Poems For A Grey June Day.

Simply, poems today by Joyce Carol Oates, the first woman to become Poet Laureate in the UK, taken from her book "Rapture" first published in 2005, which I purchased in haste on my last day in England last week. Essentially, a lengthy weaving love poem, the book is the journey of love and a relationship from beginning to end. Ever the romantic, the words haven't left my mind in days

 You

Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,

so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,

like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables

like a charm, like a spell.

Falling in love

is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart

like a tiger ready to kill; a flames fierce licks under the skin.

Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.

I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,

in my camoflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,

staring back from anyone's face, from the shape of a cloud,

from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me

as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are

on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.

World

On the other side of the world,

you pass the moon to me,

like a loving cup,

or a quaich.

I roll you the sun.

I go to bed

as you are getting up

on the otherside of the world.

You have scattered the stars

towards me here, like seeds

in the earth.

All through the night, I have sent you

bunches, bouquets, of cloud

to the other side of the world;

so my love will be shade

where you are,

and yours,

as I turn in my sleep,

the bud of a star.

Quickdraw

I wear the two, the mobile and the landline phones,

like guns, slung from the pockets on my hips. I'm all

alone. You ring, quickdraw, your voice like a pellet

in my ear, and hear me groan.

You've wounded me.

Next time, you speak after the tone. I twirl the phone,

then squeeze the trigger of my tongue, wide of the mark.

You choose your spot, then blast me

through the heart.

And this is love, high noon, calamity, hard liquor

in the old Last Chance saloon. I show the mobile

to the Sheriff; in my boot, another one's

concealed. You text them both at once. I reel.

Down on my knees, I fumble for the phone,

read the silver bullets of your kiss. Take this...

and this... and this... and this... and this...

Mysterious Meadowlands

As I've been working on my project in the city, I have been commuting into NY by bus two or three times a week. It can get a little tedious but some stretches of the journey pass through interesting and beautiful areas; Long Pond, Monksville and Wanaque Reservoirs enroute to the Skyline Drive, NJ. Each time I pass, I take in the view, and each time, there is something different and magical to behold; like the dark primeaval stumps sticking out from the frozen whiteness of the winter's ice, or the mist steaming above the water on a crisp early morning. 

Then there is the area known as the Meadowlands, about two miles outside of Manhattan in New Jersey. I'm fascinated by this place, it's a strange mix of industry, deteriorating buildings, new hotels and wetlands, and I can imagine that most people simply do not see it. It's just a place to drive through quickly with out much thought. Indeed, at first glance the area is a mass of highways shuttling commuters back and forth to NYC, punctuated with pylons, and all manner of industrial towers, bordered with unattractive looking suburban towns named Secaucus, East Rutherford, Kearney, together with the Giants Stadium, and Continental Airlines Arena, with big billboards announcing such acts as Rod Stewart, and the American Idol top 10 finalists. They've even broken ground to build one of the biggest shopping malls in the country. It all reminds me of Walker Evans' photograph of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania in which you can clearly see the layers of industrial and human development expand within the environment over time.

1935 - Graveyard and Steel Mill, Bethlehem, PA

But there is something very mysterious about the Meadowlands too. I see an incredible beauty and life in the grasses, and the waterways. It changes too with the quality of light. I have even found myself not minding the made-made scars that have intruded onto the natural landscape when everything is bathed in the fading glow of early evening. There's something very interesting about the juxtaposition, highlighting human nature to conquer the environment, to its detriment or not. I know nothing about the history of the Meadowlands but my interest has been sparked. Actually, my imagination had been captured a few years ago, after I read a National Geographic article about the renewal of these wetlands after decades of pollution, (my step son told me the other day that the place reeks of sulphur, though I wouldn't know about that since I am sealed in a NJ transit bus and haven't set foot on the lands themselves), and by Mark Helprin's descriptions of the Marshlands overlooking Manhattan (set in early industrial age) in his spectacular novel, Winter's Tale. Although I am not nearly as poetic and lyrical as Helprin, the other day I was inspired to write my own ode to the Meadowlands.........

Journey Home

Deep impenetrable grey

The backsplash colour of my journey home

Dusk slips to night and industry

suddenly illuminates it's beauty.

Meadowlands frame cell towers 

and factory columns,

their myriad shapes radiate against muted skies.

Then grasses and strips of silver water

give way to habitation.

Row upon row of clapboard 

crammed across my horizon.

Asphalt rivers cut a diagonal line above

silky metallic threads of liquid.

Struts reflected in the smoky stillness

turning this apparent ugliness on its head.

I travel this way roundtrip:

New York State, New Jersey, Manhattan

Re turn.

The patchwork topography of this waterlogged marsh

beckons as I pass, decoding its history

before progress marched in.

This strip of land, remnant of bygone time,

holding skyscrapers and rambling sprawl alike,

has never looked so beautiful.

I leave you with some images and some links of photographer, Joshua Lutz. His first monograph was published last year, and is entitled Meadowlands, and is a decade long visual exploration of this area and it's people. The images are incredible. Also worth watching is this short video podcast in which Lutz talks about the project.

