Art & Words 2023
- Robert Langdon
- Apr 3, 2023
- 26 min read
Updated: Apr 30, 2023
For as far back as the times of Plato, writers have been inspired by art to create poetry true to the form of the original work, yet adding their unique poetic perspective. Art & Words is taking the model one step further by not just engaging existing artwork to inspire poetry, but by also using existing poetry to inspire artwork.
Art & Words consists of an exhibition of art and poetry— side-by-side — that includes artists and poets inspiring one another. Existing poetry was collected by 13 invited poets and artwork was curated from 18 artists throughout the Hudson Valley and New York Metropolitan area. Those artists and poets were given the opportunity to select poems or pieces of art that spoke to them from the submitted work and to create a new piece of art — be it a visual art piece or poem — based on the original inspiration.
Shelley Davis
Nest (2023)
Mixed media, 16" x 20"
click image to purchase
inspired by Nested Heart, Monica Teresa Fiorentini
jd weiss
leaving the nest & flying free (2023)
encaustic medium, photography, india ink, pan pastel/ on rice paper/panel, 12" x 18"
click image to purchase
inspired by Nested Heart, Monica Teresa Fiorentini
Debbie Auer-Breithaupt
Nested Heart (2022)
Acrylic and acrylic painted nest collage with a yupo paper "egg shell", 20
' x 16"
inspired by Nested Heart, Monica Teresa Fiorentini
Nested Heart
Nested Heart
break from your shell
undo those wings
I wanna hear your call
You sit up there
safe and hidden
hard with soft colors
seemingly forbidden
Nested Heart
break from your shell
undo those wings
I wanna hear your call
We can stack
sticks and stones
make a pretty home
to call our own
and, yes
You can still gaze
at ladies in flowy skirts
'n cotton shirts
keepin' your head close
to twilight’s haze
Nested Heart
break from your shell
undo those wings
I wanna hear your call
Don’t fly ‘til your ready
'cause I know
these first steps
aren’t always steady
but please break from your shell
undo those wings
I so want to hold your call
— Monica Teresa Fiorentini
Will Nixon
Hood Trees (2023)
Digital photography, 9" x 11"
inspired by the poem Winter Trees, Phillip X Levine
Regina Quinn
Scratching the Sky (2023)
Encaustic with India ink and oils over watercolor, 8" x 8"
inspired by the poem Winter Trees, Phillip X Levine
jd weiss
winter trees (2023)
medium format film/archival pigment print on panel, 20" x 20"
inspired by the poem Winter Trees, Phillip X Levine
Winter Trees
I like the trees best now
With their hands where I can see them
I like the white oaks most of all
Black brawn and brainy
These are the sadhus I know
Caught by the shocking strobe of season
Arms in frantic mad apology
Scratching the sky for one more sun
— Phillip X Levine
Lucinda Abra
Sun Dance
Encaustic, oil and collage on wood
24" x 24"
inspired the poem Star Crossed , Lucinda Abra
Star-Crossed
Inez focused on the slightest sliver of light that snaked under the closed door.
A lone tear trickled downwards, a darkened blotch amongst the field of pillowcase daisies.
Her uncle clawed and raked.
Again. Again. Again.
He disparaged riddles and worries while their bodies merged. One quite willing, hungry even. The other, rigid.
He whispered they were like Romeo and Juliet.
And they were, star-crossed.
She tried to speak, to tell her mom. But inside Inez's mouth, stubborn knots of words refused to dislodge.
They sat there unused, dirty, swollen tangles banging against her braces.
Her menstrual cycles had just recently begun.
So easy to not notice a skipped month or two.
Her uncle arrived punctually every single Saturday to keep Inez company. Ever grateful for family nearby, her mom ran through town doing weekly shopping and a few sundry chores.
She even stopped for a bite with her closest friend, enjoying a little downtime.
A third month, 90 days late, brought alarm.
Inez fainted in class.
Knowing her condition, the school nurse summoned an ambulance.
Her parent fought against revulsion, anger, and fear as the physician expressed her remorse. The hospital could not give the girl her next series of chemotherapy. It would harm the fetus.
Inez, feverish and weak, did not yet understand that her childhood had ended.
She would be a mother by her fourteenth birthday.
That is, if leukemia didn't kill her first.
– Lucinda Abra
simplicity of life
henry thought
taking a walk
down memory lane
would ease his pain
that wakes him
daily
going back
to the 2 room cottage
air perfumed
by lavender
that bees busily buzzed
did he
truly miss this
simplicity of life
no one nagging
well
his mom
every evening
ha
he laughs now
that wasn’t nagging
she wanted him to succeed
follow his dreams
leave the simple life behind
put his head to the grindstone
be better
be grander than this
see what life could offer
marry
buy the big house
fill it with kids
a dog and a cat
maybe come back
for a visit
before her last breath
her smile haunts him
for he missed that day
to busy to take a break
a wife that nags morning and night
nothing seems to be right
she needs more than he can do
when did he lose his way
when did he stray
from his true beliefs
henry
didn’t resist
this last opportunity
unpacking his bag
he found his grounding
in
the 2 room cottage
air perfumed
by lavender
that bees busily buzz
he no longer misses
the
simplicity of life
— Gwynneth Green
Lucinda Abra
Hard (2023)
Paper on rice paper
27.5" x 27.5"
inspired the poem:
Dust
The government was handing out 160-acre parcels.
