THIN STICKS WALKING

 Tidal Marks, Saltburn by Ruth Stage.  See more of Ruth's beautiful egg tempera paintings here.


Thin Sticks Walking by Annie Kerr

Thin sticks, walking. Tumbleweed dot of
dog runs beside them and away like a
looping thread. Fading smaller they are
merging with ground bound rain of mirage
shimmer, where refraction pulls their
movements into a staccato dance from a 
chaotic pen. They break up like static, hit
the lip before they fall into the abyss of 
distance too far to see.

And after their falling

the stillest space. Endless sand.
Forever sky reflecting in the mirror of
shallows. A canvas that shows the
tiniest change. It waits for a new word
on an empty page.

Read more about British artist, Ruth Stage,  here  

 When I discovered Ruth Stage's paintings  Annie Kerr's poem came to mind. I'm sure you can see why.

 Paintings by Ruth Stage. 

HAPPINESS IS .............

Bouquets of old spoons from the scrap yard,

Containers filled with pencils...

I LOVE pencils!

Art books... particularly African Art books,



Piles of sketchbooks filled with ideas,

Monkeys that peep .....

Sundays on the The Midlands Meander (an art route through KwaZulu Natal) .....

Browsing through country shops,

Being amazed by creatures made from wire and beads,

Stopping somewhere for tea .... lunch ..... and tea again

Beautiful scenery.... snow ..... fresh air in rural Natal

Happiness is spending time with my family (yep, that's my brother in the top right corner above ...... Lets see if he reads my blog :-)

All photos are mine except for The Dlaminis above from Zulu-Lulu Trading on the Midlands Meander.

SO MUCH HAPPINESS by Naomi Shihab Nye

It is difficult to know what to do

with so

much happiness.

With sadness there is something

to rub

against,

A wound to tend with lotion and cloth.

When the world falls in around you,

you

have pieces to pick up,

Something to hold in your hands,

like

ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.

It doesn't need you to hold it down.

It doesn't need anything.

Happiness lands on the roof

of the next

house,

singing,

And disappears when it wants to.

You are happy either way.

Even the fact that you once lived

in a

peaceful

tree

house

And now live over a quarry of noise

and

dust

Cannot make you unhappy.

Everything has a life of its own,

It too could wake up filled with possibilities

Of coffee cake and ripe peaches,

And love even the floor

which needs to

be swept,

The soiled linens and scratched records…..

Since there is no place large enough

To contain so much happiness,

You shrug, you raise your hands,

and it

flows out of

you

Into everything you touch.

You are not

responsible.

You take no credit,

as the night sky

takes no credit

For the moon, but continues to hold it,

and to share it,

And in that way, be known.

- Naomi Shihab Nye

INSPIRATION

At the moment I'm enjoying Geoffrey Gorman's sculptures, Nick Bantock's assemblages and Anne Westlund's poetry.




I loved reading Gorman's artist statement. It captures exactly what he's all about.

"A broken bent tree branch, bleached from sun and rain, makes me think of weathered bones: fingers, legs, backbone, and hip bone. Old stained strips of cloth act like bandages and clothing, hiding and holding it all together. Sculpted wax covers the frame and joints of wood. Found and lost objects assembled into curious and evocative shapes is what excites me.

When I am making objects, I think of model airplanes made of balsa wood, then covered in thin transparent paper. Or I see decoys and shapes made to attract wild animals. I visited a museum in Alaska that had drawers filled with toys that had been put together, used and collected from previous cultures. I also think of a forest of tall, dark trees covered in moss and moisture, a silent, meditative place".

The Artful Dodger by Nick Bantock is a book that I dip into frequently.

Anne Westlund is a writer I "met" over at Coach Creative Space where she runs a group called Writers Clique for "all the unpopular kids."


BLOCKED

I wait for inspiration
Like waiting for the electricity
to come back on
But the light bulb stays dim
And I sit here in the dark
Cold and alone
And bored out of my skull.

There are candles
Like some desecrated church
With candy wrappers and pop cans
And graffiti on paper if not walls
For anyone to see
If they would just look
But it’s dim in here
I can hardly blame them
For their disinterest
It’s my own
That I find so distressing
Unable to write
More than this note
To self—take out the garbage
Tomorrow—when it’s light.

For now I sit and smell
The incense, marginally better
Than the litter box, I listen
To music sung by rock gods
Now six feet underground
Death carries a tune
Better than I ever have
Still uninspired, stale
Unrewarded.

So many poets,
Not near enough rotten fruit
To go around this theatre
Of the faintly amused
With cynical smiles
Painted in silver greasepaint
Everyone’s a clown,
Turn that smirk upside down
I can’t even muster tears
Tonight, not exactly sad,
Just annoyed that I can’t
Check my email for Nigerian
Bank scams and Dell communiqués
How many computers can one
Person use?

One.

As far as I can tell
But don’t quote me on that
Cyber Sunday is long past
I missed out on all the good deals
The light is burnt out in the bathroom
I don’t suppose that matters now
With the blackout, outage, 75 mph
Wind gusts shaking the house.

The neighbors finally break
The quiet, some altercation punctuated
By truck doors slamming and a cold
Engine going into gear
I’m fabricating a little here, just
For my own amusement
Of course you can’t really tell
What’s the truth, and what mere falsehood
Don’t even try
Most days I can’t either
With all those creativity articles
I should be able to come up
With something.

No, I can’t think of anything
To write about, not nature, love,
I can’t even write one of those depressing
Goth teenage poems about heartbreak
And suicide. Not tonight.
This dim bulb has gone out.

December 4, 2007
© 2007 Anne Westlund