Beauty shocks, and steals our breath,
makes our neurons fizz,
forces us to contemplate
what can’t be real
is.
Category Archives: art
December 31.20: Coping
A wink, perhaps,
lightly nefarious:
above the noble
“Stradivarius”
the truth is stamped,
hidden slyly —
“Copy” — by luthier
deft and wily.
I think it was no coincidence that 2020 was the year I attended to my father’s violin, which I had allowed to fall into disreputable condition. I’d needed some sense of grounding, of continuity, in a year of such cataclysmic instability. I had it repaired and renewed for my grandson this Christmas, and there was indeed grounding. This was the instrument my father played in his grade school orchestra, circa 1925.
The one he played in our family Christmas concerts (a merry barnyard kind of sound) and introduced to his grandson circa 1977.
The one I rescued from my own shameful neglect and presented — in its well-worn KantKrack case, beribboned and (it seemed to me) proud — to his great-grandson this Christmas.
A violin doesn’t have to be a Stradivarius to be priceless. And 2020 has made us acutely more mindful of the priceless things that ground us.
Thank you, dear reader, for all your encouragement and insights this year. May the new year bring us all the repair, renewal, and tuning we need, may we be grounded in the priceless things of life, may we be mindful of those who grieve and who care for our sick, and may there one day again be real hugs!
December 23.20: Coping
Little fingers
leave a trail
made of paper
bent and frail;
older hands preserve
the mystery
of taped and crayoned
family history.
December 19.20: Coping
The fine art of living
can be plated,
the cold of the world
attenuated,
the chill of the news,
bewildering, gruesome,
stayed by affection
expertly toothsome.
With thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to popover artist Cassandra Berg.
October 20.20
My house naps quiet
behind the tree;
the world passes by
obliviously.
The grandeur of
my life within,
curtained by
the daily din,
cannot be guessed
by passersby
who see my house
as small and shy.
My stemmed fine art
goes undetected,
like ruby rose window,
unexpected.
A splendid secret:
who could know
my little house
is Chenonceau?
October 11.20: Coping
Is the pond a kaleidoscope,
tumbling, soulless,
into accidental beauty,
or does it
in wistful deliberation
dream itself in Giverny?
October 3.20: Coping
Like old sepia photo
inviting eye to linger
does sepia of wood
invite admiring finger.
Eminently touchable
in smooth and rounded form,
from chocolate to butterscotch
toasted, glazed, warm.
Like mystery in the photo
the mystery in the wood
makes us stop and ponder
exactly as we should.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to Traders Point Creamery, Zionsville, IN.
September 22:20: Coping
It seems to me
there’s an obvious plot
to get my goat
(which is got a lot).
How else explain
these mortal remains,
matted and framed,
among the day’s banes?
A villainous move,
a deliberate ploy,
to irritate, vex,
to taunt and annoy.
There was nothing to do
but take all apart
and grouse at the bug
who thought he was art.
September 21.20: Coping
Gather ye zinnias
while ye may,
and salute not much
with patchwork nosegay.
With spikes of cool lavender,
chrysanthemum puff,
in little glass pitchers
not much is enough.
It doesn’t take big
to bring joy to our eyes;
the palette of zinnias
is its own giant size.
With apologies to Robert Herrick,
and thanks to my dear friend Donna for the zinnia seeds!
September 10.20: Coping
The recipe,
that work of art,
bequeathed from bubbling
kitchen heart,
with stain and splot
of ancient dough,
bringing to Now
the Long-ago.
Penmanship of
floured hand,
preserved on paper
less than grand,
thus creating
choice giftwrap
of what was once
a lowly scrap.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
and to Rose Schloot, owner of Cross River Lodge,
Grand Marais, Minnesota,
where this eloquent old piece of the past is displayed.
