Poet Cassie Premo Steele responds to artist Bonnie Goldberg

Last year at one of Mark Plessinger's multi-disciplinary arts events at Frame of Mind, the local writer and poet, Cassie Premo Steele, created poetry in response to some of the paintings by artist, Bonnie Goldberg, whose work you saw in Jasper's last message. At Jasper, we love it when artists come together to inspire one another and share their gifts with each other and those of us who are lucky enough to stand and watch.

Here are two of the poems Cassie wrote for that night. For more of Cassie, please visit her at www.cassiepremosteele.com.

 

Look this way

 

Look this way, he said,

as she turned her head

away from him, again.

 

Her own shoulder

makes a better bed

than his ever did.

 

It took her years

to believe it, though.

His hard bones,

 

she thought,

were the best

she could do.

 

Hand on hip,

she finally said

the words: We're through.

 

For Goldberg's Drawing 202, ‘nude female standing.’

 

Your daughter turns from you

 

Your daughter turns from you daily now,

with the grace of a dancer, and somehow

you learn to accept it, that carpet she weaves

and walks away upon each day.

 

You knew this day would come, even

before she could walk and you spent

hours drumming on her thighs and

humming lullabies. You were preparing.

 

You saw flashes of it at two and ten,

her rage slicing the way for her to cut

away from you. You were smug

and thought you knew wisdom.

 

Becoming daughter to mother, we learn cutting.

As mothers, we learn waving goodbye and staying.

The lesson of grandmothering: Crying. Smiling.

Never saying how hard it is to see them leaving.

 

For Goldberg's Painting 145, ‘promises.’

Cassie Premo Steele is the author of eight books and teaches writing and everyday creativity at The Co-Creating Studio. Check her out at www.cassiepremosteele.com

A poem by Ed Madden

Dream fathers

By Ed Madden

We drive across the bridge, late at night, a hundred feet or so of clattering boards—

no rail, no rim, just jagged planks, and river flowing slow and brown below. The bridge

collapsed last year. I cross it every night in sleep—sometimes alone, sometimes with him—

but always away from home. The bridge's end may veer; each night I go someplace else,

dark cypress swamp on either side. One night my father is the driver and the car.

He opens up the door of his side, and I climb in. I cross the bridge again,

riding in the body of my father.

 

 

Dream fathers and more of Ed’s poetry can be found in his most recent book of poetry, Prodigal: Variations, 2011. Ed is the poetry editor for Jasper Magazine.