Thursday, February 24, 2011

Week 8 Reflection

Printing: 10.5 hours
Assembling prints: 9 hours
Reading: 2 hours
Writing: 1 hour

The image above is the print that I did last week. I assembled it this week and did a lot more printing, as well. I've been playing around with the size of the prints. I don't know whether to continue with the two and four part prints, but it was nice to change it up a little. I was thinking about trying to print in nine and/or twelve parts after break. If anyone has any thoughts about the size of the prints, let me know.

I also started reading some poetry books that Elly was kind enough to lend me. I think they will be helpful for learning more about poetic forms and also about how I might put my poems into a book. The books are Harmonium by Wallace Stevens, The Making of a Poem by Mark Strand and Eavan Boland, Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, T.S Eliot's The Waste Land, and The Elements of Typographic Style by Robert Bringhurst.

I'm going home for part of break, so I'm planning to take some more photos while I'm there, rest up a bit, then get back to work.

I'm not here.
I'm where cream of wheat
cooks on the stove,
Saturday morning.

I'm not here.
I'm where sunshine
blinds me across the table,
Sunday paper.

Sunlight bleeds
through the window
and spills
onto the floor,
caressing my shoulders
and dusting
my knees, golden
honey slowly sliding
toward my toes
atop glossy floorboards.

The stairs weep at night,
"Don't step so hard,
we are old and worn
and tired of your feet."

"But I must get to bed," I say.

"Oh please, don't burden us
with your weight. It's far
too much for us to bear."

"But I've already begun my ascent."

"Turn back now," pipe
the steps up above.
"Come back as a child," one says.
"Oh nonsense, hop over the railing,"
moan those below.

Their bickering rises
and they swallow my feet
sunken in swollen warped
wood grain covered
in thinning lacquer
under a film of dust.

Light leaks around
the corner at the landing,
peering through spindles
and onto the railing,
reaching my fingertips.

And the wall whispers,
"Don't fret, dear,
the stairs are just whiners.
Don't mind their complaints."

"Thank you for letting me know," I say,
as I climb the rest of the way.

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