Theatre, arts, culture, politics, and snark from a practicing playwright and recovering journalist.
Monday, December 15, 2008
June will come again....
So it's 23 degrees F in Portland. Tomorrow it's supposed to be 15. Which is pretty cold for anywhere, but especially for here. And I'm saying to myself, well, it'll give the tulips and the peonies that cold snap they want, but, inside, I'm thinking: man, it's not even officially winter yet.
So to counter living in the dark, here are a few shots of my garden in all it's hammy June glory, the month when everything just...shines.
i love your hammy garden. to see pictures of it today is like looking at the face of a relative that has moved to another country.
here is a poem. with a garden in it. and a hint of winter, too.
**
When I am asked how I began writing poems, I talk about the indifference of nature.
It was soon after my mother died, a brilliant June day, everything blooming.
I sat on a gray stone bench in a lovingly planted garden, but the day lilies were as deaf as the ears of drunken sleepers and the roses curved inward. Nothing was black or broken and not a leaf fell and the sun blared endless commercials for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench ringed with the ingenue faces of pink and white impatiens and placed my grief in the mouth of language, the only thing that would grieve with me.
Steve Patterson has written over 50 plays, with works staged in Portland, Los Angeles, Chicago, Detroit, Austin, Tampa, and other U.S. cities as well as in Canada and New Zealand. His works include: Waiting on Sean Flynn, Next of Kin, Farmhouse, Malaria, Shelter, Altered States of America, The Continuing Adventures of Mr. Grandamnus, Bluer Than Midnight, Bombardment, Dead of Winter, and Delusion of Darkness. In 2006, his bittersweet Lost Wavelengths was a mainstage selection at Portland Center Stage's JAW/West festival, and, in 2008, won the Oregon Book Award (he also was an OBA finalist in 1992 and 2002). In 1997, he won the inaugural Portland Civic Theatre Guild Fellowship for his play Turquoise and Obsidian.
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1 comment:
i love your hammy garden. to see pictures of it today is like looking at the face of a relative that has moved to another country.
here is a poem. with a garden in it. and a hint of winter, too.
**
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything blooming.
I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.
-Lisel Mueller
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