I was a part of a group show in January which explored the connection between painters and poets and their work. Not often does the writer have a chance to share public wall space with a painter. There were five pairs of painter/poet. My painter was Anne Petty, with whom I also share food, beer, and a bed. The show was a lot of fun, especially once it was on the wall and we could mingle around it over plastic cups of red wine. This is the first of three sets of painting and poem, which weren’t written together but curated and paired from existing work.
A Sycamore Lives Inside Me A sycamore lives inside of me. I trim my leaves daily. Sometimes, I chew them off. Like hangnails. I know it symbolizes growth. It is growth. But who else must deal this way. Never have I peeked a sprout on someone else’s person. Not like the man on the bus who shuddered at the foliage spitting unkindly from my ear. I stopped drinking water for a week, traveled only at night. It stopped its punching youngness, that spurting spirit of youth. But I became listless, lonely and dry as bone. We live together, and so we die. And so I traveled to the countryside. And so I planted my feet in rich soil. And so I stopped caring and became a forest. At least I am not alone.
I will post the other two in time, whenever I think to do it. In the meantime, I am sure that we will see two more writers on this blog, poking their heads out from the sodden literary humus of this Seattle winter. Look forward to it.