#275: Hot poetry on a summer's night
"And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night." -Louise Glück
Dear reader,
I spend my days hopping from my cyanotype set-up on the cool marble floor, or chopping up words and images for collages at my desk (or bed, if it’s past midnight).
I’m grateful for having these little things to fill my days life with. I thrive in idleness, never a moment of boredom, constantly in vessel mode for ideas to flow through and find themselves manifested in some form or another.
This morning, a kind stranger wrote in to say she saw my cyanotypes, and would like to give me her old cyanotype kit that she’s never used, if I would have it. The universe is nurturing this newfound love, nudging me to keep playing, doing, oooh-ing, aah-ing.
My friend R and I were talking about how as experimental artists, there is a freedom in the expression that may not be necessarily felt by those who have studied an art form, and feel drawn to the limits and rules and structures within which one can play. For me, there is never a specific desired outcome; there is an open road full of possibilities and surprise, a pursuit of something out of a sense of kar ke dekhte hain (let’s see what happens). Where everything is an act of foraging, for better or worse, and once the work exists, another layer of meaning-making can begin. Maybe it all does come back to being kind to oneself. To allow oneself to do things for joy, for curiosity, for the simple pleasure of doing. I don’t know.
In the spirit of doing, three of my favorite ‘works’ from the past few days that let me tap into my happy place:
Poetry Corner
1. Spring Day [Bath] by Amy Lowell
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.
2. Rethinking Regret by Elaine Sexton
Let’s thank our mistakes, let’s bless them
for their humanity, their terribly weak chins.
We should offer them our gratitude and admiration
for giving us our clefts and scarring us with
embarrassment, the hot flash of confession.
Thank you, transgressions! for making us so right
in our imperfections. Less flawed, we might have
turned away, feeling too fit, our desires looking
for better directions. Without them, we might have
passed the place where one of us stood, watching
someone else walk away, and followed them,
while our perfect mistake walked straight towards us,
walked right into our cluttered, ordered lives
that could have been closed but were not,
that could have been asleep, but instead
stayed up, all night, forgetting the pill,
the good book, the necessary eight hours,
and lay there – in the middle of the bed –
keeping the heart awake – open and stunned,
stunning. How unhappy perfection must be
over there on the shelf without a crack, without
this critical break – this falling – this sudden, thrilling draft.
3. On a Train by Wendy Cope
The book I’ve been reading
rests on my knee. You sleep.
It’s beautiful out there—
fields, little lakes and winter trees
in February sunlight,
every car park a shining mosaic.
Long radiant minutes,
your hand in my hand,
still warm, still warm.
4. Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
5. The Poet’s Delay by Henry David Thoreau
In vain I see the morning rise,
In vain observe the western blaze,
Who idly look to other skies,
Expecting life by other ways.
Amidst such boundless wealth without,
I only still am poor within,
The birds have sung their summer out,
But still my spring does not begin.
Shall I then wait the autumn wind,
Compelled to seek a milder day,
And leave no curious nest behind,
No woods still echoing to my lay?
Ro Recommends
Watch
Read
This Arabic font is made to accommodate dyslexic readers (via It’s Nice That)
Excited to try my hand at chlorophyll printing. Here’s a lovely interview with Megan Bent on Too Tired Project that got me all excited about it!
When Keith Haring Painted a Mural for an Iowa Elementary School (Love this entire piece so much. via Hyperallergic)
The Notice Board
Coming soon: The Alipore Post x Paas Fantasia Tees
Going live with Fantasia, a set of three t-shirts I designed for The Paas Collective in 3 days. Can’t wait for these to be out in the world. Already can’t stop wearing the sample tees. Book yours now / wait for next week’s newsletter for the friends & family discount.
Stick it and go!
I made a temporary tattoo sheet in collaboration with Anomalie Tattoo Co.
Get your set of 2 tattoo sheets now!
The Alipore Post Poetry Month is nearly over.
Down to the last 2 days of The Alipore Post Poetry Month. A little bit up and down with the writing practice but damn, we wrote so much poetry together. Heck yeah!
Sending kind energy towards all of you as we gently make our way into May.
Love and flowers,
Rohini