A Bit of Poetry

A few weeks ago I was listening to the radio programme, 'Fresh Air', as seems to be my habit these days as I prepare the daily evening feast. On this particular occasion, Terry Gross was interviewing Pulitzer prize winning poet, W. S. Merwin. I had never heard of him before, although that is saying very little as I do not tend to read a great deal of poetry, and certainly have a poor knowledge of contemporary poets. But there was something about him that I connected with. These days I try to pay attention to such feelings, as they can lead to very interesting discoveries. Merwin has a new collection of poems out called 'The Shadow of Sirius' which he read from and spoke about. His latest work delves into the world of memory and mortality, having lost both his parents in fairly quick succession and since that was the subject of my 'Family Matters' project I felt it was important for me to read these works. The book is a beautiful object in itself. It is, as a note in the back states "set in Verdigris typeface, and printed on archival quality paper", heavy and solid to the touch. Instead of giving you my opinion of the poems, I post a couple here for you to read. If they resonate with you, I recommend picking up a copy of this book yourself.

A Likeness

Almost to your birthday and as I

am getting dressed alone in the house

a button falls off and once I find 

a needle with an eye big enough

for me to try to thread it

and at last have sewed the button on

I open an old picture of you

who always did such things by magic

one photograph found after you died

of you at twenty

beautiful in a way

I would never see

for that was nine years 

before I was born

but the picture has

faded suddenly

spots have marred it

maybe it is past repair

I have only what I remember

A Momentary Creed

I believe in the ordinary day

that is here at this moment and is me

I do not see it going its own way

but I never saw how it came to me

it extends beyond whatever I may

think I know and all that is real to me

it is the present that it bears away

where has it gone when it has gone from me

there is no place I know outside today

except for the unknown all around me

the only presence that appears to stay

everything that I call mine it lent me

even the way that I believe the day

for as long as it is here and is me.

If you are interested, listen to the interview here.

Family Matters

A Memory of Susan Marshall, My Mother, With Her Family, C. 1970 (2008)

Rosalind Marshall, My Grandmother (2007)

Alan Marshall, My Grandfather (2007)

A Memory of the First Holiday Afterwards, C. 1978 (2008)

All images © Claire Gilliam

This past week has been spent preparing applications for Woodstock Center for Photography's annual 'Photographer's Fellowship  Fund Award', and juried competition 'Photography Now'. They are now out of my hands and awaiting the jurers at CPW. This is the first time I have entered work for any kind of award, and I found the process a bit nerve racking, and time consuming.....but it was worth all the effort, because even if I do not win, I have learnt many things, and realise that it is not so difficult after all just to go for it and see what happens!

The body of work I submitted for both awards was taken from "Family Matters', a project that I began working on last fall, and completed (stage 1) in March. Through the interweaving of text taken from the written recollections of my family, portraits of family members, and the reworking of old snapshots I put together a document that tells of one particular moment in my history. Its interesting to me because whilst it is an intensely personal body of work, that was painful for everyone involved, the collection as a whole begins to reveal the idea of truth and memory, and how this can shape one's life. Its a piece that I think, like my 'self portraits' I shall continue to work on......it is by no means finished! The images above a small sampling of the project.....and a poem which I wrote for the project

My memories of You

are sharp, acute.

I feel every moment lived.

Emotions Cut through my skin

Straight to my Heart.

My History is embedded with yours

Entwined and sculpted.

The 'I am' of me, always

Connected to you. By Chance

Circumstances.

One instant bringing change

Unforeseen but destined.

A Grey day sometime black night

Then Blue Sky heralding hope.

Your Gift to me.

No Earthquake could dismantle

My constancy and faith

In You. There, solid, and so strong, 

My kin stand facing outwards

Embracing Me.

Some insight

Self portrait (2006)

Self Portrait (2001)

So here is an insight into my mind and my photographic work. My images are my voice, to explore my place in the world, as a disabled woman, and artist, and so in that sense they are rooted to a profoundly personal place within me. At the same time, although these images could be construed as mere self portraits, they are in fact speaking of the wider concerns of disability, desirability, body image and difference. I begun this work years ago, using myself as the model because it was convenient, but quickly realised that in telling my story, or hinting at it, I was reflecting back and perhaps challenging society's perception of the 'ideal'. I have continued making images with this always in mind. This fall I will be collating much of my imagery together to form a complete body of work, and it is my hope to share some of this with you in the weeks and months ahead, with few unrelated photographic and creative wanderings thrown in for good measure.

A poem for today........... by Kenneth Patchen

The Artist's Duty

So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame

To extend all boundaries

To fog them in right over the plate

To kill only what is ridiculous

To establish problem

To ignore solutions

To listen to no one

To omit nothing

To contradict everything

To generate the free brain

To bear no cross

To take part in no crucifixion

To tinkle a warning when mankind strays

To explode upon all parties

To wound deeper than the soldier

To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all

To verify the irrational

To exaggerate all things

To inhibit everyone

To lubricate everyone

To lubricate each proportion

To experience only experience

To set a flame in the high air

To exclaim at the common place alone

To cause the unseen eyes to open

To admire only the absurd

To be concerned with every profession save his own

To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty

To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator

To lift the flesh above the suffering

To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit

To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss

To HAPPEN

It is the artist's duty to be alive

To drag people into glittering occupations

To blush perpetually in gaping innocence

To drift happily through the ruin race-intelligence

To burrow beneath the subconscious

To defend the unreal at the cost of reason

To obey each outrageous impulse

To commit his company to all enchantments