. . .
My art is the way I re-establish the bonds that unite me to the universe.
Ana Mendieta
. . .
No matter what is going on, I put my hand to pen or paint, and everything else is crowded out. I become a daffodil in the wind, a cloud dancing with spirits. I become free and human.
Janell Moon
“The Place Between” by Sandra Duran-Wilson
I am my dreams, my imagination, and my curiosity. I am an artist with paint, land, and words. My art is how I discover who I am.
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I cannot tell you how to leave this place.
But I have come to remind you to look up.
The stars can be seen so clearly, a bright splatter
against deep blue-black; galaxies arcing,
unspooling, silver cotton blooming;
the glimmer of an aurora, faint emerald
and ruby streaks.
This cosmos, this deep and beautiful
constancy, will not forsake you.
“The Luminous Dark” by Sara Letourneau
“Dawn, Annaghmakerrig 2024” by Marsha McDonald
As a creative woman, I call myself to witness and answer to living, at this moment in time, in the world. That’s a lifetime’s work and reworking…I can grow imaginative places, characters, or objects that remain as signposts to my ideas and emotions, but also reseed, inviting others to think and feel their way into a creative space.
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I whistle and drone like blue embers.
Breathe in fire smoke,
breathe out a sound stream.
Spread ashes on a nest of spent wood
as kinswomen, hearth-keepers,
fires to smolder through the night.
The last moon lights the dark,
tree shadows thrown over bright snowfield
as winter wraps her cloak around the year.
Giver of air and flame, I would kindle healing
of slights, of deeper wounds close as skin.
Tend my small fire.
“December Collect” by Rhett Watts
submission inspired by Susan Roney O’Brien’s quote
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Come, let us make for ourselves
an hour lying down among trees
of juniper and scent of pine, among
stones of granite and a running stream—
our mouths to the earth rejoicing.
“Lyon Woman” by Vijali Hamilton
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“Time and Tide” by Martina Mcateer
It is when I disappear into my work that I am most visible.
___________________________
Stop talking and write she insists
words tumble down
insistent raindrops
forming in the air
with my arms
holding the bucket
open upwards
to catch whole poems
Keep paper nearby
I awake in the darkest
point of night
inside a crocheted cocoon
yarn of words
encapsulating this body
listen to a whisper through the weft
“What is Ending” by Jess Weitz
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We have always known each other. Our cells breathe the same song. Our kin is paper, canvas, cloth. The light that surrounds our bodies is the first light of morning.
Susan Roney-O’Brien
. . .
How do we move between oneself and oneness?
