP will resume the following week. In the meantime, you might try writing a brief poem based on the lines of someone else's poem.

POETRY FRIDAY:
High Calling Blogs Habitual Poetry
nAncY’s Holy
Glynn’s Who Were You in My Dream and Early Fall Leaves
Lorrie’s Fear
Monica’s Dream Girl
Kelly’s After Egypt
Jim's Thirty-Five

Jewels photo by Sara B. Used with permission.

What the Blue Couch Meant

"Does the poem lead?" she asked me, in the comment box.

I traveled on over to her place and said, "Yes, the poem leads." I told her I needed to trust this truth, even as I was facing my self-assigned task of writing a poem about the living room. I didn't have anything to say about the living room. I didn't. At all.

But, as it turned out, the poem did...


"Visit"

The first time
I entered
this living room,
it was
a dying room.

Evan, propped
on the narrow blue
couch, the life
nearly sucked out
of him, turned

to me and smiled,
lifted a trembling
hand to touch
my warmth, my
life. I did not

know I would
buy this house
a mere year later,
nor that I would
sit under the pine

he planted out back,
rescued from up
the street when
the bulldozing
began. I did not

know what it meant
that moment, my hand
touching his, in
this living dying
room, with its

brick hearth, old
ashes, glass doors
closed against the day.

Maybe you have nothing to say about your living room either. But might you trust the poem to lead? If you do, post by August 6th and let me know about it here in the comment box. Links for all at High Calling Blogs.

Barbie Looks Out at Pine, photo by Sara. Used with permission.

STONE CROSSINGS:
Excerpt of Glynn's words about Stone Crossings: It's like you've been lost in a forest looking for water, holding on to the compass you've owned for years but thinking it's not doing you much good, and then suddenly you stumble into a small clearing with a spring-fed pool. Stone Crossings is that pool. The story she tells is searing, honest and vulnerable. At several points, it brought me to tears... continue reading

POETRY FRIDAY:
High Calling Blogs RAP: Message in a Bottle
Erin’s Stir Constantly Until Well Blended
A Simple Country Girl’s Gather Round
Deb’s Tables are for Eating Too
Prairie Chick’s Kitchen Window
Cindy’s Favorites
ELK’s seven thirty
Suzy’s Infused Memory
Jim’s I’m Really Glad
nAncY’s The Counter
Mom2Six's Heritage and Riding
Claire's Souls Reflection
Sara and Sonia's Going for Ice Cream
Monica's Missing
Liz's Home's Heart
Laura's Kitchen Prayer Alter
Joelle's God on Vacation
Lance's Communion

The Gift: Rebel in the Museum

If you don't like to get in trouble, put it on your mental list never to visit an art museum with me. I have this crazy philosophy that art is for our enjoyment and participation. I don't just "ooh" and "aaah" over art; I photograph it (no flash, okay?), get too close for the guard's liking (just looking, not touching), and sometimes talk and laugh loud enough to get a hearty "shhhhhhhh..." in my direction.

Ai.

It's my humble opinion that many art museums have somehow gotten off track by acting too protective. Maybe they've had some bad incidents. Still, Lewis Hyde's words about scientists who horde their ideas seem like a good parallel. He notes, "The ends of science require coordination." And when scientists forget this, they end up isolating themselves. The result? "Seen from the outside, trade secrets... inhibit the advancement and integration of knowledge. Each trade may be its own community, but there will be no 'community of science'; there may be pockets of expertise, but there will be no mechanism whereby a group mind might emerge, nor a body of theory be drawn together." (p.105, The Gift)

This past week, I was fortunate enough to have my twelve-year-old artist daughter respond to an exhibit she'd seen, by creating the dress sculpture at the top of this post (Yup, photos of exhibit to come. Shhhh, don't tell the guards). Anyway, my daughter was generous enough to let me touch and photograph her work in different settings. What began with her vision and touch continued in mine. I hope she'll keep this rebel generosity long into the future; I'll be sure to show up, laughing and talking, marveling and responding.




Dress Sculpture, by Sara. Used with permission. Chiffon & Feathers Cape in the museum. Used. :) Photos by L.L. Barkat.

OTHER BOOK CLUB POSTS:
High Calling Blogs The Gift: All Our Kin
Laura's Gift of Community

Poetry of Comedy

I've been kinda serious lately, so I thought to post this comic my 11-year-old did this morning. Laughter is, to me, a kind of poetry. Which raises the question, what is poetry?

Hmmm... I like that. Let's make it our next writing prompt. You can use the question as your title or just put the word 'poetry' somewhere in your poem. As always, please try to give us real things to see, touch, smell, hear, taste. Take us there. Blog by Thursday evening, April 2nd, for possible feature and definite links at High Calling Blogs and give me your link here in the comment box. [footnote, since someone asked: no, your poem needn't attempt humor :) ]

Comic by Sara. Used with permission.

