Verbal and Visual Images
Long ago, Chinese literati took particular delight in the aesthetic effects of combining painting, poetry and calligraphy. By the eighteenth century, the Japanese had refined this art into surimono, literally "printed things." Commissioned by individual poets or poetry clubs, these single sheets combined poems with the work of the finest artists, calligraphers, and printers. Because surimono were privately printed, economic factors did not limit the aesthetic choices. Such sumptuous printing techniques as embossing and pigmenting with precious metal powders might be used. Many layers of meanings were produced by visual and verbal allusions. These wonderful woodblock printings were given as New Year’s gifts.
Now I am making what I call Fusion Surimono, my poems with my visual images. These are made of all combinations of pixels and pigments- photos, paintings, photos of paintings etc. They are arranged in order of complexity, challenge. They are proving helpful to people who, like me, have experienced Traumatic Brain Injury. People dealing with stroke, chemo brain fog, Post-Lyme etc and their care-givers also find soothing pleasure in the nature images. Here is the link to the web site for the entire collection:
www.songsofseeing.com.
Here are few images from the Fusion Surimono Collection:
Now I am making what I call Fusion Surimono, my poems with my visual images. These are made of all combinations of pixels and pigments- photos, paintings, photos of paintings etc. They are arranged in order of complexity, challenge. They are proving helpful to people who, like me, have experienced Traumatic Brain Injury. People dealing with stroke, chemo brain fog, Post-Lyme etc and their care-givers also find soothing pleasure in the nature images. Here is the link to the web site for the entire collection:
www.songsofseeing.com.
Here are few images from the Fusion Surimono Collection:
Back when my friend Ann Flewelling and I started Threehalf Press, we made what we called Light Pages. We presented on the web my poems juxtaposed with her photographs in a modern exploration of the verbal-visual interface. Thesea are clearly the forerunners of my fusion surimono. After a terrible automobile accident severely injured Ann, we discontinued Threehalf Press. Ann is recovering slowly but surely and you can still enjoy our Light Pages here:
Flowers for the Tea,
chabana
Tie my poem to
the blossom branch
with deft knots of
freedom and formality
silence to sound
vase to flower
page to ink
I sing the breathing words
of heaven, earth, and man
in bud and bloom
and fallen petal.
chabana
Tie my poem to
the blossom branch
with deft knots of
freedom and formality
silence to sound
vase to flower
page to ink
I sing the breathing words
of heaven, earth, and man
in bud and bloom
and fallen petal.
Dowsing
These two bare twigs,
formerly bayberry,
too scant to be driftwood
but nicely branched and
silvered they fit my hand so well
I carry them full circuit
around the island
with no vain intention
of taking either home with me–
but I like the feeling
of winnowing the sea breeze,
of holding hands with the sky,
of sensing how a lobster feels
waving its claws in communication
with Poseidon and the sea.
These two bare twigs,
formerly bayberry,
too scant to be driftwood
but nicely branched and
silvered they fit my hand so well
I carry them full circuit
around the island
with no vain intention
of taking either home with me–
but I like the feeling
of winnowing the sea breeze,
of holding hands with the sky,
of sensing how a lobster feels
waving its claws in communication
with Poseidon and the sea.
Billy Collins on Vacation in Maine
I am standing on the deck overlooking the shore
in bare feet with a cup of steaming tea, opera on the radio,
watching seagulls and a lone man in a plastic kayak
which barely zigzags as he chants to seals while
the first clouds climb the rigging above the bay.
A white lobster boat draws unhurried circles
and the drone is carried by the gulls
to wedge between the bars of Verdi’s quartet.
I study last night’s wine glass on the railing
lit by a ray of sun which goes on to
gather blueberries and ferns and a small sparrow.
Cats watching through the window wear calico shadows
borrowed from the birches like the green
fleece pulled on over my nightgown,
which I pull closer to my shoulders
feeling what it’s like to be Billy Collins in Maine.
I am standing on the deck overlooking the shore
in bare feet with a cup of steaming tea, opera on the radio,
watching seagulls and a lone man in a plastic kayak
which barely zigzags as he chants to seals while
the first clouds climb the rigging above the bay.
A white lobster boat draws unhurried circles
and the drone is carried by the gulls
to wedge between the bars of Verdi’s quartet.
I study last night’s wine glass on the railing
lit by a ray of sun which goes on to
gather blueberries and ferns and a small sparrow.
Cats watching through the window wear calico shadows
borrowed from the birches like the green
fleece pulled on over my nightgown,
which I pull closer to my shoulders
feeling what it’s like to be Billy Collins in Maine.
