Ekphrasis XII 2023 Online Exhibition
SET 6. Visual Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
Q. LAURA CORBEN, Mercy. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: Title.
R. PAT TOTH-SMITH, Cub Brothers. Response by author HOLLY TANNEN: Title.
S. ROBERT SPIES, Untitled. Response by author SUSAN FISHER: The Minotaur Comes at Night
T. JOSEPH DUVIVIER, Journey's End. Response by author BILL MANN: Title.
SET 6. Visual Artist Initiators and their Writer Responders
Q. LAURA CORBEN, Mercy. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN: Title.
R. PAT TOTH-SMITH, Cub Brothers. Response by author HOLLY TANNEN: Title.
S. ROBERT SPIES, Untitled. Response by author SUSAN FISHER: The Minotaur Comes at Night
T. JOSEPH DUVIVIER, Journey's End. Response by author BILL MANN: Title.
Q. Initiating artist LAURA CORBEN:
Mercy
Acrylic on canvas, 8x16 in
Q. Response by poet MAUREEN EPPSTEIN:
We Knew
--after Jane Hirshfield
We Knew
--after Jane Hirshfield
We knew...
But paid no attention
far away words
pollution deforestation global warming
our comfortable lives
not to be disrupted not to be changed
And so
The house where
The street-hum
The bar where my jazz band
The house where my lover
my lover my lover
Vast silences
Stench of smoke
Cinders drop like black grief
R. Initiated by artist PAT TOTH-SMITH:
Cub Brothers
R. Response by songwriter HOLLY TANNEN:
Benjie
We have a bear. Three bears. No, not those three bears.
I haven’t seen any bears yet, but I’ve seen Karen Reynolds’ painting of a mother bear and two cubs crossing Nichols Lane.
“They were here first,” says my landmate. “It’s their territory.”
C&S Waste Solutions will let you have a bear-resistant trash can and charge you $110.97 a month to empty it. I wrap my compost in plastic, put it in the freezer, and get up at 6:00 am on Wednesdays to carry it out to the garbage can, which I lug to the top of the road and cover with Pine-Sol. So far, I’ve been spared the bears, but Little Lake Road is littered (sorry) with overturned trash cans and strewn food wrappers.
I think it’s the mother bear. She probably left the cubs in a pine tree:
“I wanna climb down, wanna climb down
Wanna climb down this tree.
Wanna climb down and root on the ground
Willya climb down with me?”
“I won’t go ’cause Mama said no,
Gotta stay here in the tree.
Won’t climb down, there’s people on the ground
Gunnin’ for you and me.”
“Gonna climb down, gonna climb down
Gonna climb down this tree.
Mom’s got peanut butter on the ground
Better give some to me.”
I haven’t seen any bears yet, but I’ve seen Karen Reynolds’ painting of a mother bear and two cubs crossing Nichols Lane.
“They were here first,” says my landmate. “It’s their territory.”
C&S Waste Solutions will let you have a bear-resistant trash can and charge you $110.97 a month to empty it. I wrap my compost in plastic, put it in the freezer, and get up at 6:00 am on Wednesdays to carry it out to the garbage can, which I lug to the top of the road and cover with Pine-Sol. So far, I’ve been spared the bears, but Little Lake Road is littered (sorry) with overturned trash cans and strewn food wrappers.
I think it’s the mother bear. She probably left the cubs in a pine tree:
“I wanna climb down, wanna climb down
Wanna climb down this tree.
Wanna climb down and root on the ground
Willya climb down with me?”
“I won’t go ’cause Mama said no,
Gotta stay here in the tree.
Won’t climb down, there’s people on the ground
Gunnin’ for you and me.”
“Gonna climb down, gonna climb down
Gonna climb down this tree.
Mom’s got peanut butter on the ground
Better give some to me.”
Holly's comments: I imagine the mother bear lumbering back to the tree and feeding her cubs peanut butter or milk.
Could this be the bear who’s been getting into the dumpster –– the “bear bar,” as the naturalists call it –– at the Mendocino Woodlands?
After three years when we dared not meet, Lark Camp is happening again at the Woodlands. Irish pipes and whistles, fiddle, nykelharpa, Cajun accordion, hurdy-gurdy, oud, bouzouki, doumbek, dulcimer. At night, campers in down jackets sit around the fire to tell jokes, drink chai, and sing. I start a round I learned years ago.
It was the day after Lark and we were heading back to everyday life. We had to leave camp by 9:00 am, so traditionally, we’d all go for coffee at the Bakery. Afterwards, my friends and I drove to the headlands to look at the ocean. We sat together on the Poets’ Bench and sang:
Benjie met the bear, the bear met Benjie
The bear was bulgy, the bulge was Benjie
Could this be the bear who’s been getting into the dumpster –– the “bear bar,” as the naturalists call it –– at the Mendocino Woodlands?
After three years when we dared not meet, Lark Camp is happening again at the Woodlands. Irish pipes and whistles, fiddle, nykelharpa, Cajun accordion, hurdy-gurdy, oud, bouzouki, doumbek, dulcimer. At night, campers in down jackets sit around the fire to tell jokes, drink chai, and sing. I start a round I learned years ago.
It was the day after Lark and we were heading back to everyday life. We had to leave camp by 9:00 am, so traditionally, we’d all go for coffee at the Bakery. Afterwards, my friends and I drove to the headlands to look at the ocean. We sat together on the Poets’ Bench and sang:
Benjie met the bear, the bear met Benjie
The bear was bulgy, the bulge was Benjie
S. Initiating artist ROBERT SPIES: Untitled, monoprint.
S. Response by author SUSAN FISHER:
The Minotaur Comes at Night
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The Minotaur comes at night when my working eyes are folded away on the bedside table. I see swirling ribbons of darkness in every shade of gray and black, and within that kinetic movement, a form can be made out: a massive horned head with black holes for eyes, powerful limbs attached to a hunched and muscled torso, bared animalistic teeth ready to tear. It is hungry.
If I turn on my lamp, the beast is gone. As soon as I stare into darkness from my bed, it reappears. The Minotaur travels, following me from one residence to another over decades. I believe I knew it as a child; I’d beg to go to my mother’s bed for safety. As I age, my monster throws out tiny sparks like shooting stars. Is it given life only by electrical impulses in my brain? Or is the ancient Minotaur waiting, waiting, waiting to gobble me up? |
T. Initiating Artist JOSEPH DUVIVIER:
Journey's End
T. Response by poet BILL MANN:
HUMAN METEORITE HAIKU
Nothing erases
this humongous blight, crashing
what once was pristine.