YOU TRIED IT (poetry prompt):
Laure's The 5 O'Clock Morning Hour (I don't think Laure meant this for the prompt, but I see the connection)
MyBigThree's Poetry Lens
Heavens Declare's Galaxies Dance...
Brian's The 3 Mysteries of Place, Part 2
nAncY's poein
Laura's Life as Poetry
Ann's Being Poetry
Sarah's In tenderness...

BOOK GIVEAWAY:
Stone Crossings at CPYU Bookself

POETRY FRIDAY:
LL's littlest daughter's Spring
Yvette's Beggar Woman
High Calling Blogs' RAP: Slow Down, Look Around
nAncY's Indiana
Mike's Mike's Odes
Marcus's Watching the Shadow Rise
B. K. MacKenzie's Wisdom at the Wailing Wall
Laure's It Happens
Cindy's coffee
Stuff in the Basement's Who Knows if This is Legal But Really It's Like a New Poem Form (inserting ourselves into someone else's words) (okay, that's not his title, it's mine)
Scot McKnight's Pastors as Poets
Brian's 3 Mysteries of Place, Part 1

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• Ben Okri releases new poem on Twitter (guardian.co.uk)

Conversations in Art 2,TWO, II

[I went on a trip last week... here's part of the lowdown, from then and beyond]

Call it serendipity.

I'm driving to Washington D.C. There's popcorn on the floor of the rental van. Crumbs on my black pants. Cups with our names on them. And Chasing Vermeer playing through the back speakers; I can't hear it very well.

We pull in to a rest stop and the hum of traffic dissipates. Now I can hear Chasing Vermeer. The characters are having a philosophical discussion about Art. What makes some things worthy of being in a museum? What makes other things trash we'll throw away? I am reminded of Long Island Express Girl's challenging comments on the last post.

Anyway. One character says that art is a puzzle. It makes him think in new ways. Though I don't know it yet, I will agree with him over the next few days as I view many pieces at the National Gallery of Art, including The Way Things Go (an art-in-motion piece I'll write about in an upcoming talk) . I will also agree with the character when I get home and my eldest daughter secretly begins reading a book I used for last month's book club.

The book? Missing Mountains, about the issue of Mountain Top Removal. Eldest is moved by it. Essays, photos, poetry, short stories, songs. Art that makes her think in new ways. One thing leads to another, and I tell my girls about a beautiful woman who lives in Appalachia, who is using her musical art to try to help people think differently. Maybe even help them to have compassion. To love. To long for what they didn't know.

We sit for a long time. Littlest on my lap. Eldest leaning into my shoulder. We listen to this haunting music. I am overcome. Tears rise. I can feel my heart beating, swelling even. Littlest Child decides she loves Appalachian folk music. And the Appalachian dulcimer. She wants to find someone who can teach her to play. A twelve string one, she decides. Because she is convinced that the beauty she hears from Blue Mountain Mama is from a 12-string dulcimer.

What makes art Art? A little child shall tell me. Has told.


Water on Paper Sculpture, by Sara. Used with permission.


MORE ON ART:

Gabriel Scheller's Art and Inspiration at Christine Scheller's blog

Gabe Scheller's profound thoughts on the sacredness of art.

STONE CROSSINGS:

Ted's poetic discussion of Chapter 3: Tossed Treasure.

Conversations in Art

This morning, I taught art. To children. It went something like this...

I sit on the floor. Kids around me, pressing in. I ask, what is art? The answers begin where I expect... pictures, sculptures, drawings. Is that it, I ask. My own kids have seen the books which are still hidden in my bag— Goldsworthy, who planted seedlings in stone (the namesake of this blog) at the Jewish Museum in New York City. So my Littlest says art can be things you find. Sticks, leaves, molded, used.

Art is beauty, says another child. It's pretty, someone adds. No, says another, not always. Sometimes art is sad. Or scary! You can get stuck in art in your dreams. Art makes you feel things, says a boy who thinks he is bad at art. Yes, I say, it does.

What can you use to make art, I ask. Paints, pastels, they say. How about water, I ask. Can you use water? One boy says, water color! And ice sculpture, adds another boy triumphantly. Yes, I say. Snow men. Yes, I say again. Waterfalls. Hmmm... that's God's art, I say. Let me show you a man who uses water to create art, I say, as I pull out the books on Goldsworthy.

Oh! Look! That's... How?! Look! They all talk at once, relating to this art that uses things any child can find. Reeds, rushes, thorns, icicles, dirt, stones, sticks. The boy who thinks he is bad at art says, I can build things that other people can't when I'm outside. A smile spreads slowly across his face. His eyes are intense in this moment. Yes, I say, you can.

Then we begin. And every child finds he is an artist.


Photo by L.L. Barkat: Michaela's "Dandelion Seeds in Silver Bowl."

MORE ART:

Additional pieces are at Green Inventions Central.

STONE CROSSINGS:

This week's book club discussion at Ted's place Christmas Coal: shame

GREAT ART QUOTES:

Scroll to the bottom of Sam's Breathtaking Poem for some great art quotes.