poem, print

 

Woodcut print by Bryan Nash Gill.

Dear Ones,

I bought a case, to put my odd objects into, because I felt sad that they were in boxes, and if I am not making these things for me, then who?  As an audience of one, I wanted these things presented in a vitrine, and so they are going into a cabinet.  However, some things are not going to be kept any longer.  

A shoebox of leaf skeletons, although it might be the best thing I own, will be documented and then, tossed onto the wind.  Photographing these things will have to suffice.

Also, a chocolate box filled with fabric snips.  A box of rocks.  Many boxes of shells, coral.  A stack of stamps cut from the RSVP's of my wedding invitations.  A box of conkers.  Seeds and pods.  Winged leaves.  Stems of dried bulbs.

These are the collections that are going, many more are staying: the birds' nests, more boxes of rocks.  Cut scraps of yarn.

All of this saving seems to be what gives me meaning, and that brings me to poem, which I think you should save, in a box, in a collection of poems that bring you meaning.

Tree Rings

There's no choice
near the end
but to curl in
on yourself.

That's all that
remains, but for
that around
which you curl.

- Todd Young.

A Medium for the Message

Dear All,

A message today, an exhortation, for you, from the world of the poets.  Enjoy the subsequent scavenger hunt.







One of the props


I'm afraid I'm an evangelist
of sorts when it comes to

Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance
speech. I have quoted it and

paraphrased it, read it over
the phone to friends far away,

defended it, and listened to
Faulkner himself mumble speedily

through it. It has become part
of the fiber of my very being.

Most importantly, though, it
has, in fact, kept me alive

on many terrifying nights.
For your own good, read it.

-Todd Young.