A. Anupama
When a leaf falls on your painting, you can keep on painting. And, you can write a poem to go with it. At the New York City Poetry Festival yesterday, one of the family-friendly activities hosted by the Poetry Society of New York did involve painting and writing poetry under the magnificent plane trees of…
Maybe everyone knows that the word “courage” came from the French word for “heart.” And it is the heart that leads into courageous action, more than any rational effort can do. Therefore, appeals to the heart should always make us more courageous, right? Maybe that’s true except in the cases of protective parents and similar…
WordPress sends me an every-other-day reminder that it’s time to blog here. Okay, I guess I’m the one who set that reminder, but somehow I keep ignoring it, thinking no one is in any mood for poetry midst news of war, rising inflation, challenges to women’s health, election shenanigans, and now yet another horrific mass…
Here is a flat, seamless year’s end, in a pandemic seemingly without end. Given a lot of reflection, my hope has been to give it contour. Loss and hope weave themselves together, like threads in chambray melding into a single color. Love and anxiety as weft and warp conspire to drape us in silk. These…
I wonder if I’m noticing enough, even as I pause over fresh red leaves in the roadside next to the curb. There’s pleasure in writing poems, even breathless with exertion of reluctance. The last robin in our neighborhood to fly away for winter might have gone already, or might not yet. A poem waits and…
What do butterflies say? If a child asked me that, I’d say “listen.” This past Sunday, my neighbor and I walked up the newly built section of trail that leads from Nyack Beach State Park to the Long Path, which climbs to the peak of Hook Mountain. We met a woman named Felicia, who teaches…
Given a few lines, a poem can sprout wing-like leaves, sip rain, bud and blossom with color. Tomorrow’s Instapoetry event in downtown Nyack means we’ll all probably write a poem or two, or more. Given some pause, a poem can accelerate beyond speed limits. Given a few conspirators, a poem can admire your very act…
Which is what I told my friend I was doing these days. But that was really a subterfuge. A creative mind never stops. Even when I seem still, there’s a process at work that I don’t understand or know anything about. I hide my process. I treat it like a living root: something that must…
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