We hoarded every precious penny for a fresh life.
Determined, Samuel insisted we head west after hearing a real estate agent brag on the guarantee of the rain following the plow. By pushing the farrows soil deep, moisture was created.
Plenty of land was just waitin' to be conquered with dig and seed. One of those Oklahoma plots had his name right on it. His name
My husband often opined how the vast expanse of grain took on a purple hue at dawn. That's the closest that man ever came to being poetic. About wheat!
I birthed babies.
Four died at childbirth.
Franny made it to five before the consumption took her.
Nearly killed me, burying my little ones.
The ground demanded everything, even the entombment of hope.
All this was the before times, not the after.
Then came hell on earth.
The heavens did not, would not, offer one drop of rain.
Samuel took to staring at cloud patterns, citing to no one, except maybe the emaciated horse, that he was sure that the vault of heaven was just about to open up.
During a two-day dust storm, the barn disintegrated as it plummeted by the tempest.
Millions of pounds of earth we had so toiled upon blew from our
aspirations to as far away as Chicago.
Then like the tale of Job, our suffering only increased.
The earth heaved and thrashed.
I could not see my husband, though we stood only feet apart.
An enduring hunger left us empty with longing.
Samuel put salt on his boot and shoved it greedily into his parched mouth. They killed him, those farm shoes.
Dirt coursed through the papers ma had sent me. As I read those recipes, my fingers traced aside the fine particles of blowing turmoil, imagining satisfying tastes like that of a baked potato. I ate them papers, chewing them slowly.
Uselessly I worked my broom in a dreamish frenzy, resolved to conquer the warrior terrain. Finally, one corner of the house was left, along with a chair, my broom, and the good book.
The land was as barren as I was.
From dust, we all return.
— Lucinda Abra
Debbie Auer-Breithaupt
Kitsune (2021)
Acrylic and watercolor market on canvas
11" x 14"
Kitsune inspired the poems
kitsune
summer sweet grass,
breath, slow as a
tender whisper, with
friendship on it’s tongue,
she and I promises kept,
we have journeyed as one
soul, from our simple births,
precious butterflies carry our
love, from palm safely
to aqua citrine sky
— Michelle DeCicco
Sophia
Sophia
sought solace
in the flowery field
closing her eyes
images of a broken heart
not once
but thrice
sadness
hung heavily
releasing a deep sigh
falling into a meditative state
a magical spirit materialized
a guide
reminding her
to listen
be patient
be aware
be cautious
nudging her
Sophia stirred
still there
she held out her hands
he removed
her broken hearts
— Gwynneth Green
Kitsune
—based on a painting by Debbie Auer Breithaupt
Kitsune, little fox, my friend,
you hand me three cracked hearts
whose hues and shapes, like
bleeding heart blossoms,
tear at my own heart,
since we lived close together
as friends and companions.
Kitsune, little fox, my guide,
messenger from Inari,
goddess who descended
from Heaven to Japan
in the midst of famine
riding a white fox:
patron of bladesmiths and merchants,
you’ve brought me luck and good fortune
throughout the years.
Kitsune, little fox, my lover,
with a whoosh
of one of your nine tails
you changed me to being male
and changed yourself to female—
we had a son, and at the same time
my dog had a pup, which, as it grew,
got jealous of you, became
more and more hostile to you:
you begged me to kill it
but sadly, I refused, and one day
the dog attacked you so viciously,
you turned back to your vulpine shape,
leapt over a fence and fled.
Bereft, I called after you,
“You’re the mother of my son
and I will always love you.
Come back.” And every evening
you steal back
and sleep in my arms
as a woman, but at daybreak
you leave as a fox.
So you are never fully mine
and I am never fully yours.
Now you look beseeching
as I gaze at each of the three
cracked hearts you gave me,
and I feel my heart breaking,
for I still feel we are one:
I am in you and you are in me,
Kitsune, dear little fox,
my friend, guide and lover.
– Elizabeth Shafer
Debbie Auer-Breithaupt
Lullaby (2021)
Acrylic on canvas, 20" x 20"
Lullaby inspired the poem
Lullaby
sounds vibrate, from
space of heart,
energizes, vocal cords,
lull, wee one to
slumber,
with melody, equal to cardinal’s
all nature feels anew
– Michelle DeCicco
Debbie Auer-Breithaupt
Timeout (2022)
Acrylic, watercolor on scrathcboard
Timeout inspired the poems
Escape
A pointy chill, seeping in through the big window, sat her up in bed. The soft bear absorbed her dark fear. They saw each other in the red light: Dragon with his curved horns and spiky teeth, Girl in her fuzzy sweatsuit, bear fur pressed under her nails. I am afraid she said. I am afraid too, he said. Their eyes, in the violet shadows, heated the air of the room until a mountain range of fire swept the wall behind them, flickering each other's eyes. They sat as the rest of the house burned: the gray walls, ugly wallpaper, indifferent furnishings. They heard the rest of the household shouting, running away from the crackling fire growing louder. The big window siphoned smoke into the greater dark. Girl noticed the feathery white tips of Dragon’s wings, intricate gold and red streaks – embroidered flames. Dragon saw how Girl made sure to miss Bear’s eyes as her hand gently swept over his head and arm. I am afraid she said. I am afraid too, he said. Strips of black wallpaper slid to the floor as the shouts and fire receded, the air brightening to a clear yellow. Will you take us away from this place? she asked. Yes, said Dragon, offering Girl the strong curved horns of his back, his soft wings.
