This week’s #TankaTuesday by Colleen Chesebro is to write a syllabic poem using synonyms of the words “quiet” and “seek.” I decided to try a haiga, although that is a little dangerous.
A haiga, in its original form, is a Japanese painting with a haiku in it. The text and image work together. The reason I think it’s “dangerous” for me to try this form is that my mixed media fun leans more abstract, so some people might not think this is a haiga. However, I am experimenting here because I like the idea of blending text and image.
I used “silence” for quiet (as a noun) and “pursued” for seek.
There’s a lot of truth in this haiga: we never really had a monsoon season this year, and yet it’s now September. How will we get to fall if we don’t have monsoons to shift the balance? We have to actively pursue fall by decorating with pumpkins and eating pumpkin ice cream.
This Impressionist painting is in a French museum. I grew up going to the Art Institute in Chicago several times a year. While I’ve seen amazing Impressionist paintings at the Louvre and at the Courtauld in London, the Art Institute also has a gorgeous collection. My favorite painting there is by Caillebotte. Impressionism used to be my favorite style. Now my taste leans more toward Surrealism and Symbolism. Since I have been immersing myself in Surrealism by writing ekphrastic stories inspired by Remedios Varo, I really needed to zap myself into a different mentality first. So I ate some Ruffles and French onion dip. Get it? French chip dip, French painting.
I decided to write a tanka about the man in the painting who is the husband of the painter. I discovered that he was a painter himself, and the brother of the more famous Manet. He apparently was very supportive of his wife’s career as well as that of his brother. I found that to be very inspiring, especially since I am reading a novel about Varo’s life and how the male Surrealists treated the female painters. Not as colleagues.
It’s been a long time since I wrote posts based on Dawn Raffel’s memoir, The Secret Life of Objects. The idea is to write about an object that evokes memories.
I’ve blogged a couple of times about the vacation trip I went on with my parents when I wasn’t even four years old yet. We drove from Michigan south and visited Louisiana and Texas, among other states. Some of my most vivid memories from the time period were in New Orleans. I will always associate the city with sidewalk painters seated at their easels, the brushes that were extensions of their hands, and of course their fascinating canvases.
When I visited my mother in April to help her pack up some items before her move into the apartment building at her retirement village, I discovered this painting, long forgotten and gathering dust in Mom’s basement. My parents purchased it on that trip to New Orleans, and it hung for years in their living room. I shipped it home to myself, and now it hangs in my living room, reminding me of that vacation and the colorful, exciting world that existed outside Kalamazoo.
Colleen Chesebro’s prompt for #TankaTuesday is to use at least one kigo word in a syllabic poem for the current season, which in Arizona is summer. Colleen explains a kigo: 👉🏻 What is a KIGO? A kigo is a season word used in haiku and haibun (the haiku portion).
She provides a possible list of kigos. Daisies are not on the list, perhaps because many think of them as spring flowers. However, daisies are also summer flowers! So many types: Chrysanthemum*, Marguerite, English, Gloriosa, Shasta, Cape, Oxeye, and Gerbera. I prefer Gerbera because unlike the other varieties they are completely non-toxic to cats! *this variety is on Colleen’s list
With son and DIL living here, we have their dog Theo here as well. He’s such a little goofy guy, and I get to let him out when his mom and dad are both gone for three hours or more. I can’t physically handle walking him on a leash, although in a pinch I can take him on the driveway on a leash because he’s very good for me. But I like to let him roam the backyard, which is fenced. He’s very loved and what’s rewarding for me is that he loves his Grandma! In his photo you can see a very typical expression he gets on his face as he is always trying to figure out what’s going on.
My mother gave me my baby book which I have started to go through. I found a photo in it that I have never seen of the person who was my favorite when I was a kid: my maternal grandmother. In this image I am 20 months old. I also read in the book that for my first week of life Grandma and her other daughter, my sweet Aunt Alice, stayed with my parents and helped take care of me. She was the best grandmother anyone could ever have. The grandmother poems in Rooted and Winged are about her.
For months now I have been writing this post in my mind. The reason is that the post is meant to help clarify my thinking about a matter.
I grew up in an era where people still believed that it was important to “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” and to “put a good face on.” I also like to be seen as strong or even tough. Most importantly, there are always people worse off than ourselves. Some people have such horrible “roads to hoe” in life. It makes me cry to think of what some people go through.
Further down there is going to be a “but.”
Without boring you with too many details, underneath a lifetime of many and varied illnesses, I have a few chronic conditions that are a bit extraordinary. One of these is primary congenital lymphedema, particularly in the lower extremities. It’s what used to be known as elephantiasis.
