Slipstream, the Tangled Garden (Painting, 2009)

Slipstream, the Tangled Garden, 11"x14½", 28x37cm; mixed media (oils, acrylic varnish, markers, parchment) on canvas tablette

Today I pasted poetry printed on parchment paper onto an oil painting. The poetry pasted into the painting from the first lines of a prosepoem I wrote in 2006:

Slipstream, the tangled garden

Furrow in the tree. Leaf flapping, a green flag. Leaves sprout endlessly, each different. Why does it have to tick every second? Give me the skin of the drumbeat of time. Leaves dance in the solar wind. Blow time away. Enfold me like a furrow. Encase me in wood, the roots, the branches. Let tendrils be the leaves, or my fingers.

Rise from
this womb of roots.
_

Listen to a slightly earlier version of this prose poem (5min 4sec) at SoundClick. Or by pop-up window: highspeed; dial-up.

                                 

Why do we write? Or create?

Why do we write? Or create? For moi, it's over-ripeness... and for you?

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