Never All Things at Once

Never All Things at Once

White blossoms or green leaves,
not both. “Edelweiss” with the Captain
and Liesl, pink and green-clad children,
Maria watching, or Act II’s reprise,

“Edelweiss” in concert, an anthem
before fleeing. The thousand-miles-away
city that you left to come here. The day
you intend to have, calling a friend

you haven’t spoken to since the holidays,
a cake you will create with fresh ginger
and lemons, laundry and uninjured,
strong body, long walk, bills you pay

two weeks early. And the day that digs
its fingers into you, a sore neck, deadlines
ratcheted tighter. In Kansas, the shrine
you build to Oz. In Oz, you dream of pigs.

You Knew What I Was When You Picked Me Up

You Knew What I Was When You Picked Me Up

Don’t carry the snake up the freakin’
mountain, kids. Even if he asks nice.
Even if he is old, if he squints at you
like your cat does. Don’t tell him
your name. If he says your mom sent
him, ask him for the password. If he
doesn’t say hamburger hamburger,
get out of Dodge. Don’t look like you
are alone. Hint that your parents are
near, just not available. He doesn’t need
your help. He can cross the river fine.
He can rock climb fine. Your backpack
is not a snake carrying case. His fangs
can get at your skin through canvas,
through leather, through denim. If he
says his fangs are dentures, he’s lying.
If he says his venom’s all dried up,
he’s lying. He might tell you that
humans are his favorite. That he
once had a little boy who was his
friend. They would hike up hills
and go swimming together, snake
riding zipped up in the chest of
the boy’s hooded sweatshirt, snake
resting little snake chin on the zipper.
Even if he says he’s not a rattlesnake,
he could be. Even if you shake him
hard and don’t hear a thing. Trust
your fear, kids. It’s not enough to
leave him once you’ve found him.
He’s gonna keep talking to you in
that smooth, scaly voice, telling you
it’s ok, he doesn’t want to hurt you,
he just wants to sunbathe. Even as a
snakelet, he is dangerous. We are
not trying to scare you. You need to
hear this. There are snakes everywhere.
Even a baby snake is a snake. Don’t
let him talk. You don’t want to get bit.

If It’s the Last Thing

If It’s the Last Thing

Practice makes purpose,
makes for purple-blue
hydrangean bruises from
what you keep pressing
into, against. An hour is
a tent we rent from ourselves.
A lab in the basement, a forge,
a foundry. Where are the stairs,
I can find them with my feet.
The ballroom is marked up
with dotted lines, arrows,
soles of shoes to show me
where to go. As if in looking
down, we are looking up
through the floor of another
ballroom, and seeing only
the feet of the dancers there.
Press your feet against theirs,
for they are learning, too.
Step, step, rock step. I am
going to learn me some joy
if it’s the last thing I ever do. 

On Creativity (featuring Maureen Doallas)

In this series of posts (which I’ll occasionally post on Fridays), I will feature an artist, writer, blogger, or thinker. I’ll include a little information about them, and their answer to a question or two about creativity.
I “met” Maureen Doallas a couple of years ago, through her blog (so in blog years, we’ve known each other for a decade). She is a writer, poet, and editor, and runs Transformational Threads, an art-licensing business. She is a tireless champion of the arts, sharing the work of many types of artists on her blog, Writing Without Paper. I admire the diversity of work she features (as in her Saturday Sharing posts or artist profiles), and her ability to unearth multitudes of resources. The word that always comes to mind when I think of Maureen is generosity.

Q: How does learning about other artists affect your own creative work?

A: As you know, Hannah, art is close to my heart. I have long collected art (I have a special interest in artists' books), and I visit as many artists' sites and studios, virtual and real, as possible. I never tire of looking at art, reading about art, thinking about art, or writing about art. And I couldn't imagine living without artwork in my house. I especially enjoy sharing conversations about the artistic process (though "process" is not a word I particularly like), what influences the making, how concepts are realized, where materials are found. I find not only a common language, if you will, but also inspiration. A painting or photograph or piece of sculpture can set me thinking about something in a new way, send me on a search for information, or serve as a writing prompt.

A: In what ways are research, curiosity, and education helpful to you (and to other artists)?

I think deep and abiding curiosity is characteristic of anyone who's creative. Curiosity impels investigation into how things work, what someone thinks, where influences overlap or diverge. It urges both a looking within and a looking without.

People often express surprise at what I share on my blog, wondering how I find what I do. I let my curiosity be a guide (I sense it as second-nature) and, inevitably, it leads me to research - I consider knowing how to do research on the Web a skill - and, more important, to taking a chance on looking behind first one link and then another, until I'm satisfied I have satisfied my interest. When I'm doing an interview, I find it's curiosity that leads me to ask a particular question and research that tells me whether that question is going to be relevant to the artist with whom I'm conversing. I'm not content with the usual questions, and I like to get at the underside of things, where so much truth waits to be mined. If I'm writing a poem and it's based on something or someone in the news (as, for example, Chinese artist Ai Weiwei or the revolution in Egypt, for which I have written poems), I might research the event or the person, especially if I'm incorporating facts, so that I can better feel my way into the subject. I don't approach poetry-writing analytically, however. For me, writing poems is a way to make sense of my world and what's happening in it, and when it works, that is, prompts personal response from others, I consider myself lucky.

Good Question

Good Question

I want to reward you
for what you don’t know,

for taking it out of your pocket
like the lump of Pyrite I brought

to Show and Tell after
finding it in the mulch under

a swing. This is what it feels
like to find gold, I had thought,

even in knowing it was not
real gold. Foolishness is where

knowledge comes from,
eventually. When did you last

pretend to know what you don’t.
If I professed my bafflement,

would I seem helpless. Would you
wonder how long I’ve been human.

Or would you ask to hold the
glittering rock I found at recess.