Mackerel
Out of mind’s vast dark deep
they come
racing into coves
in pursuit perhaps of herring
flashes of silvery blue
black- barred stanzas
together writing
ripples of reality
You don’t call mackerel
You know the tide
and go out in your boat
or onto the pier
and you wait
knowing that unless
the line or net is in the water
no one ever catches the
meaning
or the music
Out of mind’s vast dark deep
they come
racing into coves
in pursuit perhaps of herring
flashes of silvery blue
black- barred stanzas
together writing
ripples of reality
You don’t call mackerel
You know the tide
and go out in your boat
or onto the pier
and you wait
knowing that unless
the line or net is in the water
no one ever catches the
meaning
or the music
Fall Tweed
Ridiculously humble name
for the gallant
little spindle
of a bird, brown creeper
fluttering down with the
rain-driven leaves
to begin again
its persistent ascent
of the threadbare birch
weaving life, the only
anti-entropic force
in the wintry universe.
Ridiculously humble name
for the gallant
little spindle
of a bird, brown creeper
fluttering down with the
rain-driven leaves
to begin again
its persistent ascent
of the threadbare birch
weaving life, the only
anti-entropic force
in the wintry universe.
Spring Geese
Sound of half a hundred geese
winging north across the bay:
you've left some fecund, flowered place,
passed over warm and moistly green full-petaled lands
to etch your fine dark lines across
the lonely loveliness of open water,
open sky,
the brown and grey and tan
of our just-melting world
to press on to your polar claim,
accustomed to life's edges.
Thrilled at what you signify my heart cries,
Wait, oh wait for me. I'm coming too.
Although you leave me spring,
you leave me.
How I envy
that I hear you talking to each other
every wing beat of the way.
Sound of half a hundred geese
winging north across the bay:
you've left some fecund, flowered place,
passed over warm and moistly green full-petaled lands
to etch your fine dark lines across
the lonely loveliness of open water,
open sky,
the brown and grey and tan
of our just-melting world
to press on to your polar claim,
accustomed to life's edges.
Thrilled at what you signify my heart cries,
Wait, oh wait for me. I'm coming too.
Although you leave me spring,
you leave me.
How I envy
that I hear you talking to each other
every wing beat of the way.
First Osprey, April 16
Pandion haliaetus carolinensis
Osprey, who dares
plunder the eagle and wins
we pause every time to watch
your casual crook-winged beat up the sky
mackerel gleaming in the talons of
your nonchalance.
As my son once explained to me
you have to be born to be cool.
There was nothing casual about
the line gale that yesterday screamed through here
shaking our bridge, plucking it like a lyre
licking hungry at the causeway
battering cowering houses with
waves of such awe that fishing boats
stayed on their moorings, every one.
Not just their women, but sea-crusted men
spent the hours stealing glances over their shoulder.
We crept to our beds, shut windows to keep the deluge out
slept fitfully, wholly unable to block the ocean’s roar
the answering grinding moan of beach rocks in the dark.
Born cloudy, cool of its own sort
breezy morning finds us, all over the island
busying ourselves packing lunches
doing up breakfast dishes, gossiping over power outages
pausing to survey the gear going with us.
I imagine I hear ospreys
calling to each other
that unmistakable piercing whistle
I want so fiercely that I step outside
where they are circling overhead
calling, soaring
in signature
arrival.
Pandion haliaetus carolinensis
Osprey, who dares
plunder the eagle and wins
we pause every time to watch
your casual crook-winged beat up the sky
mackerel gleaming in the talons of
your nonchalance.
As my son once explained to me
you have to be born to be cool.
There was nothing casual about
the line gale that yesterday screamed through here
shaking our bridge, plucking it like a lyre
licking hungry at the causeway
battering cowering houses with
waves of such awe that fishing boats
stayed on their moorings, every one.
Not just their women, but sea-crusted men
spent the hours stealing glances over their shoulder.
We crept to our beds, shut windows to keep the deluge out
slept fitfully, wholly unable to block the ocean’s roar
the answering grinding moan of beach rocks in the dark.
Born cloudy, cool of its own sort
breezy morning finds us, all over the island
busying ourselves packing lunches
doing up breakfast dishes, gossiping over power outages
pausing to survey the gear going with us.
I imagine I hear ospreys
calling to each other
that unmistakable piercing whistle
I want so fiercely that I step outside
where they are circling overhead
calling, soaring
in signature
arrival.
Wood Lily
Fine-grained New England granite is obdurate stuff.
Long after the glacier’s press it stands untouched
by the hot lick of burning barrens for blueberries
or the trembling flame of open wood lily at its side.