Additionally, I have a migraine disorder that for the last 25 years has not (for the most part) been headaches, but a sudden and extreme set of symptoms. Because the symptoms didn’t fit neatly into a specific type of migraine, I was told they were “complicated migraines.” Most recently, the diagnosis is that I have genes for more than one rare type of migraine—and that they work together to give me symptoms of more than one disorder. Most likely these are vestibular and hemiplegic.
An extra issue in the mix, and I’ve written about this before, doctors at Mayo Clinic discovered that I had a very rare tumor in my right foot (rare meaning at that time medical staff couldn’t find any medical literature of a tumor in that particular bone). This was a nightmare that went on for 1 1/2 years and was complicated by my lymphedema. There were only two surgeons in the United States that Mayo considered competent to do surgery on this tumor, and it was performed by the AMAZING Dr. Eckhart at UCLA orthopedic hospital (RIP to a wonderful person and doctor). Five years after the surgery, he told me he never thought the surgery would work but he watched over me so carefully. Since the surgery I am not allowed to run, jump, hike, or do most aerobic activities.
I write about these details to give a little context. Back to putting a good face on and all that. Because I am a writer and keep up with current events in the writing world, I am more aware of new ways of thinking about things than I might be if I weren’t writing and especially reading new work. My view of myself that I have had my whole life has been as a blessed person–certainly privileged in many ways–and that I needed to stay tough and “power through” everything and then set it aside. Another way of putting it is to say burying it down deep. Perhaps what best fits is that I never made space for my health issues. I let everything else in my life intrude and take over the space they needed.
But (I told you there would be a but!) reading young writers, I am beginning to change my view of myself. I am disabled. Any time I go out I must have a hat and sunglasses with me for lighting situations (migraine trigger). I can’t go to concerts or sports games because of flashing lights. I can’t travel alone because it’s become too dangerous with the migraines which occur in a moment and are completely incapacitating. I must bring my lymphedema pump with me to travel–as well as lots of other things for the condition, and it takes a lot of time and energy every day. Most importantly, lymphedema affects much of the rest of my health, and as I age (arthritis and other deteriorations, for instance) it will become more and more of a problem.
So, while I have no ridiculous illusions that my situation is comparable to the tragic illnesses of so many others, I am finally realizing that disability has nothing to do with comparison between one person and another. And it isn’t negative or counter-productive for me to finally understand that it’s ok to admit that I am disabled, that it’s just a useful way to communicate with others. If people don’t realize that I am disabled, how can they be supportive?
I wish I had had this epiphany years ago when my son was still young. He has an exceedingly rare disorder that doctors misdiagnosed for decades. It’s so rare that in the NORD (National Organization for Rare Disorders) list it is lumped in with other disorders and diseases instead of being listed separately. At the most, only a couple thousand people in the U.S. have his disorder. The reason it’s important to note the rareness is because the less others know about your disability, the less helpful they are–even if they want to be!
You see where I am going with this? If I had been better about making space for my disabilities, it might have been easier for my son with his own situation. It’s hard enough when people see you from the outside and say, “Oh, it’s not such a big deal,” with absolutely NO understanding of what it’s like to live that life. So, while the gardener and I always respected the importance of his disorder (which I first noticed when he was nine months old, and the pediatrician practically laughed at me), we didn’t teach him to make space.
Now I see everything differently.
Have you ever had a big shift in how you viewed yourself?
OK, ending on something a little lighter. Perry is very unhappy about the cane I’ve been using since I injured my knee more fully when I got home from Michigan. Yesterday, I was walking in the living room, and Perry came up from behind and crashed into the cane, forcing me down on the bad knee. Yes, it hurt like heck, but it was funny, too, because what cat does something like that? A dog might do that if he’s frustrated enough. But Perry was just being Perry! And then we had the hugging session afterwards where he apologized to me! Sweetest, funniest little goober.
Yesterday I posted about asking the new Microsoft ChatGPT to write a blog post about art journaling. I felt a little sad that it could produce a decent freshman essay. But then Amy at https://brotmanblog.com/2023/01/10/time-for-a-break-2/ challenged me to ask it to write a poem. So I decided to have it write poems in the styles of different poets. I asked for a poem about a cat in the styles of Rupi Kaur (who writes simple little ditties that are very popular on Instagram), Sylvia Plath, Walt Whitman, and Luanne Castle (haha). [You see that haha right there? ChatGPT would never do that!]
I am going to post screen shots of the results, although I don’t expect you to actually read them all. But skimming them might be eye-opening as to how AI works.
First here’s Rupi Kaur.
If you know what Rupi Kaur verse looks like you know this doesn’t look like her writing. But there are hints that AI is trying to make this a Rupi poem: “that there is beauty / in simplicity,” for instance.
Now let’s see a Plath version.
Wow, the poem LOOKS the same, but the language is different. It’s dark and sad and somewhat angry. It doesn’t always make sense: “A hunter who leaves nothing dead.” What the heck does that mean? Again, there is no attempt to mimic the form of the poet’s work, but AI seems to have grabbed phrases from the internet and made its own mishmash with a thesaurus.
