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.
'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
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
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