The Poet to the Artist | Part 2

Imaginate (on view through June 5, 2016), my first solo exhibition at the Boston Sculptors Gallery, has been a tremendous opportunity for me to exhibit a body of work and connect with the community. I am so grateful for the relationships that I have made over the last several weeks. Through conversations with artists, curators and enthusiasts, I have learned a great deal about individual works and my practice. Artist, poet and friend, Stephan Anstey of Western Avenue Studios, Lowell, MA attended the opening reception of Imaginate. It wasn't long before his encounter with the works before him forced his pencil to paper. I am most grateful for the following exchange — a collaboration of sorts — I give you part two of three!


Numberless dice
rolled and left unread —
what chance is this?
Should I be the man
to roll it all again
and pray the number comes up
the texture, the color, the best luck
of being my own own life?

Brilliant Basics

When I was 3
I loved to stack
each upon each
until my own personal babel made sense
torus on torus
progressing larger to smaller
until everything made sense

Skateboards in Bosch Blue

I see the surface
willing to hold on
— an imagining of balance upon a no-slip plane
I see the wheels
willing to roll
— onward without resistance to direction
eyes closed — I know nearby are slender wrists
fragile and ready to break in the falling of the dream

Wheelboards in Fein Orange

In the distance of years
half a memory is left
on his back under an Oldsmobile wagon
fixing something banal like a break
the almost remembering never stops —
he was young rolling on that board
in filthy jeans and a ragged tee shirt
until we could stop safely


Royal Palm

Heaven is there in the straight lines
of a mosaic of hard woods
laid at the feet of a triumphant dream
if there is any hell here
it is only here in me.
I look down at my feet
watch my step
and walk away without even one Hosanna in the Highest




Blended Foundation

There is the pause as symbol is reconciled
to the artifice of self built here in me
— neither bone nor sinew
neither flesh nor blood
is any more me than this hardwood
if these bricks are bricks they are of soul not clay
if the mortar is mortar it is of mind not cement




Distracted by the grout, I almost miss
the glossy sweet candy color
the weaving of grain into grain
the smoothing of cut by honesty of hand
I see the carpenter in California
the dusty scent of sandpaper echoes
like an albatross over the dark'ning sea on a long ago summer night
the taste of the crafter — exquisite salt blowing in from the cold pacific

Chateau Emperador

I see you see me
like a mosaic on the wall
a thousand bits of hardness
formed into a beautiful pattern
I realize, I am a backsplash
I realize, we are all each other's backsplashes
I smile and try to make the kitchen in your heart
where you bake all this up look pretty


(All poems courtesy of Stephan Anstey)