LINE

read before you like *_*

silver eye
…………………  purple line
…………………………………………  yen yelp sky

purple line

purple line

nymph creates a
…………………………….  last myth
from an oyster one
……………………………….  ending posy
python tells us a
…………………………….  final Rye

sycamore shows
……………………………………  ultimate Syringa
typical variation of
…………………………………….  extreme Yuppie
yet
the
gypsie reveals an other
…………………………………………..  supreme hysteria

silver eye

silver eye

purple line
…………………………silver eye
………………………………………………….yen yelp sign

i am sorry but wordpress is not much good to work with in making visual poetry therefor the dots…….
NOW
a question i played with some words, can you see what the word play is???

looking forwards to hear from you

Advertisements

15

A new piece of land art inspired by a year, which is almost behind us.
The prime inspiration for the land art is an odd drifting part of a boat found in Rotterdam.

drifting oddness in Rotterdam

drifting oddness in Rotterdam

A great piece for some drifting land art however, just last year the canals of the UK had a drifting piece, called uprooted trees, so moving away from drifting. The shape stays as a pattern for planting trees.

reflecting thoughts

reflecting thoughts

A place for reflecting on our human being and the strength of trees.
Where ever I cruise with the Wånderlust I see the reflection of trees in the water growing like pieces of art holding on the edge of the land.

The next inspiration comes from a land art poem which is very popular on Flickr photo sharing site.

why

why

It made me think about a piece I made once in response to a video I saw about exponential function 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128 , etc.  How even today we still believe economical growth has no limit and keep on moving towards an ever increasing number. The report from the club of rome did already mention the impossible of continues growth, in the early seventies.

can we count

can we count

In the point of the pattern i plant one tree the next row 2 and than 4 finalising it with a row of 8 trees.

Further inspiration came from the street trees, how they are planted in the jungle of concrete and bricks. Around a street tree you will find a bit of earth, a place to shit for the city dogs. In 2013 Stamper died at the age of 16, my dear old doggie.

street trees in Dordrecht

street trees in Dordrecht

Dordrecht the place i was born the place where my papa died this year, looking over a chestnut tree, which stands at the edge of the river.
Not a square at the foot of the tree, too many corners for my liking. A circle with rocks around each single tree, filled with sticks as a mulch.

a vision between the stones of time

a vision between the stones of time

How dead trees help the living trees, going back into the earth, to feed the living. A vision of drifting sticks came into my mind. The sticks and pieces of wood we find in the canals drifting along the boats, the sticks we find, hiding behind the lock doors.

from the old comes the new

from the old comes the new

Willows, lots of Willows showing the art of trees showing the inspiration of drifting.

willow reflectionThe unexpected appearance in the spring, a living source of nectar for bees.

black hoodie

black hoodie

8 Willows it will be.
In between not so sure yet, Oaks or even Ash.
Every tree gets her own poem, some written in the past, some written now, some will be written. 15 written poems, land art poems, the written landscape take your time to read while you grow.

a poem once written this year recovered in the stream

a poem once written this year recovered in the stream

golvende momenten
van vrede
vallende draden
van het evenwicht
vloeiend naar de
leegte

Perhaps i will find it again, maybe not.

de river streams past

de river streams past

The location is clear somewhere on the edge of water, perhaps a peninsula, even better an island.
The shape made with iron hidden by driftwood. Iron collected from scrapped metal boats. You can visit the island by boat, only.

a drop in the ocean

a drop in the ocean

15 drops hidden in the ocean, drifting to be seen.

And

That is how a proposal was born.

READ TO DISCOVER

At the moment I am working on two small poetry books which will be sold along the canals.
The question came up: should poetry be self explanatory, so people will read and understand about what you are writing? Shall Poetry be made according to the rules and regulations of language – grammar and spelling  – or can the poet just play with words?
The discussion came about due to a line in one of my poems were it looked as if the word “leave” should have been “leaf”. My answer is: it can be both, both meanings, whatever you want. When you read it in the context of the poem it even can be both, but I spelled it as leave meaning departure.
Leave has several other meanings like holiday, farewell, exit, goodbye and leave as a verb has similar meanings; depart, go, retire, pull out, set sail, abandon and next to it you have ‘leave out’  which means exclude.
In the poem:  “Where the leave touches the stream” followed by “soft reflection drifting into a motion of no direction” So it cold be both a leaf from the tree just fallen in the canal, or a departure or even a holiday. That makes it, in my opinion, special; that makes it literary art created with words, being creative with words.
If text needs to explain something you should not be creative with words but weigh the meanings of the words and use them in a clear matter.

Image

old text Cathach of St. Columba

The druid in Celtic society, as the wise people, memorised their knowledge in the form of verse and poetry. These poems are not self explanatory but a way to train your memory as the Celts didn’t use books or script to store their knowledge like the Romans did.
When we look at these old poems, specially those that were written down in Ireland, we will be puzzled as time changes language. A language is not static, so the text can’t be a true text and will always be interpreted. Even more so when a text is translated in an other language.
We use language mainly as a form of communication. Art can become a form of communication but also can be open to the imagination, poetry can be imaginable, being dream like – even unreal – that shows the beauty of poetry and language: using words in a dream like way to stimulate the readers imagination.
Language can be just like a picture we all see it in a different way, as Rene Magritte said: “this is not a pipe” under a picture of a pipe.

My poetry will be with a photo but the poem doesn’t explain the picture, both will show a way of seeing. The human imagination comes in many shapes and forms and we shouldn’t be afraid of it. Some of my poems show how I see the photo, or the moment the photo was taken this doesn’t mean that you should see it in the same way as me. The title of one book is; “the little book of drops” yet every drop shows a lot more than just a drop of water.

Sparkle

Dusky glimmer in the rain     
gives a dashing stroke without a brush,  
to avoid the flashing witty twinkle

The dropping becomes the prism without the cutting edge     
The colour palette holds the Rainbow against the light

The beast gets a revelation on her hair   
No more hiding away in the dark corner

She slowly wander to the glowing ball of water,    
hangs on while it falls from the movement of her legs,     
a lost tick

Image

What do you think?

IMPRESSION OF A ROCKSCAPE

impression

Wave pushing the visible, transparent, seaweed 
Rocks holding the seaweed, in their dance 
the tunnel underwater, showing a time without a notion 
no making of an imitation,

cave in the under water mountain
quickly rocking over stones, with a smile to
Charlotte the queen, of the world,
caught by the tide,
of a turquoise motion,
tiny sparkles, in the air,
like tranquil, moving action 
leaving all despair 
as, a floating dedication
the water coming higher still
not withstanding, any deterioration,

 red animal

Bending of a Rock 
collaboration of every drop
purling around a corner 
every ripple rolling up, 
The must have of an inside shell
gleaming sensation, of the sanded glass 
Yellow Wagtail on the dash
 as i blend into a rock surface 
flight before the click, of a screen/button/shutter

written impression before the tide

it finally bounces on the surface
and
Read a book,
yet they walk away to, later perhaps 

The seagull watches the shiver on the sky,
nobody could have seen it but the camera,
the never ending flow of feet makes me say
time to go.

Dedicated to an impression of a rock of Georges Seurat
the words melt into the vagueness of an undefined reality
it does not allow different distances to be simultaneously in focus they just pass by