More Poetry? Why, Yes
Also at Definitely Superior Art Gallery: an exhibit by Sarah Link and Riaz Mehmood.
(The link above goes to the gallery's exhibits page, so there should be way to find the description for a while, though the exhibit itself closes at the end of October.)
The art combines technology and ceramics in a bunch of interesting ways, and I encourage everyone to visit to experience its several elements.
The part I'm participating in, as one of many poets in Northwestern Ontario, is called Light Poem. In a dark room, a poem is projected briefly onto the back of a screen and then flies into bits. Motion sensors detect the presence or absence of a person in the room--and then whether that person is still or moving.
For the poem to reassemble so you can read it, you have to remain motionless.
It's a fabulous, physical reminder that sometimes the best way to experience life, and art, is through stillness--internal, external, both.
And while it's always awesome and extremely humbling to see my own work out in the world, it's really fun to see any poem assemble itself. Watching the various combinations of letters skitter across a dark screen lets you try to imagine what sort of poem they're from and predict what kind of poem they can become again.
The poems I submitted, like the ones I talked about performing last week, are part of the cache I found from a few summers back.
For the past few years, I've been focused on revising fiction and nonfiction projects, although I guess I have written some new work. But it's also humbling and revelatory to see how long it's been since I sat quietly at a page.
Perhaps it's time for that again.
(The link above goes to the gallery's exhibits page, so there should be way to find the description for a while, though the exhibit itself closes at the end of October.)
The art combines technology and ceramics in a bunch of interesting ways, and I encourage everyone to visit to experience its several elements.
The part I'm participating in, as one of many poets in Northwestern Ontario, is called Light Poem. In a dark room, a poem is projected briefly onto the back of a screen and then flies into bits. Motion sensors detect the presence or absence of a person in the room--and then whether that person is still or moving.
For the poem to reassemble so you can read it, you have to remain motionless.
It's a fabulous, physical reminder that sometimes the best way to experience life, and art, is through stillness--internal, external, both.
And while it's always awesome and extremely humbling to see my own work out in the world, it's really fun to see any poem assemble itself. Watching the various combinations of letters skitter across a dark screen lets you try to imagine what sort of poem they're from and predict what kind of poem they can become again.
The poems I submitted, like the ones I talked about performing last week, are part of the cache I found from a few summers back.
For the past few years, I've been focused on revising fiction and nonfiction projects, although I guess I have written some new work. But it's also humbling and revelatory to see how long it's been since I sat quietly at a page.
Perhaps it's time for that again.