One thing I love about collage is that I complete a piece quickly and don't linger over it. I accept accidents and follow my intuition. Tonight I wondered if doing collage art this past year will have changed the way I write. I feel like I need to find out. Will I be more confident and trust myself more? I hope so. I have made a promise to myself to awaken earlier each morning and pick up a story where I left it a year ago. It was, or rather IS the story of a woman named Mirlie and a man named Gabe. Their voices have been the first thing I am met with in the morning as I linger in bed those moments before the alarm sounds the second time after I hit the snooze. I feel a strong need to tell their story. I have been trying to think of a way to combine the writing and the collage and I will keep you posted on what I figure out with this.
I am sorry this is turning into quite the long post but I have to ask: Do you know this poem?:
Where I'm From by George Ella Lyons
I am from clothespins,from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the black porch.
(Black, glisteningit tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,the Dutch elmwhose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress boxs
pilling old pictures,a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments-snapped before I budded-leaf-fall from the family tree.
Isn't that wonderful? Where are you from? Do you have a poem?
Using that poem as I guide I came up with this:
I am from the pot of water always on the woodstove, from red Kool-Aid and the suitcase by the back door.
I am from the rusted metal on the green and white trailer and the twin bed shared with a sharp-elbowed sister.
I am from the mulberry trees high up on Buffalo Ridge, the tiny leaves of a mimosa caught like salt, precious in a mason jar.
I am from deer season is in and don't get above your raisings, from Ida Belle Lily Esther, Melva Jo and Dillie Mae.
I am from quick tempers and moonshine, from "the moon is following me because I am special."
From "get your nose out of that book" and "say the word 'fool' and you'll go straight to hell."
I am from speaking in tongues on Sunday, superstitions and gossip on the party line during the week.
I'm from the mountains stretched out in colors of blue and evergreen, from corn bread in a hot skillet, snap beans and warm tomatoes in the sun.
I'm from crying children running scared through cornfields, drunken fathers chasing fast with loaded guns, from grandfathers pulling time and grandmothers shot in the heart.
I am from the gold tattered box in the upstairs closet, from cheap frames on the stairs and from polaroids stolen from the ugly orange and green albums daddy has taken and won't ever share til he's dead and gone.
Well---Now that I have made myself all emotional I guess I should say goodnight.
I would love to read your poems.
wonderful creative blessings to you,