— Ana C.H. Silva
The Dragon & the Queen
Long ago,
a dragon made a deal with a Queen.
He’d let her rule the world, if he’d remain unseen.
There was only one of his kind,
He’d be killed if they could find,
The monster from the sea.
Though he was just like you and me.
He roamed deep.
Fathoms below.
Deep as the disbelief,
That a dragon could love.
With his snake-like body and wings like a bat,
teeth like a tiger and eyes of a rat...
The townspeople would find him,
Too ugly for love,
Unfit to live.
Although he could fly,
he ‘d stay below the sea,
Knowing no one could believe,
He was just like you and me.
But the Queen knew better,
That’s why she was Queen,
She kept her promise,
and all it would mean.
Come morning, she was bowed down by the King.
The squire, the jester-- every living thing!
Twas evening when the curtains were drawn,
Come virgins and maidens to fan her till dawn!
She’d wake for fresh air,
and summons them all to retire.
For at night she was refueled,
by the dragon’s spitfire.
He kept his promise,
and stayed down below,
He would only appear,
for her in dark shadows.
Risking his life, for the guards were in sight,
She watched where his shadow,
appeared in the moonlight.
Quietly she escaped,
to the edge of the sea,
Then he guided the forces,
that danced with her delight!
He could tip-toe on the water,
Sending ripples far below
And shoot up like a cannon
Sending waves to her toes.
He made her love, when she was cold.
He kept her young, while she grew old.
He made her laugh, when she cried.
He made her live, when she died.
No one ever knew,
of the bond they had.
When the dragon sank low,
she was all he ever had.
There was a kingdom at her feet,
and fire in her soul,
She could command her army, but
love she could not control.
One day in battle, the Queen was dethroned,
and left for dead, by the side of the road.
While tucked away deep, in the sea he called home
He felt a cold shiver, from his head to his toe,
through his skin and his bones.
The dragon sensed trouble and rushed by her side,
And held the Queen in his wings, Just before she died.
He carried her high, into the sky.
Higher and higher,
To the stars,
They did fly.
While kingsmen below,
throughout the countryside,
Threw down their swords,
bowed their heads and cried.
No one ever knew of the friend
that stuck by the Queen to the end.
All the while,
they walked by her side,
Yet no one saw her, from the inside.
Except the dragon who had to hide, for he was feared and misunderstood.
Now the hand of fate, has left the dragon alone.
Through the seven seas, sadly, he did roam.
Centuries passed as he searched for a home,
looking for a love to call his own.
When he cried, his tears overflowed the seas,
He often thought of his fire-breathing Queen.
She kept her promise and allowed him to live,
but for whom did he now have his spit-fire to give?
Life became overwhelming for a dragon so unique.
Once upon a time, he wanted to fly.
To show the world he was like you and I.
He was ugly, yet, he could smile.
He was feared, yet he knew love.
He chose life over freedom, so he would remain,
But without the Queen, life wasn’t the same.
There was a time,
when he would give it a try,
Now he wanted to die.
Long ago,
a Dragon made a deal with a queen,
She allowed him to live if he’d remain unseen.
Now she was in heaven and he was again all alone.
But she wanted to be near his heart and his home.
Then from the heavens,
a miracle was sent.
The dragon found love, and wisdom,
and all that it meant.
Part-angel, part-dragon,
part-queen breathing fire.
He took her to his wings,
through eternity they would fly.
It was a gift from above,
for remaining true to love,
and their words, and deeds,
and all the good seeds
they planted in their journey through life.
There was only one dragon,
and only one queen,
who loved with a love,
the world had never seen.
If you open your eyes,
and look to the light,
You’ll see them shining in the sun,
and
dancing in the stars at night.
Showing the world, it is worth the fight.
Truth, promise and love---
If you can get a piece of it,
Embrace it with your life.
Hold it with serenity,
and fly on for eternity
Through the world and over the trees,
On the surface and deep in the seas,
high through the heavens,
the stars and the breeze,
You’ll be flying forever,
beside the dragon and the Queen.
– Carolyn Marosy
Shelley Davis
Airmail (2018)
Mixed media: air mail, letters, stamps
11" x 14"
Airmail inspired the poem
Air Mail
My Love,
tears flow over smoke stains,
heart aches to be in your arms,
minutes stand petrified,
eyes scarred with hell on earth,
hours of daylight,
smudged out by blackest smoke plumes,
days fall behind,
as we troop forward,
stumble over the innocent,
we came to protect
— Michelle DeCicco
Shelley Davis
Collage (2023)
Mixed media collage
23.5" x 10.5"
Collage was inspired by the poem:
The Collage Artist
I’m pulling it together.
Combining the pieces in an arranged marriage of mammals and birds.
Acrylic and cut pieces scrapped
from outdated medical texts, stained auto guides and books of jokes that
stopped being funny.
