The series of images below doesn’t need much explanation: it’s a drawing in progress from start to finish.

I am making drawings for a show in May (at the DeBlois Gallery, where I am a member, in Middletown, RI). Of course I should have had my artwork organised well in advance but … ah well. That rarely happens.

So anyway. It’s a group show and I will present some existing drawings as well as new ones, like this one.

I am sometimes asked how I plan drawings like this. I always explain that it’s similar to the kind of doodling that many of us do, while talking on the telephone. In the past, those long conversations on the phone took place on landlines. We would generally be sitting down near the instrument, with the earpiece held to an ear with one hand, while the other hand was free to scribble mindlessly on the scraps of paper left by the phone for taking down notes or whatever.

Phone-conversation-doodles were often quite detailed. Meaningless, but detailed. So. I found that I could train myself to talk on the phone whilst also produce highly detailed drawings. They had more definition than typical doodles – instead of just being stars and whorls, they had heads and limbs, for instance – but were still sort of unplanned and random.

Eventually, of course, I could make these so-called doodles without talking on the phone! They are still fairly randomised and intricate.

This one, now called Baroque Pigeon, came into being over the course of two days, Wednesday and Friday last week.

For the past few days, I’ve been trying to take a

Picture of the rainbows being scattered by this

Simple plastic toy.

It only happens at a time of day when the sun

Comes dazzling in through the slats of the

Venetian blind at just the right angle.

HOWEVER: there’s a small furry fox

Dangling from the same paper clip

To which the rainbow toy is attached.

(See below)

It’s a very sweet-looking fox, intended to perch on top

Of a wine bottle or to hang from a Christmas Tree.

But when I try to take a picture of it along with the rainbows

The fox looks as if it’s been strung up by its neck

Like a hang-man (or hang-fox, I should say).

The shadows falling on its little face

Look sinister. And even the halo of delicate rainbows

Is barely visible in my photos.

So. You’ll just have to take my word for it!

In real life, it looks very pretty,

A splash of twinkling light on the

Grey Venetian blind.

And the fox really isn’t sad at all.

NOTE: A friendly subscriber called discovered that it’s possible to listen to an AUDIO version of these posts! Thanks, Leafy-Streamy! I finally managed to find the “Play” button, in the upper right corner, as you correctly said it would be.

In order to see the Play Button (a triangle pointing to the right, within a circle) you’ll need to be on Substack – ie, you need to go to the online site.

The audio is not in my voice.

It sounds like a young woman, speaking in a soft American accent – friendly and likeable, belonging to the kind of gently pretty girl who spends a lot of time in libraries. I imagine her with shiny, caramel-brown hair cut in a neat bob. She has a warm, nicely inflected voice. Not like a machine at all.

Even though, of course, that’s exactly what she is.

The #60 Bus, that I take from Providence to Newport

Displays poems in the lighted space

Created for public service announcements.

I’ve read this one several times

Over the past month.

I can’t decide whether or not I like

The poem. What I DO like is

That it’s there at all.

[NOTE: “Greyhound” in this context is the name of the bus company with an exceptionally broad network of long-distance buses]

This poem appeared very recently.

I read it just three days ago.

I decided right away that I DIDN’T like it,

Yet

The more I read it, the more I

Enjoyed the steampunk

Imagery of stars being

“Unscrewed from the sky”

To be re-purposed to light up

The cables holding up the bridge.

Plus

The two “un” words appearing

In two poems encountered aboard a bus

– “unhorses” and “unscrewed” –

Created a verbal micro-climate

All their own. Appearing

In the same space used for

Public service announcements.

So … I guess I …

DO like the poems

After all.

This poem is embossed into the pavement near where I live,

In Providence, RI, in the US.

I keep wanting to stop and read it, but

Usually hurry on before I can finish.

So today, I took a photo of it.

Those are my feet along the lower edge

Of the picture.

A few steps away, embedded in another slab of cement nearby

There are these paw prints:

I’ve seen them very often.

They are raccoon prints.

A rather young raccoon, I think.

They always make me smile.

But today it occurred to me that

They are

Just another kind of poem.

