Wandering in Woodacre – 13 October 2020

Contemporary American Art – Chin h Shan

Below – “Brooklyn Bridge”; “Soho Sunset”; “Green Fog New York”; “On the Way Home 1”; “Early Spring in Washington Square”; “Winter Rainy Day Walkers in New York.”

A Poem for Today

“Barn Clothes”
by Michael Walsh

Same size, my parents stained and tore
alike in the barn, their brown hair

ripe as cow after twelve hours of gutters.
At supper they spoke in jokey moos.

Sure, showers could dampen that reek
down to a whiff under fingernails, behind ears,

but no wash could wring the animal from their clothes:
one pair, two pair, husband, wife, reversible.

Below – Allen Jones: “Kows”

Contemporary British Art – Niki Duffy

Below – “At the Window”; “Yokai”; “Under Beetham”; “In the House of Saints”; “Under Lamplight”; “Silk.”

Musings in Autumn: Kawabata Yasunari

“Was this the bright vastness the poet Bashō saw when he wrote of the Milky Way arched over a stormy sea?”

Below – Christopher Turner: “Milky Way Over Sea Ranch” (photograph)

Contemporary German Art – Stefan Neubauer

Below – “Smooth Swing #1”; “The Circle of Passion”; “Don’t Forget Your Dreams, Darling”; “Trump Strip Plaza”; “Welcome Chaos Paradise”; “Paradise and Four Horsemen.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 13 October 2014 – Margaret Hillert, an award-winning poet and author.

“Just Me”
by Margaret Hillert

Nobody sees what I can see, 
For back of my eyes there is only me.
And nobody knows how my thoughts begin, 
For there’s only myself inside my skin.
Isn’t it strange how everyone owns, 
Just enough skin to cover his bones?
My father’s would be too big to fit –
I’d be all wrinkled inside of it.
And my baby brother’s is much too small — 
It just wouldn’t cover me up at all.
But I feel just right in the skin I wear, 
And there’s nobody like me anywhere.

Below – Helene Vallas: “Just me!” (photograph)

Contemporary American Art – Salma Nasreldin

Below – “Star in her eyes”; “Blue Mask”; “Time Out”; “Solo Show”; “Gossip girl”; “The Letter.”

A Poem for Today

by Douglas S. Jones

The spider living in the bike seat has finally spun
its own spokes through the wheels.
I have seen it crawl upside down, armored
black and jigging back to the hollow frame,
have felt the stickiness break
as the tire pulls free the stitches of last night’s sewing.
We’ve ridden this bike together for a week now,
two legs in gyre by daylight, and at night,
the eight converting gears into looms, handle bars
into sails. This is how it is to be part of a cycle—
to be always in motion, and to be always
woven to something else.

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