Turning Quietly Into Night

Artist Carolyn Hutchings Edlund & I collaborated again for a National Poetry Month exhibit, "PAINTING = POETRY - ut pictura poesis": Realism in Paintings and Sculptures

Carolyn Hutchings Edlund

Turning Quietly Into Night

2009 Oil on canvas

Here You Are

All day you waited, trudged

along city blocks

past the hard shoulders of strangers,

thinking only of this bend in the path.

Your feet disappear beneath amber ripples

as you sink to the grass. Whorls

of mud silt over your toes and up

to the surface. Sun lingers along the clouds,

sly, keeping your secrets.

The oak must have thickened its bark here

for a hundred years,

season after season

against the weather,

against the deer,

against crimson vines

coiling around its base

and cloaking the trunk.

But it still spreads

its branches

wide and airy

into the sky.

The creek tucks into the meadow,

then ripples and twists into the grove.

This is where you stretch your reach.

Breathe deep.

Let go.

Here, you are.

Heather M. Moore Niver

PSALM Retreat coming up!

January 18-20, 2009
Retreat begins @ 4pm on Sunday and concludes after lunch Tuesday.

CHI RHO LODGE
FOWLER CAMP & RETREAT CENTER
Speculator, NY

View over the lake at sunset. Well worth the frozen fingers!

Fowler has a unique stillness during the wintertime, which is known to refresh and revive the soul. We’ve found no better time for inspiration than to pack up in the dead of winter and head to the Adirondacks. Few artists like to force creativity, but we have found how essential it is to allow for creativity. Such times seldom come during the heat and hustle of our busy lives. This is a time to allow time for inspiration and creativity.

WHAT TO DO . . .

During these few days, you are welcome to stay where it’s warm and cozy or venture out into the cold. If you go out, you can take a walk in the woods or on a frozen lake, or light a fire in the fireplace at Lakeside Lodge or the Chapel. You’ll be encouraged to spend your free time absorbing and/or creating. Use the time to create by yourself, work with others, or just wander in search of inspiration. It’s all time well spent.

Chi Ro Bard

STRUCTURE

Taking the time for pause and/or silence is a key theme of these two days. The structure will be minimal, but we will begin each day with a short reflection from the scriptures to guide our time. The opening session after Sunday evening dinner will include a little music and story as well as an outline of the retreat and some suggestions for ways to use your time. We will leave Monday evening open for a time of coming together as a group to share our creations.

COST: $100 includes lodging & all meals (double occupancy)

Open to anyone who enjoys expressing themselves through art. Musicians, storytellers, dancers, writers, painters, sculptors, as well as art appreciators in any capacity are welcome.

Camp Fowler is located on Pelcher Rd., 2 miles West of Speculator, NY.

To register online... http://www.campfowler.org/retreats/psalmretreat/psalmretreat.htm

Poetry in ink & oils

Back in autumn, Carolyn Edlund suggested we collaborate for a National Poetry Month exhibit at the Sherry French Gallery. We both worked off the same scene, she in oils, me in whatever pen and blank book were at hand, sharing some in-progress versions along the way. Thought you might enjoy seeing & reading the end product. Enjoy!

Where Cows Once Grazed by Carolyn Edlund

Afield

Long before the sun cast along the corn silk

or the school bus crunched up the road,

he hurried

through the barn shadows,

murmured to the cows,

and ankled through a swarm

of lean, milk-thirsty cats.

The barn was his for that dark sliver

before the caterwaul

of father and younger brothers:

just cows and cats and boy.

The fence gate clings

by cobwebs and a rust-flaked hinge,

and the barn is a hollow echo of dust

and breeze.

Here are sunny

hours all his own, family scattered

afield—leaves in their own corners now.

An old ache pulls

him back. And in the clean,

gold afternoon, he slows

his pace, feels the heat

through the smooth

of his bare heels.

That old tractor road curves

him along the hayfields,

through the green whorl

of warm tree house branches, and curls

him into its red-dirt cocoon,

leaving his shoes

behind.