Here is in my style:
This is quite a change from the Plath. I would say it has a more inspirational tone to it. And some of the language makes me think that AI picked up on my blog posts maybe more than my poetry.
Finally, here is “I Sing Myself” Whitman.
There you go: Whitman’s poem really does sound like an ode to the cat. But same form. All the rhyming, including off rhymes.
Poetry, as we know, tends to be complex, using many poetic techniques, creating multiple “threads.” Poetry can also contain imagery and ideas that are quite idiosyncratic or personal, but rise to a new level in the poem itself. This analysis, if you can call it that, does show me more about how AI works. No way can AI do what poets do.
I thought I would share with you about the practice of art journaling. But first, here is a little water journal I made about three weeks ago. It’s made up of scraps of junk that are colored on a bit and then soaked in water. I love this little thing and keep flipping through it.
Please be patient. Ultimately this post is not really about art journaling.
***
Art journaling is a creative and expressive way to combine art and writing in one space. It’s a personal and flexible form of self-expression that allows you to explore your thoughts and emotions through visual and written means.
Art journaling can take many forms, from drawing and painting to collage and mixed media. You can use any materials that you have on hand, such as paints, markers, pens, scrapbook paper, and magazine clippings. There’s no right or wrong way to create an art journal, which is what makes it such a liberating and therapeutic practice.
One of the main benefits of art journaling is that it can help you process your feelings and thoughts in a non-linear and non-verbal way. You can use colors, shapes, and images to convey emotions that may be difficult to express in words. Art journaling can also help you identify patterns and themes in your life, which can lead to greater self-awareness and personal growth.
Art journaling can also be a form of mindfulness practice. When you’re creating art, you’re focused on the present moment and the act of creating. This can help you reduce stress and anxiety and improve your mood.
***
Mindfulness is so important to me. And I get that through art journaling. I also get it through blogging. But I might be out of a “job.” The above section was written by Microsoft’s ChatGPT!!! I asked it to “write a blog post about art journaling.” Here is the rest of the “post.”
***
To get started with art journaling, all you need is a blank notebook or sketchbook and some basic art supplies. You can start by making simple marks and lines, or you can jump right into more complex drawings and paintings. There are no rules, so let your creativity guide you.
Some people like to set a specific intention or theme for their art journaling, while others prefer to let their intuition guide them. You can also use prompts or exercises to get your creative juices flowing. For example, you might try drawing your current mood or creating a collage of images that represent your goals and aspirations.
Art journaling is a personal and intimate practice, so it’s important to create a space that feels safe and comfortable. You might choose to journal in a quiet space or with music playing in the background. Some people find it helpful to set aside a specific time each day or week for art journaling.
In conclusion, art journaling is a powerful and accessible tool for self-expression, self-awareness, and personal growth. It allows you to combine art and writing in a way that feels unique and authentic to you. Whether you’re an experienced artist or a complete beginner, art journaling is a creative outlet that can help you connect with your inner self and express your thoughts and feelings in a meaningful way.
***
I couldn’t have written more cohesively and comprehensively myself, although I would probably have shared photos and added personal comments.
The next way I engaged with ChatGPT was to ask it to “buy my books available on Amazon.” It responded that it doesn’t have the ability to purchase products on Amazon or any platform. Then it went on to give me advice on how to promote my books through Amazon.
So what do you think? New best friend or Trojan horse enemy? Personally I think we are DOOMED. Upper Case for emphasis. I bet ChatGPT can’t make that choice!
The new poetry collection of poet Ken Gierke, who blogs at https://rivrvlogr.com/, is called Glass Awash. I wrote a review of it and hope it inspires you to buy a copy!
Ken Gierke’s debut poetry collection, Glass Awash (Spartan Press 2022), is about making art, connections between inhabitants of the planet, and the voices that attach and sustain us. These inhabitants can be human, animal, plant, or mineral. In the poem that titles the book, “Glass Awash,” a piece of glass is tumbled in the waves at the shore where it dries under the sun. Then, “From swaying reeds, / a red-wing remarks on / its beauty, soon consumed / / by a frost, a reminder / of each kiss found / in grains of sand.” In this case the connections seem to be between animal (bird), plant (reeds), and mineral (glass and sand). However, the human is implicit as it is the human who records the event.
These free verse poems are spare with a minimum of words so that the images are not cluttered with less important language. The poems protest against “[o]ur growing world of disconnect,” but notice the “invisible connections” within the natural world (“The Intent of Moonlight and Ethereal Synapses”). Although poems are titled “Words without Voice” and “Thoughts without Voice,” the struggle seems to be to bring voices into being. In “Other Voices,” the persona tries to find a stone at the water’s edge “that speaks to you,” and then the stone with other stones will also speak. These stones, much like the tumbled glass, speak to us only if we listen carefully.