That lone splash of red draws the eye
more strongly than the brief burnt orange zap
of delta-winged Skippers, or the lazy float of Monarchs.
Drawn by what invisible force it torques the field,
the wood lily pulls bright against the rock.
Fine-grained New England granite is obdurate stuff.
Long after the glacier’s press it stands untouched
by the hot lick of burning barrens for blueberries
or the trembling flame of open wood lily at its side.
That lone splash of red draws the eye
more strongly than the brief burnt orange zap
of delta-winged Skippers, or the lazy float of Monarchs.
Drawn by what invisible force it torques the field,
the wood lily pulls bright against the rock.
Junco Zen
A hundred tiny birds come
linking whispered calls
low through the dripping spruce.
Like smoke they flow
up across the granite boulder face
pausing only briefly
over the glow of moss
Ink-grey Juncos migrating
white tail feathers flashing
brief signals of intent.
A hundred tiny birds come
linking whispered calls
low through the dripping spruce.
Like smoke they flow
up across the granite boulder face
pausing only briefly
over the glow of moss
Ink-grey Juncos migrating
white tail feathers flashing
brief signals of intent.
Blackberries, Late Summer
I go to pick blackberries
in the arcing glow of goldenrod.
Taller than I disheveled asters
star pale and wild above,
crickets fiddling away in the
hot sunshine of short grass.
White Admiral, surprisingly
assertive for a butterfly
dares me to come closer
flaps velvet black wings
as if it might alight
on my outstretched arms.
How rich the wine my tongue
kisses from the ripe fruit,
how fierce dry saber canes
snake-strike thorns marking
me again with the sweet pain
of every love I’ve ever known.
I go to pick blackberries
in the arcing glow of goldenrod.
Taller than I disheveled asters
star pale and wild above,
crickets fiddling away in the
hot sunshine of short grass.
White Admiral, surprisingly
assertive for a butterfly
dares me to come closer
flaps velvet black wings
as if it might alight
on my outstretched arms.
How rich the wine my tongue
kisses from the ripe fruit,
how fierce dry saber canes
snake-strike thorns marking
me again with the sweet pain
of every love I’ve ever known.
Attasquash
With surprise I recognize
that summer squash is in the bag now
hitting the table with distinctive sound
no more describable than the subtle taste
of this elegant vegetable lightly cooked, lightly spiced.
Attasquash, crookneck, Cucurbito pepo –
such dismissive and ridiculous names we have attached
to this pretty vegetable, so delicate, ephemeral in its young perfection.
Fresh from the sunny garden singing with hot nasturtium colors,
shimmering with butterflies
I sense still the clear yellow radiance of abundance on my silver fork.
Are we so beguiled by sugar
that we laud the strawberry and peach
all but ignoring this unassertive
squash?
Ask the overlooked among us.
With surprise I recognize
that summer squash is in the bag now
hitting the table with distinctive sound
no more describable than the subtle taste
of this elegant vegetable lightly cooked, lightly spiced.
Attasquash, crookneck, Cucurbito pepo –
such dismissive and ridiculous names we have attached
to this pretty vegetable, so delicate, ephemeral in its young perfection.
Fresh from the sunny garden singing with hot nasturtium colors,
shimmering with butterflies
I sense still the clear yellow radiance of abundance on my silver fork.
Are we so beguiled by sugar
that we laud the strawberry and peach
all but ignoring this unassertive
squash?
Ask the overlooked among us.
Drab, You Say?
Gray skies, chill air,
goldenrods blown
to tufts of tan,
over all a lace of sound:
goldfinches and geese,
chips and clicks and calls.
flocks of tiny birds
in touch with one another,
moving just below
the understated aster fizzle
a force of sparrows,
warblers with
eye rings, wing bars, and without,
the faint suggestion of green flash,
tan hinting copper,
gold to tarnished silver,
ripe, elegant,
here.
Gray skies, chill air,
goldenrods blown
to tufts of tan,
over all a lace of sound:
goldfinches and geese,
chips and clicks and calls.
flocks of tiny birds
in touch with one another,
moving just below
the understated aster fizzle
a force of sparrows,
warblers with
eye rings, wing bars, and without,
the faint suggestion of green flash,
tan hinting copper,
gold to tarnished silver,
ripe, elegant,
here.
from A Sky of Birds
a collection of my poems accompanying photographs made by members of Downeast Audubon:
Spotted Sandpiper
Just at the silver seam
between the sea and shore
the spotted sandpiper
teeters, speaks softly to itself
a poem it has by heart.
a collection of my poems accompanying photographs made by members of Downeast Audubon:
Spotted Sandpiper
Just at the silver seam
between the sea and shore
the spotted sandpiper
teeters, speaks softly to itself
a poem it has by heart.
from Beads and String, A Maine Island Pilgrimage
Each month we visit one of Der Isle's preserves and several poems serve as dividers from one chapter to another.