Dozens of these clusters were hanging in a row

Outside a shop, beside a small park.

I couldn’t make out what they were.

So I used my phone’s camera to enlarge

One of them. As the enlargements grew

On my phone’s screen, the image looked

More and more like some kind of

Fruit. A custard apple perhaps,

Combined with a mango. What a

Charming idea, I thought. Yum!

The fragrant sour-sweet of a mango merged

With the soft white decadence of a

Custard-apple. Impossible! But fun

To contemplate. Until I

Saw the tiny bulbs.

Ah! Well. How boring.

Just decorative lights, after all,

For an evening’s entertainment.

It was just resting, I thought

On the flagstone path.

Then I saw a couple of ants dashing over

To check it out. I didn’t even notice that it was

Lying on its back, with its limbs in the air

In the classic position of an insect-corpse.

The ants were excited in the way

Of wedding guests at a feast – the first to arrive, wow!

They were tripping over themselves, they were

Falling over and scrambling back upright,

Their antennae gesticulating wildly,

Quite manic, as if drunk or high.

Then they sped away, before I could ask them

What conclusions they had drawn,

Was this a crime scene or a natural death,

Were there witnesses and bereaved family

Members? I waited a few minutes, but

They did not return.

Remember I mentioned the little stars twinkling

On the flagstones? Well. I didn’t get to them in time.

They got swept away and stashed alongside

Other faded things. Leaves. Memories. Old photos.

Those slippery receipt-slips that go blank

Over time. Come to think of it,

These previously mauve stars are starting

To resemble crabs, aren’t they? So! I’m back

At the seaside, after all! Watching pale tan

Crab-lets scrambling onto rocks,

As I listen to the ceaseless boom of

Minutes and seconds along

The shore-line of

This small garden.

This elegant writing instrument was hiding under

A table in my room. It must have wandered there

Of its own accord, along with all the other things

That find their way to the understory of my life,

The domain of dust mice and other entities that

Feed on shadows and silence. The feather once belonged

To a Treepie, and now it belongs to me.

The Treepie is a handsome bird: brown, white and black

With a musical clunk! at the end of its call.

I would like to make a quill-pen out of the feather

And use it to draw a Treepie or to write a poem

About feathers and dust.

But: I won’t!

Sensuous vines,

Braiding their way up the wall,

Grey as the pebbles behind them.

Writhing in place,

Slithering one over the other

Slender passionate pythons

Perfectly still, motionless,

As if carved in stone.

Yet: high above them, at the top

Of the wall, the wildness of their

Living ardour spills out

In the form of frothy clouds of

small mauve stars.

Tomorrow, I will photograph

Scores of them lying on the flagstones

Below, faded and spent, yet

Still somehow twinkling.

A Brittle Star, masquerading as a spider lily,

Sprawled on the bed of

This garden’s ocean of leaves.

Seriously now: can a terrestrial flower look

Any more marine than this?

With its arms flung out, writhing

Ever so slightly in the current?

Those slender saffron sea-slugs

Dangling above that open mouth

Are playing a dangerous game of

Catch-me-if-you-can.

The math is all wrong of course:

That spider has six instead of eight arms

And that Brittle Star has six instead of five.

Whatever!

I seas what I sees.

They’re calling out, aren’t they?

“Look at ME!” – “No, MEEE!”

“Nooo! Me-me-me!”

So I’m looking at them

Feeling their tension

As they fret about their petals

Their pollen, their aromas.

This is their prom nite,

Their debutante ball –

They have so little time!

Look: one’s already wilted.

I saw sea creatures on the see-shore

Of the garden.

Saw-toothed succulents, reaching up

To carve the sunshine with their

Toothy tentacles spread out

Catching leaves and twigs and

Stray flowers and raindrops and

Whatever else chances their way

Without bothering to eat them.

They’re cool that way.

Like dancers in a still photograph,

These small leaves are suspended at

The entrance to a pump-enclosure.

How gracefully they hang there, like

Zany acrobats flash-frozen in mid-leap.

If they could speak, however, they might say

In mournful Sylvia-Plath-ish voices:

“Not leaping but struggling!”

