“Swiss-born artist Rudy Burckhardt put poets on film and made photos work like sonnets.” Check out this article on the only photographer the New York School of Poets considered one of their own.
This marriage of poem and photo, or photo as poem, poem as photo, brings us full circle, from writing with photographs to writing with words, from considering the full arc of story to the sub-atomic level of the textures of words, of syllables, of letters themselves. What a journey it has been, full of discovery for me and the joy of watching you all make your own discoveries about writing and yourselves.
I’m looking forward to our final formal conferences, and then to whatever next place we find ourselves in as writers.
The Cento I wrote for you:
A Poem to Young Writers Leaving ENAM 170
Can you see them?
Faces wreathed in smoke,
Swimming through the haze
There and not and there again.
My mother tells me
there are things you don’t do
and then THINGS YOU DON’T DO
And there is a difference
Don’t hone your skills
Don’t do your chores
Don’t wait around
For tides to turn
Don’t read your atlas
Does anyone else see the alien in the room?
He is editor to my thoughts. He is always there–
Outline of my imagination restricting without restrictions.
An eye in the corner watches me watch it.
It must have been so hard for this poet
To scrawl this soundless solitary stock
Flee the trees, mountains, metal boxes of things,
mere ceilings, visors, long hairs in the eyes.
He noticed the vines growing from his palms,
crawling between thumb and forefinger,
twisting to the form of his arm.
His brimming coffee cup remains
Though his body has vanished.
To those of us who prefer to listen
To the Clear Moon
While walking in sunshine
A season blue-white,
planes broken sharply by
form and shadow
This world is dark, full of mystery
Our start was destined for success
Silent and slippery beneath the tiny impressions.
Our feet on the pavement actually make a difference
Out there the wind blows.
this was the rinse cycle
the spinning clean, the
wringing out of debris.
the moon stares down in quiet lines
the window open
that twilight can demand
but from which we shall now digress
In front of the mountain backdrop
A goat in suspenders sings
~with fondness, bg