Scissor snipped and clipped
Seals and snails and diving swallows —
lost in a jumble of Indian ink and Library Paste
— arrange themselves into a dance.
My hands are lost in the cut and stroke.
The lines blur as I birth
a new collage.
— Robert P Langdon
Shelley Davis
Rear Window (2023)
Mixed media, 11" x 14"
Rear Window inspired the poem
Rear Window
after Shelley Davis
Red wall, white wall
all the same to old brick.
Make it anachronistic:
air conditioners in the windows
of one fine old Late Victorian.
Great karma wheeling
around the other, wise dwelling:
fire escapes fluttering Tibetan
prayer flags.
These rear windows no MacGuffin,
no red herring, they are the real
thing: life beating behind each pane.
O to be in a painting within a painting
where two dwellings hang.
– Patrick Hammer, Jr.
Shelley Davis
Help! (2019)
Mixed media on canvas, 8" x 10"
Help! inspired the poems:
Help
taking children taking women,
HELP!!!! HELP!!!!
no longer silent,
scream till hoarse,
see something say something,
missing children missing women,
fight back,
no longer afraid,
fists in air,
trafficked children trafficked women,
this must stop,
have to protect each other,
HELP!!!
— Michelle DeCicco
help
help me
Ronda
help help me Ronda
i’m feeling so down
no one’s around
if i scream any louder
this wall will
fall
breaking me
Ronda
pick up the phone
it’s Sam
damn
Ronda
pick up the phone
Ronda
i found your number
on the napkin
you stuffed in my jacket
2 years ago
you once hummed me a tune
the girl can’t help it
can’t help loving that man
i know your still around
saw your posts
on instagram
help me Ronda
help
i need someone
not just anyone
it doesn’t matter
at all
if you’re
helpless helpless helpless
i’ll help you
you help me
we all get by with a little help from our friends
are you singing
you should be
if not
stop
reading this
turn the radio on
you know that song
help me Ronda
help help me Ronda
— Gwynneth Green
Josepha Gutelius
More Art Everywhere (2023)
Acrylic on canvas, 16" x 12"
inspired the poems:
More Art Everywhere
more art everywhere,
creativity expands,
art show discussion
don’t be an art snob,
fill your mind and heart with art,
help change the world’s view
— Michelle DeCicco
More Art Everywhere
after Josepha Gutelius
Who’ll wear that announcement
on their back, calling out for more
art and everywhere?
Out the window, in the hallway,
at the arcade, in the lobby—
calling out for more, more.
Under rocks and stones,
minuscule dirt and pebbles,
all art on their own terrain.
Sky a shifting canvas. Rain,
hail, rays, slant of light: art.
And wind that invisible sculptor.
More art in the subway, more
art on plates, in glasses, all
nature a plein air studio.
Twigs, books, mirrors, bone,
hammers, nails, hooks, bulbs—
all artistic and everywhere.
Art on our breath, in our brains,
on our minds. More art everywhere
and more, more to come.
— Patrick Hammer, Jr.
Josepha Gutelius
Masked Nude In a Puddle (2023)
Acrylic on Canvas, 30" x 20"
inspired the poems:
Masked Nude in a Puddle
1. A thing that smells like hard-ridden horse, sweat, fresh-
turned earth.
2. Whose blood was startled into existing.
3. A shrieking … — call it human — okay, definitely human, but: swaddled in an inconclusive disguise.
4. Time-locked, and in a hurry,
definitely marked for extinction
— with no backup plan?
5. The thing at birth:
Fallen
butt-first into a muddle puddle
A rising
Cancer, sun in Capricorn, the Year of the Horse:
6. Its DNA matches mine? —
I bet you already guessed that.
– Josepha Gutelius
Masked Nude in a Puddle
after Josepha Gutelius
Little bits of me everywhere
pixelating, floating away into
cubistic squares, geometric bits.
My face, falling apart, I know
I cannot smile now.
My breasts so out of focus,
soon they’ll be unrecognizable
with all this unwanted, watery
distortion, this blurring of color
all around me.
I’m sitting in a puddle.
What’s in this water? Who has
put this metamorphosis upon me?
I have my eyes still and one
slightly warped hand.
There must be a solution,
an incantation, an annunciation
for what has begun.
– Patrick Hammer, Jr.
Veronica Lawlor
Introspection (2023)
Ink, conte crayon and acrylic on oil paper, 30" x 22.5"
Introspection inspired the poems:
Introspection
Our shadowed pain,
crawling through
heart and mind,
need to heal and release,
Our self critic
beating us down,
paralyzing every
thought and action,
tiny steps to self love,
Our ego,
getting in our own way,
ask for help,
You Got This!
— Michelle DeCicco
the dancing diva
the rehearsal
ended
she slipped inside
herself
reflections of the past
haunting
cursing her clumsiness
having stepped
on old beaus toes
just too
many times
she silently laughs
they were the fools
making fun of her
in whispers that
echoed in the hallways
readying
a shallow breath
a long stretch
fingers to toes
hold it
hold it
yes
hold it longer
releasing the tension
not really looking
for attention
now in pose
a crescendo rises
from below
curtain ascends
hiding a smirk
why those jerks
from the past
came to mind
she in perfect balance
the primadonna
will dance
— Gwynneth Green
Veronica Lawlor
Star Mass (2023)
Acrylic and collage on cradled wood panel, 18" x 24"
Star Mass was inspired by The Sleeping Prophet (Astronomy of Love), Josepha Gutelius
The Sleeping Prophet (Astronomy of Love)
If we, the dead, know anything
about Time,
we know it can be reversed
repeatedly,
out of dirt and cinders
we come back
Every one of us
given a name, given a wick-twist
of a soul
Exalted,
soul, bone and flesh, heartbeat to heartbeat
thickening with life, greedy for
love,
Every one of us
in the plush arms
of giants
crammed full of dreams and milk
and star mass.
Newly arrived we lose
count of the number of deaths
we’ve departed from,
the abandoned
embraces, the food not
tasted,
The whole of yesterday
and tomorrow
a flimmering drift of earth’s
debris, small fires stuttering to explode.
— Josepha Gutelius
Piper Levine
Red Tears (2022)
Acrylic on paper, 25" x 37"
Red Tears inspired the poem:
To the Eyes Drawn by Piper Levine
These eyes have sipped the light out of the moon.
These eyes have chosen an eye shadow the color of dawn.
These eyes have answered the thousand tiny eyes of the birds singing the dawn chorus
With a silence never before heard by the birds or by anyone else,
A silence learned on the dark side of the moon,
Where silence has been preserved across the unbroken eons of creation,
Where one word spoken aloud would be an earthquake.
Two words, forget it.
Two words like, Hi Mom
Or three like, See you later.
It's true, these eyes have never spoken a word, but they are not silent.
They make a sound like the molten core of the earth boiling but muffled beneath our feet,
A sound like sunlight ping ponging through the atmosphere to give us a blue sky,
Or like our minds in that rare instant we don't know what to say next.
Then we do.
We say, quit staring, please, it's not polite.
These eyes are too large, they know too much, they've seen everything we do:
Our first kiss & our last hangup, our graduation ceremonies & our forgotten passwords,
Our cross-eyed lives that never turn out as we planned.
Maybe you've seen these eyes before in cartoons or on marble statues,
But you haven't. These eyes are truly unique.
Angry, intrepid, unblinking.
They won't stop until the sun burns out,
& then they'll be ghosts free to find a new home in the universe.
– Will Nixon
Linda Lynton
Spring Equinox (2015)
Oil on canvas, 20" x 16"
Spring Equinox inspired the poem:
Spring Equinox
Wherever
you are,
by some window, some river,
an identifiable drone,
like a name
chanted,
gives a clue —
I’m listening.
I see green.
I’ve put my body here by a window
near a river
veiled in green
glass
light,
and liquid
long shadows.
I’m thinking of you.
I’ll find you soon. That’s all there is to it.
— Josepha Gutelius
Linda Lynton
Solstice Sunrise (2015)
Oil on canvas, 20" x 16"
Solstice Sunrise inspired the poems:
hello light
wakening
from a dream
clouds of confusion
lingered
bits of darkness
clung to her cerebellum
an effort to make sense
out of senselessness
lying in bed
wandering through
the fictional facts
had she lost her way
purposely
being confronted by bears
stumbling down a path
stubbing her toes
where were her shoes
thorns of the underbrush
tearing her clothes
scratching her skin
she didn’t bleed red
the blood ran blue
falling into a creek
to cleanse her wounds
the stinging
made her smile
drifting down stream
the dream changed direction
who was that person
holding out a hand
pulling this drenched soul
to safety
opening shades
dreams dissipate
replacing angst with calm
hello light
– Gwynneth Green
Summer Solstice
—based on a painting by Linda Lynton
Rose, orange,
yellow, white
clouds billow up
into a clear blue sky
after the long dark of winter:
a time of rejoicing
to feel the sunlit warmth
of long summer days—
but what of the two
dark leafless trees
rising tall and stark
against red plumes
of fire, and thick grey clouds
of smoke—or the three
small pine trees bent
against wind, below
more thick grey clouds—
are these reminders
of recent raging forest fires
spread by rising windstorms
in our fragile warming planet
and a portentous signal
of more of these to come?
—Elizabeth Shafer
Linda Lynton
Winter Solstice (2015)
Oil on canvas, 20" x 16"
Winter Solstice inspired the poem:
Winter Solstice
we breathe in,
deep hold,
release at turtle’s pace,
our spirit lifts from inside,
spreads it’s bare soul
branches, invite
rhodonite, blends through
carnelian sunrise,
a new season welcomes rest,
hypnotic rocking of winter trees,
lazy white flakes to come,
lulls our heart to,
feel deep
— Michelle DeCicco
Linda Lynton
Owl Dreams (2023)
Ink and natural dyes – walnut, onion, turmeric and indigo, 5" x 5"
inspired by Owl Limerick, Gwynneth Green
Linda Lynton
Spoilt for Choice (2023)
Ink and natural dyes – walnut, onion, turmeric and indigo, 5" x 5"
inspired by the poem Owl Limerick, Gwynneth Green
Owl limerick
there once was a cross-eyed owl
who always wore a scowl
In the dark of night
He would hoot with delight
As the mice freely prowled
— Gwynneth Green
Marjorie Magid
When She Looked West (2023)
Acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20"
inspired by When She Looked West, Bruce Weber
When She Looked West
When she looked west
The church bell struck midnight
The priest bowed to the holy spirit
Day turned to night in the canyons of the imagination.
