The Flying Geese
for Gertrude Williams According to folklore, “wild geese flying south always fly in the shape of the initial letter of the island to which they are going.” I thought these stitches would last forever, like her full-throated laugh that still echoes deep through my days, the heart’s proof of what is not forgotten. Etched fine as black scrimshaw, her fingers, that once snapped weevils dead in the hot Alabama sun, slipped thread through needle through scrap until the very end. Nothing was lost — the cast-off shirt became the wings of wild geese; the red curtains were cut to size, a...
Read MoreFall Thunder
There is power in the thunder tonight, kettledrums. There is thunder in this power, the powder blends white lightening flour sifters in masks toss it around. Rain plunges October night; dancers crisscross night sky in white gowns. Tumble, turning, swirl the night away, around, leaves tape-record over, over, then, pound, pound repeat falling to the ground. Halloween falls to the children’s knees and imaginations. Kettledrums. Hear Michael read his poem Fall Thunder by Michael Lee Johnson by Alyce...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of Feb. 22 (The Arts)
In trying times, the arts provide refuge. Whether escaping into a fictional world, or finding relief through laughter, or simply being inspired, the arts improve our lives. That concept is as true today as when Wild Violet was founded to provide a “place for the arts,” as this week’s contributors illustrate. In “The Wrong Kiiid Died,” actor, writer and artist Raymond J. Barry provides an impressionistic account of his experiences shooting a scene in a comedy film. “Rehearsals” by R. Steve Benson uses the language of dance and theater to relate a life...
Read MoreOn The Island of No Internet, We Went to Listen to Poetry
Poems sprinkle out from the spice canister High yellow vowels, sand scarred s’s, Antigua blue cocktail beaches, Montserrat Black rivers of ash, small consonants And heavy wet k’s with clicks and slides. The sounds gather round the bonfires And the dancers, the drummers, the singers, The storytellers and women of poetry. Trade winds lift the soft vowels And thick consonants high into the air. Words form into imagery and breath, Into word tones, natural rhythms, themes Of courage and love, joy and hope, Greatness and happiness, and somewhere A rope breaks and the poem sets us...
Read MoreAria
Not once have I wept over art in the Louvre, Uffizi or Met. Well, almost over van der Weyden’s Descent in the Prado, Mary’s grief, but that may have been indigestion after Madrid’s tapas, the Museum of Ham. A lithograph in Chelsea, Kathe Kollwitz’s dead mother and child splayed, stiff, discarded on the curb, brought a single, quiet tear. At the reception, the gallery on Water Street, I am at first preoccupied with drawings, paintings, prints, porcelain; delicate, curious assemblages, diminutive Constructivism; with wine, cheese and those gooey sweets with marshmallows, coconut and...
Read MoreRehearsals
Why do I hold my clean hands under hot water until they sting? My tongue aches from rehearsals. Silver chutes shoot my open eyes. Stiff slanting wings lift our bodies resting above clouds — breathing, dreaming. Trust loosens our shoes, unpegs belts cinched around our expanding profit motives. Trust will settle us down to Earth. Bright shields of elastic goose flesh. Wet maps wrinkle in my hot palms. I would dovetail all my hinges! Lets love our flaws above each wave. Counting freckles until we land...
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