"Publication Date"
by Franz Wright
One of the few pleasures of writing
is the thought of one’s book in the hands of a kindhearted
intelligent person somewhere. I can’t remember what the others
are right now.
I just noticed that it is my own private
National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day
(which means the next day I will love my life
and want to live forever). The forecast calls
for a cold night in Boston all morning
and all afternoon. They say
tomorrow will be just like today,
only different. I’m in the cemetery now
at the edge of town, how did I get here?
A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying
I am Federico García Lorca
risen from the dead —
literature will lose, sunlight will win, don’t worry.
I love poetry, always have and always will. The above poem is a favorite. The first time I read it, I laughed out loud. I resonate, I relate so much. Every single line is perfection to me.
I like to read one poem a day. Often I find them beautiful and inspiring and relatable. Sometimes I don’t understand what they are about. But I find that beautiful, too. So much in art—written, visual, musical—is an expression of oneself. It is about how we see ourselves, how we see others, how we see the world, how we understand and don’t understand the world. It is about questions without answers, problems without solutions, and about the impossible and mysterious beauty that is closely connected to experiencing this world fully, the darkness and the light and all the shades in between.
I love creating visual poetry. The other day, I looked through a lot of my prints and scattered them all over the floor: some of my own work, some of old family photographs and some found and vintage prints. I wanted to bring some order into the mess and also get rid of a few bad quality ones. But first, I grabbed my camera, turned on the double exposure setting and took photographs of the prints, each time combining two exposures in camera. It felt like picking different words and putting them into a sentence, or taking random musical notes and composing a new melody, or telling a story where only the first line is given to you. It was quite random with some intention, but no worries about what would come of it, while at the same time enjoying the process of it all - a very freeing creative exercise.
Afterwards, I was delighted and surprised that I liked how some of the images turned out, so I am sharing them here today. They are short visual poems, created after a spur of the moment decision without much control or overall vision.
In turn, one of the images inspired me to write some words. I think they are words I wish I could say to my childhood self.
The orange tree
They told her to pose in front of the orange tree
naked
not literally but
her hands are telling me their
own story.
Her fingers tangled and intertwined into
a curly mess of flesh
vessels and veins
clutched together
blood disappearing
the pale skin
washed out
cold
eyes staring
at bare scars.
All I want to do is grab her hands
untangle
with care
gentle
I whisper
you are permitted
to feast
indulge
celebrate
and taste
the sweetness of these fruits.
More short, visual poems, each telling its own made up story:
Thank you for reading and looking.
Manuela
I love that quote you‘ve shared by Wright! Your photos are always such an inspiration! Thank you for sharing!