One of the poems from March:
Elvers
I see him walking on the clam flats
by the great butterfly bat wing nets.
What is it about his jeans, cap, and rubber boots signals islander
just as surely as he reads me woman-from-away
before we even speak?
What are you catching?
Eels,
he calls over his shoulder and keeps on slogging.
It seems inappropriate to continue hollering
on the early morning air
so I stand on a rock
and wait.
He’s not going to hurry his pace.
I’m not going to retreat.
We wait
for each other to finish our business.
I eye the rigging: four huge gray butterflies or bats,
take your choice depending on how macabre your taste,
or whether you know the symbol for bat wings on Ming pottery.
Dead panels, like a drowned embrace, drape full slack across the mud
to hang when the tide comes back
suspended from plastic pipe strung like soda straws on pot warp lines
bright orange, perhaps from one great spool
strung out across the cove
here to bamboo, there to aluminum tent pole
guyed all in turn by more orange warp and weighted
at the ends by granite.
The mans slogs slowly from rock to rock
adjusting the muddy weights with some private precision
righting and pressing the poles to his own satisfaction.
At the confluence of each wingspread
a wooden box, not all that different from a shoe box
except that at each hinder end he’s hung a bag like pantyhose.
Carefully he does not glance my way, carefully he inspects
this masonite center of mysteries, reties its knots
and makes his way closer to where I stand.
If he’s reluctant he’s damned if he’ll show it and he says to me
Elvers, glass eels you might call ‘em. Send ‘em to the Orient.
I want to tell him of the ancient lucky symbol but I say instead
Do you ever eat them?
Nope.
Do you go smelting too?
Why yes, he says, and quickly calculating what else I need to understand
he manages not to sound condescending as he tells me you can’t go smelting
at the same time you have these traps out. Generously he adds
I go to a nice creek up the cove for smelts.
I like to go for smelts, myself. Fry up a good munch.
Have ‘em for breakfast, or whatever meal comes next.
I recognize he’s telling me something about the order of his life
so I ask, Do you check these traps every tide?
Yep.
Did you just get some?
No, I’m readjusting them now.
He says without my asking
The elvers only run at night. You ought to come down here then.
It’s a sight to see, all the lights.
I ask what time the tide is high tonight.
Two-thirty he thinks. He’s not lobstering just now. Elvers make a nice way to fill in.
He can make a couple hundred a night.
But don’t quit your day job? I say
surprised when he does not banter
but says instead
I get kind of tired, but it’s nice down here at night. I hope we don’t bother them
up at the house. You from the house?
No, I’m not.
Well, You want to come see.
Just a statement he makes, and I thank him and say
I will come some time,
hating that it sounds so much like empty courtesy.
A pause, sheerer than bat wings hangs in the air
as I calculate back and say,
You saw the comet here, then?
He straightens up, hands dripping from the fresh water sluice
of the little creek pushing back the sea.
Perhaps because he’s been skirting so near the beauty of what keeps him here
unmasked delight ambushes his face.
He throws his arms north to the heavens
in a wide gesture full
of the wildness of it all.
Right up there it was, he says.
He meets my gaze and we grin together, cosmic islanders.
I’ll come some night, I say.
Me and the wife, he mumbles, just to be sure there was no misunderstanding,
We’ll see ya.
Each month we visit one of Der Isle's preserves and several poems serve as dividers from one chapter to another.
One of the poems from March:
Elvers
I see him walking on the clam flats
by the great butterfly bat wing nets.
What is it about his jeans, cap, and rubber boots signals islander
just as surely as he reads me woman-from-away
before we even speak?
What are you catching?
Eels,
he calls over his shoulder and keeps on slogging.
It seems inappropriate to continue hollering
on the early morning air
so I stand on a rock
and wait.
He’s not going to hurry his pace.
I’m not going to retreat.
We wait
for each other to finish our business.
I eye the rigging: four huge gray butterflies or bats,
take your choice depending on how macabre your taste,
or whether you know the symbol for bat wings on Ming pottery.
Dead panels, like a drowned embrace, drape full slack across the mud
to hang when the tide comes back
suspended from plastic pipe strung like soda straws on pot warp lines
bright orange, perhaps from one great spool
strung out across the cove
here to bamboo, there to aluminum tent pole
guyed all in turn by more orange warp and weighted
at the ends by granite.
