"dazzle gradually"

"Dazzle Gradually" 2017 poems, paintings, new art & photography--a diary, a discipline, a delight. Read over my shoulder as I post my unedited poetry ---you can see it in the raw or get my first book and see how the work evolves with new books rolling out next year.

Polly Alice

Thursday, February 18, 2016

New year ---Steps

So last year I made it into three publications and I met my goal of more poems in 2015 than 2014.  I don't know what my goals are this year. Maybe get a professional to help me revise my book of poems. I know I'd like to attempt to paint some images of my favorite tall tale moments in my poetry. I'd love to capture some of those moments of magical realism that appear in my poetry all by themselves. Those are the images I keep writing for. I never know what will come out. I got a late start on this year due to opening a new art gallery and leaving my computer at work, but thanks to the S. family I have a laptop for poetry. I'm so grateful.

For National Poetry Month in April I plan to teach two poetry workshops at my new studio in Midtown Kansas City, MO. Since moving to the far far northland of the Kansas city area, all my poems stem from the new county park behind my house.  This year, I hope to add some urban influences from my treck into the city each day where I've opened my art studio.  I can't wait to see what happens.  Where does poetry come from? That is my question. Here's my first poem for the year-- enjoy. 


​Walking the path again 
over Mooseman Bridge
my feet hallow over the tunnel
of sound. 

Far enough out
the woods get loud enough
to mute my wordless thoughts.

There, a swath of bark,
a sleeve from some tree's
naked elbow. She doesn't
care what she leaves
behind, she's growing.
Spring's come early.

The bird calls mean a poem's here
Chickadee's call Po-lly, Po-lly
Blue Jays cree, cree-- their calls
sharp as two skis sticking
out of a snowbank, cries
hard as the iron pins
in the bridge's back.

Theirs, the notes I step on as I 
climb up into the white
sky where my memories 
play in scales between 
the empty spaces
among the branches.

That is who I am, the
space between two
notes caught amid
the panes
blown before Winter