For they are caught in a fine invisible web,

Not free at all. Somewhere, out of sight,

A spider lurks. Admiring her organic

Wall decor.

Is this elevator too small? I ask myself nervously,

as I step into it. It’s so dinky that I feel

Crowded even though I’m alone in it.

The total weight allowance is 272 Kg,

for four passengers. 68 Kg per person.

Which means that four of me, at 70 Kg each,

Would cause the lift to stall. The little graphic

Next to the weight allowance shows only

Three people, however. Perhaps this is a

Subtle hint that, regardless of what the

Notice says, it will be foolhardy

To exceed three passengers.

Smoking’s not allowed – but hey! There’s

No one to enforce the ban! Immediately,

I want to smoke, even though I’m not

A smoker. Each notice is repeated in

Braille. Which is very thoughtful. Except

That many Braille-readers might accidentally

Press each button while trying to read it.

I arrive at the second floor wondering

If Braille is always in English? Or are there

Translations into all of India’s languages?

And does anyone in UNIVERSAL (NOIDA)

proofread those tiny bumps?

*sigh* I doubt it.

See those jagged green lines?

The dark zigzags against paler green

Running horizontally across the long

Sword-like leaves of this

Sansevieria plant?

Well, now. I believe that

They are the continuously running

Soundtrack of the Earth.

If we were to hook up the leaves

Of Sansevieria plants

To a soundtrack reader

Of the same kind that runs along the edges

Of film-strips, I believe we could

Listen in to messages direct from

The plant world to our ears.

Maybe there are stories being

Recorded in those squiggles

Or poems, or proverbs, or –

Who knows! – maybe even

Songs.

It’s two flowers, not one.

They had fallen together

And landed just so.

A happy coincidence.

Such things are happening

Hundreds of thousands

Of times, every day

All around us.

Thank goodness we only

Rarely notice them.

Or else – imagine being

Continuously amazed,

Delighted and

Serendipitied

All day long!

*yikes*

What a nightmare.

Overnight, a pale green envelope appears

Like a message in a bottle,

Washing up on the shore of the garden.

The message is about a pure white spider

Disguised as a lily. Its web is made of a fine

Clear fragrance, saffron-bright pollen and

The hypnotic simplicity of its six slender petals.

I will fly gladly towards it,

I will look forward to being its victim,

Consumed by its ordinary beauty

Tomorrow.

This nut’s shell didn’t have the

Slightest little crack. So there was

No way to lever its two halves open.

If I wanted to get at its interior I’d have to crush it.

Brutalise it. Force it to yield up its treasure.

I decided against doing that.

I decided to let the nut have its way. Let it remain shut.

Keep its secrets, its tiny store of organic energy

That will anyway never get a chance to germinate and

Do what seeds do.

I associate pistachio nuts with Iran.

My parents lived there when I was a child.

I visited them there and enjoyed my time

Immensely. I saw the fabulous Crown Jewels

And Persepolis. Visited an oil field and

Remember being invited to place my

Small hands on a huge grey pipe that

Was hot to the touch from the crude oil

Coursing through it. Got my tonsils

Removed at a Russian hospital

And ate mountains of

Pistachio nuts.

It looks like a ritual object,

Doesn’t it? Its tapered shape,

The ring circling its upper end,

Its positioning in the crack

Of an old tree stump are all

A bit suggestive, aren’t they?

But it’s only an old grind-stone after all.

It used to be inside the house,

In the kitchen, partnered with

A heavy slab of textured black granite.

It crushed ginger, garlic, cardamom and clove

It coaxed out flavours and juices and

Pungent aromas. It enabled subtle ranges

Of delight and satisfaction to enter the

Meals made from its exertions.

No wonder it looks suggestive!

Unlike its metal-n-plastic successor,

Whining and snarling as it

Pulverises whatever comes its way

With its tiresome, mechanical

Efficiency.

It glittered on the flagstone, a small faded flower.

I blinked: it became a moth.

Dying or resting, I cannot say.

It had a leaf for company

And sunlight to gild its wings.

A discarded jewel

From Nature’s treasure chest.

Or: not discarded at all.

Just dying or resting,

In the usual way.