why untitled, unwritten?

I once labeled everything before it was written, until I found it kept too many words away. Now I am leaving the unwritten untitled, until it grows into a name.

Friday, June 15, 2012

No. 44

I began art journaling recently--actually, yesterday. I also began paging through Mary Oliver's American Primitive.  Both the process of creating and the process of reading poetry are rediscovered pleasures. 

Today, I have one of Oliver's poems, a snippet of which made its way onto a collage of Orla Kiely printed wrapping paper, kraft paper, and watercolor in my new little art journal, which I'll share sometime next week.

The Roses
Mary Oliver

One day in summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit near them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals: there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.

Oliver, Mary. American Primitive. New York: Back Bay Books/Little, Brown and Company, 1978.

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