Walking around the kitchen, dining room
She notices words on boxes, objects on the walls
On papers lying around the tables
She hears the sounds, sees images, juxtapositions
She remembers her mother
making wreaths out of corks
She arranges her own
Made of mushrooms and marshmallows, crackers and fruits
She remembers when her mother took her to an art museum
They saw Monet’s paintings of haystacks and water lilies
She remembers her mother
took her and toured a pineapple plantation
She imagines Monet painting
rows and rows of pineapples
How about rows and rows of olive trees
Will he get tired of them?
She wishes she can ask her mother
She will know.
In a simple gesture lightning stirs my imagination
Inhabiting my days with rich territories of things to see
And what will I imagine
Like a refrain of raindrops
I wipe my face dry for only a moment
Violent storms come more often
A landscape of astonishment
You follow the floods and shrieking winds
With a camera, a pen and fear
You don’t withdraw
Pursuit is a new form of courage
As an adult I can select certain things
I can eat river-bank-foraged yellow sorrel flowers and wild fennel
There along the sidewalks and river banks
You can forage nutritious weeds
For your table and elevate your taste.
And a promise you will do it againl
Calamities, distant or vague
Bring tremors to the mind
Where do you want to be
When the sun goes down?
Can you be anywhere,
Ubiquitous like the sun?
But the mind though untrammeled
Can not occupy all spaces.
A fisherman bruised by absence of fish
Will pursue with ferocity
Any hints of trout presence
In whatever weather or distance.
He will not be deceived by color
Or pitch of whirling waters
Or exasperated by any sinking thought
The oars are focused, desire is steeled.
Does begin the intellectual incarnation
A reverence for beauty and truth
The universe forever expanding
I’m feverishly reaching for your hand.
She has no troubles.
She has no troubled existence
She can’t immediately forget
She has many “for the first time”
she has not experienced yet.
The phrase ”for the first time” excites her.
How does it feel to sleep and wake in an ice palace?
She wants to spend the four seasons in different parts of the world.
She is almost seventy.
Then there is an ancient advice:
Have a “constant” everyday
even just a tiny ripple
a glance, a fold, a sliver, a tantrum
a constant of surprise
Sometimes you try to retrieve
from the rooms waning summer holidays of memory
harvest, dancing, night serenades
love grows with each song.
Today, autumn starts
crisp air, sun drenched multiple colored leaves
She has to remember again
the many ways to wear her pashmina.
Quietly your self worth diminishes
like salt on a pavement
your voice loses its tone, forgotten.
Who will remember you?
A shadow in a system.
You cry. New tide comes,
covers the muddy river bank.
The white egret returns.
You survive another day.
Note: Last week Mrs. Abstract and I and our two friends toured Andy Warhol’s art Exhibit at MOMA in San Francisco, California. Very interesting.
Books I’m currently reading: Moby Dick by Melville and Paris, 7 A.M. by Liza Wieland, a novel about a young Elizabeth Bishop.
Sometimes we walk in a painted drama
Or a recited poetry
Not hurried or loud
Like a leaf falling on a stream
There are things we don’t understand like shuffling papers
Or how we fold an umbrella after the rain
And we smile
We continue our walk doing crossword puzzles inside our heads
That’s how we miss dogs sleeping under the tree
One of us steps on his tail.
Where can light hide if it wants to hide?
Changing our names is like moving away, hiding or flirting.
Our eyes catch the light
Showering over a leaf
Like a prayer
Light has no tail or face
But a field, of attractions
A woman rises at dawn
An undulating line with three points
above and before the line’s endpoint.
Abstract inside reality
Reality arising from the abstract
Crisscrossing lines and several daubs of blue and red
Circles ascending and descending.
She rises at dawn
Pick some apples from under the tree
Art is simplicity, simplicity is art
Mrs. Abstract and I just returned from holiday wine river cruise of the Duoro Valley in Portugal. Visited many places and sampled port wine in every excursions off the ship (or boat). We toured many gardens. We were always drinking wine with food.