Category Archives: sonics

Water-centaur

In the Playa Azul video,
there’s a shot-sequence of grey and blue
sea
cloud,
with mountains erupting across a bay
at low tide.
A man, a little left of center, is wading… Continue reading

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Refresh

Changes: After a move from NYC to the Hudson River Valley region of New York State (USA), life is less circumscribed by a city’s dense population and urban landscapes. My mind and feelings are slowly infiltrating empty spaces, as if they’re shoreline caves and I’m the sea… Continue reading

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One

  One mistake, touching my joyful cloth, bleeds texture, its darkness.     One leaf, curling under the snowy wind, flashes color, its fire.         share?

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The edge of a leaf

You touch me and stay like an autumn leaf on rain-wet stone, elemental, separate, subdued, same in beauty of this season. You touch me. I stay like an autumn leaf on rain-wet stone. (2007, rev. 2014) share?

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Ferment

Your love, without relief of occasional plosive hi-howya-doin’s, without punctuation of kisses or hugs, feels like a maelstrom. Its whirling me, its force in ferment, takes me to uneasy places, when I’d rather be by you simply listening to your … Continue reading

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Warmth

Drifting snow piles up on east-facing window screens north wind breaks it down   Wrapped in cashmere memories sliding down cool as fresh snow share?

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Objects of Desire: A handful of plums

Like I want to close my eyes and sleep past the end of time right now, that’s how Macy felt, at the point where my story of her begins. To see her then would have been like watching one of … Continue reading

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Soft basket

A basket slung over my shoulder by leather straps, its belly shaped like a plum, wove of three kinds of grass — thick-striped — holds a stone, a shadow-self that comes and goes, places where I touch the ground, a … Continue reading

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Simple

I’m blots of ink, a line or two, a supergirl you draw from inner sight. Now split the paper with your pen to find my comic heart. © 6 Jan 2009, Heather Quinn, all rights reserved; edited 5 Jan 2012, … Continue reading

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By way of the northern sky (edit 1, in work)

In the light that enters morning by way of the northern sky, a Swede encloses a Finn in his arms, absorbing her darkness, softening with his smooth brow the recurve tension on her lips, ignoring that she took him for … Continue reading

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Blue eyes

Rain-streaked bricks, pepper-green trees, and the sky — thick as oatmeal, and gray as a city cat — welcome a procession of Nanas, walking slow, humming descants, dressed in wraps of blue — turquoise, aquamarine, and harbor — stirring up … Continue reading

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The man in the purple shirt (wip)

What a storm. Dark, choppy river, big whitecaps riding the cross-currents. In many places, the water is higher than my ankles — I might as well have left my shoes home. There are mini-floods everywhere. Going past tennis courts, lighthouse, … Continue reading

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Takes on Google+

As wild as the sea, with a home onshore, always, that’s most safe & well-built. Like loving someone so much that saying so is almost a sin. Like sledding in fresh snow. Like feeding handfuls of grass to a foal. … Continue reading

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Clouds, like Toledo

Riding south, across the river, a mile below the Bridge, see? A tower and forested hills, with leaves glowing in nooks in the bare, smoky trees, as if someone’s been shooting paintballs there, and the wind shearing the earth to … Continue reading

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Travel, recalled

The morning we arrived, pepper exploded in scrambled eggs made, by Dad, with butter, pipe-smoke and an absence of everyone else.    share?

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The value of dissolution, part 2

Chhoti Bahu, she of the biggest eyes and motion most honey-like, begs you to stay. Here is she: bound by your space, still at your whimsy,    share?

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The sloop on motor

In this story of then, long ago, there are just two of us:  a man, wet through, in soaked purple shirt and running shorts, fast-walking through stands of lush trees tossing down by the river; and me, lounging against a … Continue reading

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A poem, an edit

A poem’s beginning is maybe a waking dream — expressed in words. Inside that beginning, the writer hides something secret, even from him- or herself.    share?

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No words

Please, don’t speak when I’m making art or thinking about palettes with no greens, pigment granulation or studio space.  I won’t hear you.  I’ll deflect your conversation.  Don’t wait for me, I have no words.   share?

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Questions, answered

For me, movies are a fantastical experience, and when the moviemaker doesn’t honor his or her participation in the world of fantasy, I get bored. On the other hand, movies always raise realistic questions for me, like: Who cleans up … Continue reading

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