When she looked west
I buckled my shoe
I apologized for being stupid
I stared off toward the horizon.
When she looked west
The strawberries ripened
The gyroscope swiveled
The umbilical chord tightened.
When she looked west
I was happy as a returning sailor
I was lifted into the air by a helicopter
I was thrilled to be among the birds and bees and barracudas.
When she looked west
The brown dog howled
The black horse whinnied
The color blue drowned
In the last rays of sunlight.
When she looked west
It was independence day
It was a big hullabaloo
It was enticing as a summer romance.
When she looked west
I slept like the baby Jesus.
I prayed for her salvation.
I demanded the sea part
And let her pass
Without any explanation.
— Bruce Weber
Marjorie Magid
At the Beach (2023)
Acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20"
At the Beach inspired the poems
At the Beach
cool turquoise waves,
warm summer wind,
beach hours pass,
feel like minutes,
husky pup splashes about,
watching her handstands,
these two inseparable,
day well spent
— Michelle DeCicco
At the Beach
The film strip click click clicks to life.
1971 is scrawled on a paper plate
that my sisters hold up for the camera.
They make goofball faces and run to their friends.
The camera pans back to Seaside Heights
and my family clumped together on the beach.
Aunts and uncles long gone are there with some of the cousins.
I'm 6 — the youngest – and they're burying me in the sand.
I stand up, shake it off and dart toward the ocean
stopping just before my feet meet a wave.
I skirt the surf but never take the plunge.
I'm smiling unaware of what I now notice as an adult.
I'm smiling unaware of all the loss ahead. But at that moment,
it’s a happy place.
11 years later and I'm headed for the shore, sneaking Ballentine out of pops basement cabinet. I’m with the girls but I’m not noticing the bikinis.
I’m stroking my adolescence to the briefed and shirtless jocks that I dared sneak a glimpse at in the locker room, now very present at the beach. I’m brave behind my sunglasses staring openly at the glistening display.
There's Edie sitting next to me in the photo dreaming of Sting.
And Jackie in the background doing the Time Warp. Or maybe
the Safety Dance. And Mike.
And then there's Mike sitting across from me watching me
behind the sunglasses. He’s waiting for when it's time to drop off the girls.
For when — on that day – we pull behind the reservoir and he gives me my first kiss.
The adolescent me in the photo was in the prime of discovery. The joy flushed my face, unaware of the heartbreaks ahead.
But in that moment, it’s a happy place.
I think of those beach memories now and want that kid
to kiss the wave. For that teenager to take a dive.
For the adult to rediscover the purity of love
And to feel all tingly again in a happy place.
— Robert P Langdon
Robert P Langdon
Boys at the Corner Store
collage, 8x10
inspired by the poem:
The Boys at the Corner Store
The boys at the corner store are no longer 15.
Still they stand there with cigarettes, and broken dreams.
Still checkin’ out girls, in any language spoken.
Sippin’ soda pop or coffee?
I don’t know.
They check out dime-store drop-ins,
this time with a jaded eye.
For time has lapsed, as the car go by.
Years go by, like the girls.
Time stands still for the boys at the corner store.
They’re still standing there, hands in pockets.
Shakin’ change, starin’ at strange, passerbys.
Shakin’, shakin’ his pocket
Smilin’ as the sun shines down
On the girls as they go by.
The boys at the corner store,
are no longer 15.
— Carolyn Marosy
Ingrid Nichter
Ghost Ship (2023)
Mixed media on canvas, 6" x 18"
Ghost Ship inspired the poem:
Expat
Illusionary tales
stamp the course
on the sea of obligation
yet, wish you here
does not rescue truths
unsaid;
the duty is to be near
with cargo stowed
above shallow waters
amid cobalt aqua skies
and a dim moon
to dull the crosswind
ahead.
