2012-05-30 11.05.04-4


MUSING ON MUSES

Whether we are artists or not, we all have muses, energies which inspire us to create.  It seems I have an emerging collection of writing calling itself “The Museum.” The following poem was first to arrive. (If you wish, you may listen to me read it here ) I wrote it in response to the unsigned artwork below, given to me and my husband by a dear, now departed friend, Kent Rizley. I know he purchased it in the Southwest; I am trying to find the artist’s name, and will post it when I have it. Incidentally, I changed the ending of the poem last night thanks to a visitor in my writing cabin. If you wish, listen to me read the poem here:La Mujer Grande

La Mujer Grande photo & all text c Irene O'Garden 2012

 

LA MUJER GRANDE

Wallhanging, New Mexico

 

She is not for the living room.

Her power frightens. Ugly,

but cushiony; a chakra-colored ugly,

gathered from cherished sheep,

dyed in the old earth ways, in the wool.

 

She is not to be viewed, but to be stroked,

comfort for the daunting work She exacts.

Scarred, open, dreaming, hands clasped,

messy belly bursting with Creation,

pain and pleasure plant her stance.

 

She is not satisfied with witness.

She demands participation, insists

imagination into three dimensions,

three dimensions into indivisible awareness.

She rides my drum. Before the storm

tonight she called into my crucible

a writhing coil of living Kundalini.

 

Springsense

 

Springsense photo, recording and all text c Irene O'Garden 2012

New this week: If you would care to hear me reading this week’s post, click here: Glossolalia Recording. Please note I am still in the Stone Age with this technology–for now only a black screen will entertain you as you listen.

Glossolalia

Zest of grass. Saturate, tearspringing fragrance. We must stop believing we can’t believe it’s spring and inhale. Pause.  Strum and plunk, shaken rope of birdsong. Verdant elbows of unconing leaves, arrowed shafts of dawning lawn, prickled palms of blackberry.

Birds. Do we tweet like them? Territory. Pride. I am here. Listen.

What withdraws?

Perhaps tonight is not the night to express.  Is tomorrow fresher in the crisper? We want to save our best for when the best are listening, but what bird reserves its best? Do not love your work more than its flow, they sing.

Spittlebugs foaming the fieldgrasses, nodding with dotted lady beetle, gleamwings petal from summer’s ascending green rafters. Swelling thumbs of plums, wrens wrestle in the crabtree, important conversations. Bluebird claims the narrow apple.

But haven’t all songs been sung? All but those in different alphabets, undiscovered scales, new translations.

Delicately varying temperatures layer scents; fresh and fecund shift.  Words alone inert in this gnattery. Crumpled, dry, husking the green urge to sing, to speak, to even pray: Whomever the sirens this morning carried, bless you. May your body be sound and your home be whole.

The urge itself, a glossolalia of nature I can almost understand. These beauties seem like sentences and yet elude articulation. But express. Express. For how shall the voice of the bird be given and the cone of leaf be unwrapped and you be left voiceless? Wordless, perhaps, but not voiceless.

Grass fountain, lavender asparagus. More beauty tomorrow. The more beauty we see, the more beauty we see.

Tulips

Terra Celestials photo and all text c Irene O'Garden 2012

I took this photo last year outside my husband’s office window.

Many thanks to all my readers for their warm response to last week’s post and Lauren’s plea for art. You have made a real difference in her life, as she has made a difference in ours. And now, a post as small as its subject:

TADPOLES

“Every moment is important. Be aware every moment. Waste no time.”

An attitude I respect, but doesn’t Nature waste? Look at all those tadpoles!

Actually, Nature wastes only if we look with a narrow sense of destination.  All those little tadpoles don’t grow to be frogs. This may seem a waste of life, or at least froggishness, and therefore unimportant. But as a blackbird’s lunch, a raccoon’s dinner? Important from the standpoint of the hungry parties.

Tadpoles don’t become some inert useless thing. Waste may just be an exclusively human concept and, like all human concepts, limited. Nature’s waste is creative. And Nature’s creativity is never wasted.

Creativity is Nature’s nature, hence ours. No reason not to create because we fear it will be wasted. That’s asking every tadpole to turn frog. You never know who or what depends on your creations. Let your little tadpoles swim.

 

Purple World and text c 2012 Irene O'garden

Purple World and text c 2012 Irene O'Garden

INSPIRATION

I had finished writing my weekly post when I received news of a resourceful California girl. So I offer the following instead. It’s a story you’ll enjoy.

When ten-year-old Lauren learned that, due to a budget shortfall, the Education Fund Committee of her elementary school had decided to eliminate the entire art program, she was extremely upset. Though she moves to middle school next year, the idea of the elementary students missing art disturbed her. Rather than stew, however, she created a campaign she called One Wall, One Week.

With her teacher’s permission, Lauren visited twenty-five other classrooms at her school. She encouraged her fellow students to ask their parents to remove the art from one wall of their home for one week, and to notice how they felt without it. She asked the teachers to do this in their classrooms as well.  She then collected 387 student signatures on a petition to save the art program.

Last Tuesday night Lauren met with the Education Fund Committee where she presented both the petition and numerous examples of student art. (You can see her presentation in this 3 minute video. ) I am happy to report that thanks to her efforts, the Committee decided to restore the art program in full.

I admire Lauren. First, she spoke up, which takes courage. She took a creative, not a belligerent, approach, which takes imagination. Then she followed through, which takes commitment. (You try giving the same speech twenty-five times.)

Credit is certainly due her school, which allowed her to campaign, and the committee which saw the value in listening to such a concerned child. But one so young doing such heavy lifting offers us all hope for the future and inspiration in the present. May we all take the time to preserve what inspires us.

(Full disclosure: Lauren is my grandniece. Should you wish to leave her a comment, I will see it gets to her.)

May Field photo and text c Irene O'Garden 2012

May Field photo and text c Irene O'Garden 2012

I took this photo last night here in the Hudson Valley. Very pleased to say that a poem of mine, “Nonfiction,” has just received a Willow Review Award. Am using my prize money for a handsome new fountain pen, thus completing the poetic cycle.

IMPORTANCES 

Although I yearn to serve what is important, I am exhausted by Importances. Living that keyed-up, wired, efforty onrush of priorities— Alert! Important! Respond! Flash! Gone. Alert! Important! Respond! Flash! Gone. Alert! Important! Respond! Flash! Gone.  It’s not so much that we can’t hear ourselves think, but that we can’t hear ourselves ask questions.

The synaptic dazzle obscures the humility of questions. To pause seems unresponsive, anti-athletic—when you are tossed the ball, you are not to stand and question. You are to zen-monk it to the next player, to the goal, no thinking, just respond. We know the meaning of Game On!

Assuming questions are important, when exactly is Game Off? The 24/7 circadian jumble, the clamor for attention– I recognize this world. It’s like my urgent childhood as one of seven children, when it was psychic life or death to be noticed, to be valued, to be important. But how important is important now?

What is important? For me, flow. The flow of ink across a page, for one. The ebb of ink, important also.  Have to stay with the ebb to go with the flow. Come to think of it, ebb is still flow, just backwards.

If flow is important, questions are important. They flow more abundantly and frequently than answers. If answers were The Answer, the Internet would be the answer. But while answers are meaningless without questions, unanswered questions still have meaning. The most meaningful questions of all have no answers.

Happily, most answers give rise to more questions, and the image of a grassy blossomy meadow arises. A field of inquiry. A natural landscape of the  mind.

There is abundance in a field. Noticed or not, plants seem happy in their world. Plants do not insist on their importance. They have no doubt of it.

What questions are you asking?

 

 

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