Poetry sketchbook

I am defacing a copy of The Penguin Book of Modern American Verse to reclaim it for myself. In some cases the words are partially visible underneath, in others blanked out completely.

In the last five years I have turned away from words and towards the visual. Though sometimes it is difficult to separate the two and one conjures the other, image triumphs over text.

Ripeness for joy. Dryness for death - wasps nest:  'I was wired for sound as I started again down the river'

Each time a poem is read it is recreated. A peach / Wallace Stevens.

 E. E. Cummings / A worked flint 

Clover / Robert Penn Warren

'It is the final mountain' / Tomato

TS Eliot / Squash

Shell / Dead boy

'The blizzard to their rigormortis' / Octopus tentacle

Sometimes of course, rather than writing about the leaf, or drawing the leaf - it is simplest to just look at the leaf

Naught / Kiss of our agony