egb , 4 months ago I’ve been doing this self-portrait poetry series every January for the past few years. I think it’s a cool way to see how my life has changed but also how my writing has evolved. #1 was written in Vermont, #2 was written in New Mexico, and #3 was written in Washington. Finished this year’s portrait a day late but I think it still counts. @poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofmastodon #writersofmastodon #writerslift #creativity #art #amwriting #vermont #newmexico #washington Self-Portrait in Solitude, Late January #1 (2022) She collects words and rocks them in her arms like a mother would her baby: Sallow, nighthawk, and serendipity. She presses her cheek against the window. The sun beckons, the cloud of heat both soft and heavy at the same time. She wafts into her socks and snow boots, tying first the left, then the right laces. She reminds herself to keep her heart always open. Outside, she looks for omens like a half-moon in blue sky or robins weaving ribbons in a nest. She kicks blocks of ice down the sidewalk until they break into dust. She grins. She asks herself questions just to hear them echo in the cathedral of her mind: When you enter a poem, who speaks through the mouthpiece? How come squirrels wonder where and corvids wonder why? If Sunday were forever, what would stillness feel like? image/jpeg
I’ve been doing this self-portrait poetry series every January for the past few years.
I think it’s a cool way to see how my life has changed but also how my writing has evolved.
#1 was written in Vermont, #2 was written in New Mexico, and #3 was written in Washington.
Finished this year’s portrait a day late but I think it still counts.
@poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofmastodon #writersofmastodon #writerslift #creativity #art #amwriting #vermont #newmexico #washington
Self-Portrait in Solitude, Late January #1 (2022) She collects words and rocks them in her arms like a mother would her baby: Sallow, nighthawk, and serendipity. She presses her cheek against the window. The sun beckons, the cloud of heat both soft and heavy at the same time. She wafts into her socks and snow boots, tying first the left, then the right laces. She reminds herself to keep her heart always open. Outside, she looks for omens like a half-moon in blue sky or robins weaving ribbons in a nest. She kicks blocks of ice down the sidewalk until they break into dust. She grins. She asks herself questions just to hear them echo in the cathedral of her mind: When you enter a poem, who speaks through the mouthpiece? How come squirrels wonder where and corvids wonder why? If Sunday were forever, what would stillness feel like? image/jpeg