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"Study: Rock, Branch, and Three Roses " graphite on paper 2005
Silk Pattern
Thread loop three, pass over,
Bond two, circle to one.
Patterns touching, given to two
Hands to hold, never ceasing coil
Of thread linking parts that unfold.
Light, riven, weightless, lilting
Red leaf wafts aground, grazing hard,
Concreted, beaten, drilled and cracked
Walk the talk stone-crushed sidewalk.
I heard the whispered sound. Gently.
Dark, swollen, endless, rushing
Blue rill erodes bounds, spilling dry,
Blasted, forgotten, diverted and silent,
Bleakly dead, stone-spread creek bed.
I heard the bubbling sound. Insistently.
Metallic, driven, spotless, careening
Yellow car swerves around, avoiding still,
Splayed, broken, bloodied on road
Leading home, stone-thrown dead deer.
I heard the pattern click, codify, connect. Simply.
"Bed Rock with Crevice I" 2005 graphite on paper 57 x 76.5 cm
Bed Rock
Ancient and scarred, marred by deep heat,
Cold, and incessant wind and water,
You stand against time, warrior red bulging
From the land. I feel your surface cool against my hand.
Smoothed like creamed, silk skin by gentle water fleet,
Grayed limbs splay thin along a narrow bed,
Small dips and curves round your neat,
Sinuous form. I feel your surface sound beneath my feet.
Couched by day or night you lay, rooted by cool lakes
Deep beneath earth and tree, your hued face
Baked by molten sun, yet constant in solid
Blue-moon armour. I feel your strength set within my soul.
I see yellow-grey seeds blow and stop in fey crevices,
To sprout in gay array some spring day,
In that quiet place where footfall comes
By chance. I glance and remember you, come what may.
"Bed Rock with Crevice II" 2005 graphite over charcoal print 57 x 76.5 cm
"Bed Rock with Crevice III" 2006 graphite on paper 57 x 76.5 cm
Congestion
Will we pierce our hearts on the pebbled,
Worn surface of stone or is there a perfect point
Where the eggshell shatters from sheer pressure?
Whither prowls Brigit among shell-shocked periwinkles?
Who will cantilate the memory of worded images
When photocopied memos outnumber inventive thought?
Why do we need number five film or number nineteen,
Warp-shredded cheese pizza? Shall we line up for breaking fast
With the same loaf given to ten thousand people
Willing to pay the perilous price of riven poverty?
We cash promissory lottery tickets for that fleet winning feeling
While bombs wound oceans deep, testing for normal working power.
Weighed sand cushions propelled asphalt against plain,
Wild earth, measured too poor to manage a million stamping feet,
While housing a massive conglomeration of micro-organisms gathered for spring's
Whimsical convention. Air to breathe, soil to touch, seeds to grow demand our attention.
"Bed Rock with Crevice IV" 2006 graphite on charcoal print 76.5 x 57 cm
Other Poems
"Spring Arrangement" 2002 oil on canvas "Autumn Arrangement" 2002 oil on canvas
55.8 x 45.8 cm 50.5 x 76 cm
The Mountain Window
If the mountain and my window might be one,
Small pairs might call overhead flying,
A momentary flash of leafy-orange fall or clear
Sight of mountain with moon shining might happen in a single moment that night.
If the mountain and my window should be one,
Against blue sky should sigh a tree, possibly
He, and all the children running, sliding
Or sunning, all that should live together lining in a single file that day.
If the mountain and my window would be one,
Snow would crust and dip on bird rock, spiked
Grass would mound and colour with yellow-orange leaves,
Rain, sun and every flower blooming would be gained in a single garden that season.
If the mountain and my window will be one,
Pure fleet thought will center on a wish
For sweet happiness, honour and freedom clearly
Standing, all the mountain window landing in a single place that moment.
The "Shore Window " pieces were developed while working on the"Room" images. These pieces place the work within the land that I have seen all my life, walked in, and have come to love. The shore of my home is a dry, glacial deposit with deep ravines and shadows, a long river, and unusual land forms. Hidden in the landscape are small flowers, trees, streams, special rocks, shells on the river, and trails of animals that people now use. Four "Shore Window" pieces exist.
"Shore Window I" 2002 acrylic polymer emulsion on paper 29.8 x 55.4 cm
(3 small graphite drawings of cottonwood trees and shells are included with this work)
Coloured Offering
The land is brown and bleak morning 'til night,
Form illumined by deepest blue shade. In sleek flight,
Brown birds align in sign, fashioned shapes for human
Delight; the jade green river flows endless in its plight.
Through guided sight, I have known its warning, its song
Its way around long tomorrow. On faded orange banks flourish
Spring's yellow-blue offerings, blazoned stance beyond weeks, months of
Forgetting. The desert cannot hide a flower dance forever.
"Shore Window III" acrylic polymer emulsion on paper 30.7 x 74.6 cm
(swans and shells are found on this shore so the wallpaper is designed with a swan -shell image)
The Hills Unframed, A Memory
The path streams around a curve
Deep, sinks into gray-blue shadow
Dark with autumn mist, rank with dank
Animal smell and mushed decay, hushed
By quiet wind and slow-moving, stark
Sage. I engage the sinuous arc
Of the rooted path with the speed of flight,
My might in truth bold from fright.
