(After you've read my list, please add your own items as comments.)
Freshly fallen snow has a fragrance brighter than summer.
New snowflakes cut into the trail's icy hardpack under your boots, providing a pretty good grip.
Deer, fox, bird, and squirrel tracks are more numerous than human and dog tracks.
Till the big lake freezes, it's voice is omnipresent, no matter how tucked into the trees you are.
Unless the dunes are buried deeply with snow, sand moves, sometimes hundreds of yards
I'd been to the woods for my daily hike. Back behind the wheel of the car, my body felt strong and capable—I can climb hills in the sand, quickly. I know these unmapped trails as well as—no, better—than the back of either hand. Flooded with fresh oxygen and touched on all sides by whatever it is that leaves release, I was hardly winded and not sore at all. I was, as they say, in the zone: high on endorphins and good air.
Perhaps because I'd carried a bit of my woods habit of attentiveness
Here's a draft of the poem I'm writing in response to David Adix's Native Figure #70. The poem's title comes from a classic adage about creative invention from the middle of the last century: "No ideas but in things" (William Carlos Williams). I'm sometimes moved to push back against this insight, but I always find myself coming back, with pleasure, to the physical world while making poems. Native Figure #70 is literally stuffed with things: a smorgasbord for someone like me. I keep finding new morsels
Last Monday I carried my notebook and camera into the Water Street Gallery in downtown Douglas, Michigan, to meet, in person, a sculpture I'd been admiring in photographs: Native Figure #70, by David Adix. The gallery staff had given me the following assignment: respond, in one hundred words or less, to one of the pieces of art in their current exhibition, It's a Matter of Opinion. More precisely, they were looking for my "opinion"--quotation marks theirs. Assignments like these, I've learned,
It's been a while since I've offered anything up. I've encountered plenty of items of interest over the past few weeks, among them: a tromp l'oeil mural I spotted down an alleyway ("horses" hanging their heads over a "stable door")—the sort of mural that triggers a doubletake and gratitude for human imagination. And then there were the land snails and slug trails I've spotted (the former in the woods, the latter in the backyard) after our especially soggy June. During wetter periods, watch for Read more [...]
It's harebell (Campanula rotundifolia) season in the Saugatuck Dunes, which also happens to be hairy puccoon season, and red-eyed vireo season. This year's cool, wet, sunny spring has greened and plumped leaves of all kinds, from grass to swamp cabbage, far beyond the norm. Even walking in the dunes, which do not hold onto rain very long, feels sodden. I think more harebells than usual have sprung up this year, their blossoms are more vibrantly blue-purple than usual, and they're lasting longer.
(If you'd like to buy a copy of Before the Snow Moon, you'll find it at Nicola's Books and Literati Bookstore in Ann Arbor, at Brilliant Books in Traverse City, Michigan, and at the Nines Gallery in Holland, Michigan. Or, contact me. And it's also available on Amazon.)
I'm superstitious about writing about my own poems, especially before they've been released to the world, so here are some of the nice things poets have written about the poems in Before the Snow Moon. Artists Melanie Boyle and
Standing among Susana Allen Hunter's quilts, on loan from The Henry Ford Museum, at the Grand Rapids [Michigan] Art Museum the other day, I felt waves of admiration and gratitude and poignancy. Each "improvisational quilt"—as Hunter's patchwork quilts have been dubbed—has a palette I want to work with, somehow, even though I'm a writer and my medium is words. Many of the quilts, which do indeed as their curator notes feel "abstract, asymmetrical, and modern," are mildly frayed, a reminder that
You can see that the sun was shining on my head, hot but not too. Here's what you can't see: the clean coppery aroma* of last summer's leaves, pale brown and beginning to curl up from their flattened spots under the gone snow.
As for the soundtrack, it was peaceful without being silent, another kind of antidote. In the background, like some sort of sonic under-painting, the roar of Lake Michigan's surf penetrated the whole scene even though the freshwater sea itself was hidden
When is the last time you walked up to a shelf of books—in your house or somewhere else—randomly pulled one off the shelf, opened it up, and began reading? It had been a rather long time for me when I found this the other morning, in a beautiful, archival edition of Wallace Stevens's poems and prose. I'm guessing anyone who's ever felt thwarted by a house overflowing with family energy will get a kick out of these two short letters, written in the 1920s, when Stevens was