Kathryn Jacobs
Pausing Briefly
A real vacation would imply desire.
That trip to France perhaps, or summer in
Chicago with the kids. You might retire
to pastel bungalows where turtles churn
their noisy way through sea-grapes, and small
birds possess the beach each morning: long black legs
on quick white bodies, scurrying in herds--
a minor panic when the ocean tugs
the sand from under them: a white foam surge,
and wings rise everywhere. But this was more
an easing of sore muscles: a massage,
a chance to pause. To wonder what it's for,
the trigger-dance of neurons too obsessed
for sleep or sanity. A chance to rest.
Hungry
So now you're "rested." All of which means, what?
You still don't feel like grading those exams.
You do like teaching, but sometimes. . . just "but."
It costs so much--the constant song and dance.
And yet, without it--you could simply write,
but it's addictive: it will swallow you until you
can't escape, or make it right,
or let it rest awhile, or make it new.
And you want something harder than the birds,
or France, or children. Something nibbling
at the edges of your brain: corrosive words
that churn through brain cells the way turtles fling
their bodies through the tangles--like the foam
pulling at egret legs: a perfect poem.
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Jane Sutherland: I choose subjects that I cherish, or that spring from deep rooted feelings, or that come to me intuitively--dogs, roses, cranes, an iconic work of sculpture; and I concentrate on the details and slightest disparities in color, tone and textures in order to show how extraordinary are things we think we know and take for granted. The process of painting for me is connected to the physical properties of the subject as well as to its meanings, associations, and memories. |
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