The mans slogs slowly from rock to rock
adjusting the muddy weights with some private precision
righting and pressing the poles to his own satisfaction.
At the confluence of each wingspread
a wooden box, not all that different from a shoe box
except that at each hinder end he’s hung a bag like pantyhose.
Carefully he does not glance my way, carefully he inspects
this masonite center of mysteries, reties its knots
and makes his way closer to where I stand.
If he’s reluctant he’s damned if he’ll show it and he says to me
Elvers, glass eels you might call ‘em. Send ‘em to the Orient.
I want to tell him of the ancient lucky symbol but I say instead
Do you ever eat them?
Nope.
Do you go smelting too?
Why yes, he says, and quickly calculating what else I need to understand
he manages not to sound condescending as he tells me you can’t go smelting
at the same time you have these traps out. Generously he adds
I go to a nice creek up the cove for smelts.
I like to go for smelts, myself. Fry up a good munch.
Have ‘em for breakfast, or whatever meal comes next.
I recognize he’s telling me something about the order of his life
so I ask, Do you check these traps every tide?
Yep.
Did you just get some?
No, I’m readjusting them now.
He says without my asking
The elvers only run at night. You ought to come down here then.
It’s a sight to see, all the lights.
I ask what time the tide is high tonight.
Two-thirty he thinks. He’s not lobstering just now. Elvers make a nice way to fill in.
He can make a couple hundred a night.
But don’t quit your day job? I say
surprised when he does not banter
but says instead
I get kind of tired, but it’s nice down here at night. I hope we don’t bother them
up at the house. You from the house?
No, I’m not.
Well, You want to come see.
Just a statement he makes, and I thank him and say
I will come some time,
hating that it sounds so much like empty courtesy.
A pause, sheerer than bat wings hangs in the air
as I calculate back and say,
You saw the comet here, then?
He straightens up, hands dripping from the fresh water sluice
of the little creek pushing back the sea.
Perhaps because he’s been skirting so near the beauty of what keeps him here
unmasked delight ambushes his face.
He throws his arms north to the heavens
in a wide gesture full
of the wildness of it all.
Right up there it was, he says.
He meets my gaze and we grin together, cosmic islanders.
I’ll come some night, I say.
Me and the wife, he mumbles, just to be sure there was no misunderstanding,
We’ll see ya.
from Moment of Water
Gluskabe’s River
by Marnie Reed Crowell
Commissioned for the opening of Penobscot Narrows Bridge ~ 2007
All the night long
as the storm tracks by,
southerly winds from out at sea
push ocean back into the bay.
Hear Gluskabe
paddling by in his stone canoe,
the shouts and smacks
as he urges the Penobscot back,
back by waves,
past the Eggemoggin Reach,
on beyond the quiet Bagaduce,
under the place where the sinewed seam
stitches bank to bank,
beyond Bangor,
rippling round Indian Island,
on to Orono, to Millinocket,
threading through Maine Woods,
till pure and clear
what’s left of water
—clouds--
reach Wabanaki heart,
Katahdin,
and regroup
for yet another schussing run
downriver through the towns and mills,
out to dawn
and sea.
Gluskabe’s River
by Marnie Reed Crowell
Commissioned for the opening of Penobscot Narrows Bridge ~ 2007
All the night long
as the storm tracks by,
southerly winds from out at sea
push ocean back into the bay.
Hear Gluskabe
paddling by in his stone canoe,
the shouts and smacks
as he urges the Penobscot back,
back by waves,
past the Eggemoggin Reach,
on beyond the quiet Bagaduce,
under the place where the sinewed seam
stitches bank to bank,
beyond Bangor,
rippling round Indian Island,
on to Orono, to Millinocket,
threading through Maine Woods,
till pure and clear
what’s left of water
—clouds--
reach Wabanaki heart,
Katahdin,
and regroup
for yet another schussing run
downriver through the towns and mills,
out to dawn
and sea.
Two Marnie Reed Crowell poems on exhibit at Maier Museum, Lynchburg, Virginia
August 10, 2010 to inaugurate Ekphrastic Poems exhibit
Wren accompanying the museum’s John James Audubon print
Woodcock accompanying museum's Churchill Ettinger etching
http://www.maiermuseum.org/2010/08/ekphrastic-poem-mcrowell/
Wren accompanying the museum’s John James Audubon print
Woodcock accompanying museum's Churchill Ettinger etching
http://www.maiermuseum.org/2010/08/ekphrastic-poem-mcrowell/
