MY GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE LETTERS by Hart Crane There are no stars tonight But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain. There is even room enough For the letters of my mother's mother, Elizabeth, That have been pressed so long Into a corner of the roof That they are brown and soft, And liable to melt as snow. Over the greatness of such space Steps must be gentle. It is all hung by an invisible white hair. It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air. And I ask myself: "Are your fingers long enough to play Old keys that are but echoes: Is the silence strong enough To carry back the music to its source And back to you again As though to her?" Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand Through much of what she would not understand; And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
"I was given an envelope that was sent from the front line in World War 1. It captivated me that this may have been the last thing ever written by this soldier. I find the envelopes with stamp collectors and the cost depends on the stamp which of course doesn't interest me. I like the history and scars of travel with the envelope." - Mark Powell
"In her series Field Notes, photographs blend the domesticity of home with the joy of wilderness, the natural world. The paper houses are built from letters, postcards and envelopes saved through the decades in old shoeboxes by her grandparents and discovered in their attic a few years ago. The images are printed on old envelopes collected from around the world; artifacts from the last centuries." - Penopticon Gallery
....and the piece de resistance the illustrated love letters of Henry Moore to his mistress
Love letters from Henry Moore to his mistress. "I also delight in the way a shy restrained letter can reveal the writer's feelings thanks to one word he or she couldn't hold back, flying off like a reckless butterfly, landing -- it knows the exact spot -- in the corner of the reader's mouth, as a quivering smile, trembling at the premonition of a secret love that has in fact been avowed."
There is something enchanting about walking near water and I've realized that I'm happiest near the sea or a mountain stream.... or at any waters edge, for that matter. My husband loves to tell the story (and it's becoming a bit tiresome) about how whenever I'm walking in the mountains and hear a stream burbling nearby I disappear into the bracken in search of it and he knows he will find me kneeling at the waters edge to taste the water.
Marsh (Reduction woodcut) by Jean Gumpper. See more of Jean's work here AT BLACKWATER POND by Mary Oliver At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
While searching for an image to go with Mary Oliver's poem I stumbled across Maureen Shaughnessy's blog. Maureen is an artist/photographer/poet who illustrated Mary's poem, In Blackwater Woods with the artwork (above). I think Maureens's images are perfect for Mary Oliver's poetry. Read her blog post here.
"In our spiritual tradition, we give away whatever is holding us back -- whatever is troubling us -- by sitting beside running water and letting the negative feelings, thoughts, or obstacles go. We imagine the obstacles flowing away with the current, like a leaf or a twig". Maureen Shaughnessy I love this idea. Go here to read more.
"Here is the fringey edge where elements meet and realms mingle, where time and eternity spatter each other with foam. The salt sea and the islands, molding and molding, row upon rolling row, don't quit, nor do winds end nor skies cease from spreading in curves". - Annie Dillard from Holy The Firm
