Greve & Klinedinst – May 2023

Karen Klinedinst and Janis Greve traded art and words. Karen shared this image, “Sunday in the Park,” with Janis:

In response, Janis wrote this poem:

Enchantments

I.
It’s heaven
to be human
around such magnitude,
to waltz through it
on an ordinary stroll,
trusting the stone to hold
its sky,
keep its deadly birds
from falling.

II.
This much is clear:
Passage is easy.
Encircled by arms so mammoth,
even the air is immense.

III.
Through it,

a fairyland
zigzags in daylight.
A footpath mimics its curves.
Stepping stones scatter like pocket change
flung by a river god’s hand.

Beneath it,

a pilgrim stakes out
his holy seat,
sets down his thermos and pack,
unwraps his sandwich like an amulet,
slowly, with fingers of awe.

IV.
Golden gate
with the mouth of a whale:
in swallowing everything whole,

you cut the world
to the right size.

V.
Do branches hurt
when they break into bud?
Do their buds emit a small wail?

Whip thin, they reach toward the creekbed,
on fire with news of themselves.

VI.
Make no mistake:
This bridge marries
heaven and earth,
communing with robin’s egg ether,
bearing down
into graffiti’s bright mud.

VII.
Oh, my weeping arches—
one in my back,
one in my neck.

This would be my comfort:

To tower like a cloud,
To brandish the ivory horns of a tree.

VIII.
Yes, yes,
I said, yes.
I’ll drink up
all of your Sundays.
I’ll stroll to the end of your vanishing aisle.

* * * * * *

Janis shared this poem with Karen:

Splinters

After “Thin House,” by Dix McComas (USA) 2013

I.
Once, I was a house,
my body all windows,
no flesh. 
I had views
in every direction.
Cadaverous, 
I leaned 
into my leaning.
At night,
I swept myself up.   

II.
A picket fence,
a tisket, a tasket,
a too-wholesome casket.  

III.
Old,
simmered in eons,
the sun’s yolk longs to be burst.

IV.
Some houses don’t want
to be noticed.  
Move toward them
and they just melt away,
their windows
ruthless with light.

V.
Orbiting 
down a well,
the moon wears a garland
of midnight blue. 

VI.
A goldfinch
flew straight up
and boxed itself 
into a hut
with a scabbed-over
window.

VII.
Hauntedness
is left standing,
leering its criss-crossed rebuke.

VIII.
Compliments 
to the barn 
that has married 
a pagoda. Its roof 
wards off evil spirits. 
Pungent red 
swaddles my tongue.   

IX.
Coming up short,
a watchtower ogles a chimney
preening against the night sky.

X.
Divide me in green,  
tinge me in phantoms.
Let tall pines
grow from my
pestilence.  Let me be   
brilliant with foregrounds.
Let power lines test
my white girth.     

In response, Karen made this image, titled “Once, I Was A House”: