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"Dream Room" 2005 oil on canvas 36 x 60.7 cm
An Old Tale: Moon and Mountain
Mountain crouches still, silent in the night
Before moon lights; then white echoes,
Caressing the rounded head like a new
Smooth glove against deep pocked skin.
Deep mountain lifts his heavy , rocked head
To behold the gloried light, to welcome true
Bright into the ebony dark, to bask his stark
Bulk like a giant hulk flexing.
Perplexed, quiet moon responds, hiding
Her gifted head behind drifting clouds,
Remote in their floating loftiness,
Unaware of the flaring drama before their eyes.
Shyly, moon nods and her soft beams
Fall, opening her light. Boldly, strong mountain
Darkens his frowning form, then lies down, accepting rayed
Fingers. An age passes. Together they gaze still into the night.
Study: Root, Stone and Falling Leaf 2011
Like a Creature
Creatures know all significant things are remembered instinctively.
Creatures know the place to be before entering, when to exit before death.
I encountered death before understanding danger's taste, scent or sound,
Life before knowing the joy, warmth or touch of love.
Small occurrences light the cognisant
Journey between confused youth and clear
Acknowledged adult understanding; each encounter strengthens
Heart and soul, solidifies and sanctifies self.
Be sure of your wooded path; be vigilant of your pure
Movement toward your birthed existence; be
Honest with all your goals, true to all quiet
Work practiced in earnest.
In the end, all that was forgotten of importance will reign
Until the creatures meet you at ground zero;
In the end, perhaps like a creature, you will be able
To move a nest in seconds and still make a home.
"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
The Link
The meadow lark calls but once
In an age given, heralding a sign
Of peace, telling of quiet seasons
Flitting among rose, oak and root.
The raucous beast roars but once
In an age riven, blaring a horn
Of power, ranting of bloody spears
Flicking amid reek, onset and riot.
The small child
Sings small songs,
Skips small beats,
Hugs small toys
Like a lifeline to the lark, like a memory
Born within, despite darkest night: wild
Child seeks the lark, not the beast
For love among the small things of earth.
The given age arrives; the light
Or the might awaits another call.
Child hums small tunes, heeding notes
Of resonance surviving in root and stem.
small study of two shells 2011
Other Poems
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.
"Mountain Cloud" oil on canvas 2006 25.5 x 35.5 cm
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.
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.
Preparatory Drawing for 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.
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 and 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.
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Updated: October 2011 Original work by Marie Scott Copyright © 2011
