Linda Gregg's "All The Different Kinds Of Years"

ARRIVING AGAIN AND AGAIN WITHOUT NOTICING

I remember all the different kinds of years,

angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.

I remember feeling like that 

walking up the mountain along the dirt path

to my broken house on the island.

And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.

The winter walking and hot summer walking.

I finally fell in love with all of it:

dirt, night, rock and far views.

It's strange that my heart is full

now as my desire was then.

--Linda Gregg

(My pal Meredith sent me this poem years ago for my 45th birthday.)

Mermaid On The Wall

Warrior Mermaid: sculpture mix; raku, but flawed -- from years ago.

Mask: Red Menace

Red Hawk: sculpture mix, pit-fired; red paint; copper wire.

Reprise: Ophelia

"The Paths of Glory Lead But to the Grave[s]," Robert Graves, That Is

Or, as I should say, the poet Graves leads the way here. I couldn't help the bad joke involving Gray's line from his "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." Still, weak humor notwithstanding, I believe that possessing "a new understanding of my confusion" will lead to sure, certain, and true glory. Maybe I should step aside here and let the poet offer his guidance.

IN BROKEN IMAGES

He is quick, thinking in clear images;

I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;

I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;

Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,

Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;

When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;

I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;

I in a new understanding of my confusion.

--Robert Graves

Fool's Luck

I can be an awfully clumsy man at times, and in this case, I was stretching the injured muscles in my neck and shoulder by swinging my right arm about. I wasn't really thinking about which room I was in or what was hanging on the walls; I was focused on the pain and the painful relief that arm-swinging was providing. Twisting, pulling, stretching, swinging . . . .

CRASH!

"Mermaid's Misfortune" or "Lucky Break" are two alternative captions I considered.

The mermaid had a tail, though with this break her net is more visible, more to the fore. So, there's the luck, for me at least. Her spirit still seems strong.

I regret breaking this piece, the clumsiness and folly involved, as I should. At least it's only clay.

Huntress with Net: sculpture mix; nutmeg, sea foam, & transparent brown glazes; copper wire.

Mermaid: Pisces In Pieces

Rough draft.

Broken mermaid.

Clumsy maker; broken piece.

Should I fear a curse?

I'd meant well, meant better, meant best . . . but couldn't quite pull that off.

I felt regret; I feel regret.

Nick Drake plays in my head.

If you don't know, well, check out Nick Drake's "Five Leaves Left" and Sinead Lohan's "No Mermaid." Both albums, both CDs, should astound you.

Old rhyme:

"The head understands

What the heart won't.

Which is wiser?"

(Actually, I made that up in 2008, but it feels old, feels like an echo, feels dependent on my own antecedents, my own past reading.)

Older rhyme (and this is truly old, no rhetorical trick):

"Mind must be the firmer, heart the more fierce,

courage the greater, as our strength diminishes."

--"The Battle of Maldon" . . .

The Anglo-Saxon heroic poem, Crossley-Holland translating.

And, yes, I connect such a passage, such a poem, to efforts in clay, to efforts in the studio, to efforts in the classroom, to efforts in life, life itself. And, like the doomed warriors of the poem, I have my faith in perseverance.

So far, I've never quite succeeded at conveying or in capturing the beauty before me, in holding such beauty firmly enough to present it to you, or to anyone, at least not in clay, and that saddens me.

And so, in a melancholy mood, I replay Drake's "Five Leaves Left," and I try harder, the next time clay is at hand.