Some of the poems within this collection are elegies for the poet’s mother during her final illness and after she is gone. These are beautiful and while still sparely constructed vibrate with love and loss. These are a few of my favorite lines: “Hidden / in the pockets of my mother’s dreams, / surrounded / by the accumulated lint / of a faded lifetime, are dusty memories / sharper / than this morning’s breakfast.” Gierke uses the uneven line lengths to give emphasis to certain words.
Because the poems are short and not great in number, you can read this book very quickly. But you will want to read it again and again to really explore meaning in this lovely collection.
I presume it’s also available in Canada and other countries.
Ken Gierke is retired and has lived in Missouri since 2012, when he moved from Western New York, where the Niagara River fostered a love for nature. He writes primarily in free verse and haiku, often inspired by hiking and kayaking, while his fondness for love poetry may be explained by the fact that he moved to Missouri to be with the woman he eventually married. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming both in print and online in such places as Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, Silver Birch Press, Trailer Park Quarterly and The Gasconade Review, and it has appeared in several print anthologies, including three from Vita Brevis Press and easing the edges, edited by d. ellis phelps. His first collection of poetry, Glass Awash, has been published by Spartan Press. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/
Perry had his abdominal ultrasound on Friday, but I have not yet heard the results. I am giving him lots of hugs because he was feeling pretty sorry for himself going through the medical tests. Notice how his ears are down in a frown.
By the way, I was a little premature about the gardener and I being over Covid. We are but we aren’t. We just aren’t feeling that good yet, and I have a lot of congestion still.
I signed up for Everything Art’s Wanderlust 2023, which is a daily art program with prompts that lasts the whole year. Last year I participated in Care December which is similar, but only lasts for three or four weeks. This summer I did another program through EA that lasted ninety days. Think of what they offer as “mindful, intuitive mixed-media art journaling.” I haven’t felt very creative lately, so I have been preparing backgrounds and/or prepping pages in a journal, readying it for January. I’ve also been fooling around with Visual Poetry. We’ll see how that comes along. And I’ve been working on daughter’s wedding journal. This might sound like a lot, but compared with what I’ve done in the past it is not.
I’ve been making some headway in my reading stack. That’s good because I wanted to write reviews for some of these books. Writers love reviews!
I’m trying to write a poem a day this month, but not holding out hope of anything brilliant coming out of it.
The other day, when I was driving Perry to his appointment, a creamy white bird flew across right in front of us. It was so unusual to see a white bird in the sky around here. I’m sure it was an egret, flying low and slow, but powerfully and illuminated by the sunlight. I’m going to assume this sighting is a positive symbol.
I’ve become obsessed with a 1966 hit by The Statler Brothers: “Flowers on the Wall.” A bluegrassy-sounding song, it won a Grammy that year, and yet it’s weird and chockful of irony. I can’t stop listening to it. See if you think it’s one of the most ironic and sad songs you’ve ever heard:
(Take a look at those Mad Men outfits!)
Anyway, do you know the song or did you just listen? Here are the lyrics:
I keep hearin’ you’re concerned about my happiness But all that thought you’re givin’ me is conscience I guess If I were walkin’ in your shoes, I wouldn’t worry none While you and your friends are worried about me, I’m havin’ lots of fun
Countin’ flowers on the wall That don’t bother me at all Playin’ solitaire ’til dawn with a deck of 51 Smokin’ cigarettes and watchin’ Captain Kangaroo Now don’t tell me, I’ve nothin’ to do
Last night I dressed in tails, pretended I was on the town As long as I can dream it’s hard to slow this swinger down So please don’t give a thought to me, I’m really doin’ fine You can always find me here, I’m havin’ quite a time
Countin’ flowers on the wall That don’t bother me at all Playin’ solitaire ’til dawn with a deck of 51 Smokin’ cigarettes and watchin’ Captain Kangaroo Now don’t tell me, I’ve nothin’ to do
It’s good to see you, I must go, I know I look a fright Anyway my eyes are not accustomed to this light And my shoes are not accustomed to this hard concrete So I must go back to my room and make my day complete
Countin’ flowers on the wall That don’t bother me at all Playin’ solitaire ’til dawn with a deck of 51 Smokin’ cigarettes and watchin’ Captain Kangaroo Now don’t tell me, I’ve nothin’ to do
The song was written by Statler Brothers tenor Lew DeWitt. The lyrics are astonishing with irony (and the sound of a ripping heart) just dripping out of every line. What an amazing description of deep depression.
Do you think the irony makes the story even more tragic?
Can you think of other songs that are equally ironic and yet heartbreaking?
Irony works the same way in poetry (of course). My top choice of an ironic poem is probably Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art,” a villanelle that is one of my favorites.
One Art
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