– Monica T Fiorentini
Ingrid Nichter
Woman On a Subway (2023)
Mixed media on canvas, 12" x 12"
inspired by Woman On a Subway, Phillip X Levine
Woman on a Subway
so you're sitting and you're staring and something just smacks you on your head and you turn around and it smacks you on your other head and you're not hurt but something is running out your ear and running down your neck and it kind of tickles but not funny tickles so you're not laughing but you're not crying either in fact you're really not doing anything either way but you don't care because
a woman
and at home all the people you've never met seem to know you because they keep phoning and though they never say anything you know that they don't know you because they always mis-pronounce your name and when they tell you that there's no annual fee you know that they're lying and it'll still take a lifetime to pay and what are you gonna do with all this aluminum siding anyway living in an apartment with no windows and only walls, only inside walls, so you tell them that you've died and hence you won't be needing siding, but if they'll leave their number you'll call them back if you snap out of it, but they won't and you don't and besides you know aluminum siding is quite different than a silver lining and instead you've got clouds that are so heavy they aren't lined with aluminum or silver or anything except probably lead and so it makes sense that they're so heavy and that your arms are so tired and your back is so tired and your head is so tired and you're just so tired just from carrying them around all the time but right now you don't care because
a woman
on the subway
and your feet hurt because they do or maybe because your shoes don't fit anymore, at least the way you've been wearing them so you swear tomorrow you'll try them on your other feet and yet you know you won't and who cares about shoes anyway because it's pants that count and you should know because you're wearing them at least in this family, and in that family, and in fact in every family you can ever think of because that's what you've always remembered wearing and always remembered other people not wearing and besides you know like you've never known anything else that every family has to have someone who wears the pants and you're just it and yet you wonder if you'll ever get the chance to take them off and just run naked and almost without worry and you remember once you almost did, you almost jumped into the river or was it a lake or maybe it was the ocean but then you remember you just don't know because you just didn't jump so you don't know but you decide then and there you don't care because
a woman
on the subway
moving towards you
and then it's dark and you've never seen it this black before and you can't even see your own finger as you jam it in your nose to see if you can feel even when it is so endless black and you think you feel but you can't be sure, because you don't really know really, you just think you know and you just get by with that because that is all you ever have to get by with anyway and so you let it go at that, and in fact you let everything go, including all the things you've ever dreamed of and all the things you've ever wanted and clutch instead the few things you've got like your nose and your finger and sometimes once maybe just maybe the sight and smell and touch of possibility of
a woman
on the subway
moving towards you
now moving away
— Phillip X Levine
Will Nixon
Falling Light (2023)
Acrylic on paper, 25" x 37"
Falling Light inspired the poem:
Falling Light
street light,
iron tall
grounded, shedding
inner glow power,
illuminating what needs
to be seen, energies
expand, as we learn
– Michelle DeCicco
Will Nixon
For Julien (2023)
Acrylic on paper, 25" x 37"
For Julien inspired the poem:
For Julien
Just because you're the biggest cockeyed fish in the sea,
Just because you swim like a Christmas tree,
Just because your name begins with a hook and ends with a pair of fangs,
Doesn't mean someone somewhere isn't eyeing you for a sushi roll,
Or your mother isn't worried about sharks next Halloween.
Your job, Julian, is to teach the sun to swim.
Look around, the dawn this morning is underwater,
Leaving the rest of us to wake up in the dark.
Who knows what the sun did wrong or why.
Maybe it wanted a bath after eons in the dirty universe,
Or simply got turned around and upside down
On its first trip to Saugerties.
The sun boils away at the bottom on the sea.
So, please, Julian, please tell the sun to try again, we miss it so.
Show it how to wiggle with its fins, spare it a couple of your spare eyes.
The sun will follow you to the surface if you treat it with respect.
The sun will remember its proper place in the sky.
The day you turn thirteen is coming soon.
The girls waiting on dry land will want to get a whiff of you.
– Will Nixon
Will Nixon
Knights (2023)
Digital photography, 9" x 11"
inspired by Toy Soldiers, Bruce Weber
toy soldiers
my daddy bought me a thousand toy soldiers
and I play war whenever I’m alone.
sometimes in the early morning light
i arrange them in infantries
along the ridges and valleys of my bed sheets
sending hundreds to their death
In the cauldron of wrinkles and folds.
someday i’m going to shoot my enemies
that’s what my daddy tells me.
now me and my buddies
go rat a tat tat
and somebody falls down
but they’re only fooling.
anyway I prefer playing with my soldiers.
sometimes I fight the battle of gettysburg
over and over on my bed
arranging the blanket
like devil’s den or cemetery ridge.
i get a lot of satisfaction
watching rebels fall.
this is more fun
than dancing with all those silly girls.
someday I’ll be smarter than everybody
and have a big farm in pennsylvania
and hire some immigrants
to re-enact the battle of iowo jima.
but now I play alone with my soldiers
while nobody’s looking
in the privacy of my room . . .
i can kill anyone.
— Bruce Weber
jd weiss
making roots (2023)
medium format film/archival pigment print on panel, 20" x 20"
making roots inspired the poems:
making roots
after Jd Weiss
as if some giant jack
or jill or jane or john
plucked a limb from
some tree and placed it
here for rooting in this shallow
rocky field-sized puddle
all so small if a giant
ever-widening ripples a mirror
on the expanding universe taking
root like this unfolding tree
the giant has drifted off
into the fog/mist that prevails
roots like tendrils will crush
submerged stone and
the tree will grow tall as jill
– Patrick Hammer, Jr.