Light transforms to dark quickly in this road
Of myriad trails, the deep crevices envision
Other shapes, conjure beings undefined, raw
Call of night to unbend human mind.
In kind, I respond despite misgivings,
Running in one with the path, aftermath
Of demons following, curve after curve, until
Over hill, home and I glide safe, glad to be free again.
Drawing of hill fingers
All that Matters, In Part
No part of life gathers force to say
"I am the real thing". Certain parts
Mew and snort, then prey upon others who
Slaughter father son and pregnant daughter.
The human wages war against existent summer,
Persistent autumn, stagnant winter like an insistent enemy.
Only spring is welcome, fragrant with blossoms and mellow walks,
Medicinal recipes curing a period of unquestionable disasters.
Blue stream flows, leaves yellow, ice forms;
Every moment begets a single crimson motion,
A reaction rendering definitive action
Toward hued tomorrow, come joy or sorrow.
Who can say what matters, the misconstrued being
Unhoned. Place a small stone in your path of honours to make
Amends to all enemies who might be friends at the end,
In part, as fleet time unfolds and scatters.
"Flowers From Jack" 2002 oil on canvas 40.5 x 55.5 cm
Everything Jack Promised Then and Now
Then, roses, fine dining,
Wine and perfume,
Room with a leather
Weathering couch, ensconced
Like a conch against the sand,
Banded with colors varied,
Married with pearls and lace
Facing the myriad reflections
Of inflections and nuance of tone
Against bone, skin and fair
Hair. Whereupon, on bended knee,
He, fine Jack, would suppose
To propose a liaison so deft
To leave you bereft of words
Unheard, heralding the final
Fall of your grace, without lace, now.
"Calling Card" oil on canvas 35.5 x 40.5 cm
The Appointment
The clock across the square strikes
Three bongs, sending the message
Skyward that time never stands still.
Woman sits waiting at the appointed hour.
She checks her wrist, lints her navy
Investment, uncrosses her ankled leathers.
Her windowed reflection states nothing to
Spare as she gazes outward from a ten-floor drop.
should knock at the door
feel like the Egyptian feline
come to call, but old badger's
busy with Merlin in the parlor
The floral secretary beams up the trayed
Small china set with cup, coffee, and one
Lump or two. Creamed lipstick face smiles
A question of comfort while floating away.
I sit quietly in the vestibule
coughing, because someone grabbed
my voice. I stand in the corridor
of time, surrounded by chaotic laughing.
I await the badger reminiscing with old
Merlin, wizarding the obvious in a parlor
mushy with spider webs. Dinner to eat,
life to be made: circumstance awaits.
Merlin talks. Badger is asleep.
The oaken door opens, silently allowing
The woman a glimpse of the tabled suits.
The man pauses casually to glance as he chats
His spat to the secretary, then extends the glued envelope.
I feel myself move outside the window
to filter my gaze through the glass,
paned with forgotten memory. Merlin,
enlightened, changes his babble to sonorous cadence.
The woman strides into the steeled box,
Buttoning down from ten to one, hurriedly. Tying
Her red scarf in the wind, she tears the envelope in three
Garbage deposits. The man watches from the paned glass.
The clock changes its count as the days
March along the street of success to the newly
Opened china shop, just near the bricked
Square. The navy door jingles its opening tune.
The third arrangement of floralled
White bounces in, cradled in the hands of oiled
Delivery man, navy to the toes. The card suggests drinks, written
In red. She names day, month, and time in a sealed note.
At the appointed third hour, the man sits by the window, mesmerized
By the ominous clouds gathering early, knowing there'll be
No moon tonight. The woman arrives, dress shimmering
Red. She orders coffee, black, in a white china cup. No lumps.
I Remember
I remember when we were small,
Hardly tall by some standards at all.
I remember when you were five,
Learning to strive, to quietly survive.
I remember friends, the latest trends,
The perfect 'do' to 'don't have a clue'.
I remember times when life became a point underlined
In time, undefined, crossed and declined.
I remember small delicate photos proudly sent,
Time for coffee spent, laughter, hugs,
And after, talk clear and piercingly
Dear to the hearts of all presently intent.
I remember small hands joined each morning as we
Stepped into the uncertain world; by these holding
Clapping singing hands my life has been defined,
Refined, sanctified in honour of all that I remember.
The Waiting
I wait because an ant waits in the corner of the world
Called tomorrow. I wait because all living things
Wait, conscious of passage between moon and midnight,
Between light and dark on a guised night against
The morning's rise. I wait, I call, I listen for the music
Reverberating wildly against my soul in memory of music
Coloured by a brushed palette. I wait because
Creatures form and disappear, skeletal in the nature
Of their universe. I wait, I call, I listen because
Love is beckoning against my heart in memory
Of rhythm drowned by a motioned touch of human.
I wait, I watch, I whisper
A name in memory.
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Updated: June 2009 Original work by Marie Scott Copyright © 2009