TRANSMUTATION: A MOVEMENT AROUND A CIRCLE
AFTER J.D. WEISS
it’s shifting
moving over to the other side
with a yelp and a howl
like a jump in the lake
or a movement around a circle
watch for strange movements
pledges of faith to the moon and stars
excerpt yourself from impolite impulses
moving toward the horizon with a bang
provide identification to the fog and heavy breezes
the diving rod pointing toward faraway stars
come rest your head on these thoughts
these round mountains surrendering to father time
these momentous occasions calling for truth
these poetic expressions of beauty and foreboding
– bruce weber
jd weiss
last dance (2018)
medium format film/archival pigment print on panel, 20" x 20"
last dance inspired the poem:
Last Dance
lavender iris lands,
delicately joining
shadow, in a
sweet pas de deux
– Michelle DeCicco
Nancy O'Hara
Wake Up! (2023)
Monotype, 24" x 18"
inspired by Weeds, Ana C.H. Silva
Weeds
There are shadows that darken what we know of the day. There are winds that tell us what we want to know. All torso, there is a tree whose rough bark kneads the tightness of our neck muscles. There is grass so soft and dry. It flickers, unconcerned, at our bare feet and ankles. Bugs fall into our hair, the wind cools our necks. There is a silent space where we sleep and sleep, not needing the sun. Sometimes we smash the wonder of the day within the grinding metal turnings of our mind and then, later, feel utterly abandoned. The grass grows greener every summer until it goes brown again and fades to a light brown hairy mass. Our picnics turn into just strawberry tops, plastic wrap, and soggy paper plates. If we are lucky, the grass will be sprinkled with purple thyme that smells like contentment. When the ground is wet with a soaking rain that makes our feet slip, and we tumble in the air until we feel the full hardness of the earth, that is when we know we are awake.
— Ana C.H. Silva
Elaine Ralston
Goldenrod (2023)
Pastel
inspired by Goldenrod, Ana C.H. Silva
Goldenrod
not quite the end of summer
not a beautiful yellow
not the pink hydrangea, full in your hand.
But, stalwart, long-lasting, reliable
it will stay with you
as you eat your cold dinner, flying bugs around your head, in a lone chair, in the sunset.
— Ana C.H. Silva
Jacquelin Oster
Time Travel, 2022
Watercolor and mixed media on paper, 8"x 10"
Time Travel inspired the poem:
Time Travel
after Jacqueline Oster
It’s long after the eleventh hour.
It’s ten after four; no chance
to travel back safely now.
Fog appears but will not
muffle the bell once this
familial clock ticks to its stop.
I’ve been in dream, it seems
so real: my grandaunts on lawn chairs
out back on the farm; my family
standing on church steps after
another hat-and-glove wedding.
I know; I took the black and white.
And Dad in uniform, in dream
he was speaking with me. Was he
speaking with me? What did he say?
All so confusing, all so
other worldly where all time,
that great alarmer, passes.
– Patrick Hammer, Jr.
Jacquelin Oster
Yard Dog, 2022
Watercolor and mixed media on paper, 8"x 10"
Yard Dog inspired the poem:
Yard Dog
There are yard dogs and broken birds.
One day as a child I watched a hatchling fall from it's nest. Splat. The translucent head was too bulbous for its spaghetti neck.
I climbed the fence and scooped up the broken
bird. Then caught it from the corner
of my eye. I made it to the fence but not
before getting bit from behind by a yard dog.
They’ve been sniffing at my ass my whole life.
In grammar school knocking over my milk or pushing me into lockers for a chorus of barks from their pack.
The one who charmed me until I was lost and he was full. Who left me a letter the day he took off to England
ending our summer romance before the season was over.
The one who claimed for four years that he loved
me then screwed my best friend
while I was out dancing with the girls.
The one who clenched my heart in his teeth like a toy
crushed it under a spoon and took it up his nose
damaging any healthy idea I had of love.
Then theres the broken bird that brought me back.
Chased out the dogs from my yard and filled it with laughter.
Helped me find myself again and fall in love with love.
But that bird fell out of the nest. And now he’s gone.
It’s hard keeping the dogs away but his ghost reminds me
what Emily once said: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” Now I need my bird.
— Robert P Langdon
Regina Quinn
Sometimes I Question (2023)
Encaustic with India ink and oils over watercolor, 8" x 8"
inspired by Visiting Day, Robert P Langdon
Visiting Day
I never liked visiting day. Mom would take me with her to the “home.”
It was always cold and smelled of antiseptic. He never remembered
me — the one that his wife fought hard to live to see born
and once I was, she would let go.
He would stare at me, confused by how familiar I looked, then back to mom with a blank face while he listened to her updates
about people who had long fled his mind.
He would look at me again. Hard. Trying to figure out the connection.
The tips of his shock of white hair reaching for answers. Sometimes
he would grab them and his eyes would get excited,
but he would just as quickly lose his grasp and slip back to forgetting.
“Why do you still go to see him,” I ask mom on our way home.
“Because he’s my father,” she said wiping her tears. “And I want him to know that I’m visiting. And that he’s not alone.”
Years later mother would go through this again with her brother.
Holding his hand. Talking to fill the void. Recounting stories from childhood in the hopes that one would trigger a memory and the brother she loved would pop up for a mere second to say that everything was OK.
But sometimes I question if everything is OK. These days
I walk into a room and immediately forget why I’m there.
I talk to people I know that I know but can’t figure out how I know
them. Or a conversation drops out of my mind minutes after it’s been had.
I’m hoping these are signs of getting old. That they’re normal.
But if not …. Then I hope I don’t forget the music. No, not the music.
I’ll need something to focus on when the strangers come on visiting day.
— Robert P Langdon
Rosemary Chase
Rum Script Visual
Digital photo collage on glass
10" x 14"
inspired by the poem
Rum Script
I watch as he pours,
the empty glass
fills as when,
my soul was
filled with you,
this caramel hued
liquid floods
my empty heart,
as it pours down
my parched throat,
sadness tries to
choke me as
the rum soothes,
and quiets
the pain.
— Michelle DeCicco
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