SwampFire

David Marshall’s photos

Ilse Schweitzer’s ekphrastic reflection on a SwampFire art piece

I cannot entirely see where I am going. The map before me (or is it the horizon itself?)
is imperfectly stitched together, inventing ranges and rivers that may not actually be there.
Shadows play on the surface of the canvas, suggesting either clouds or land formations;
I cannot trust my eye to read correctly. I’m not sure it matters– the pages flit away
before I can read them. Some points promise glimpses of clarity, though: I see light
through the stitched-up center of the page, and perhaps I will see clearly through
the hag stones piled before me at eye level. If I look through the stones, I wonder
what will look back at me?

Robin Moss’ photos of nature’s details . . . from MossRobin Photography

Culture Shock . . . by Michele Willman

I am in the re-entry, the return, the re-adaptation.
The re-re-re rebinding of one’s self.
To this life, the former life, the now life.

In my absence, they’ve cut down my tree
The City who knows which trees to keep and which
Don’t warrant saving.
And now there is a gaping space on my manicured lawn
And the bird’s nest of messy sparrows
Has left no trace.

In my backyard, my dogs dawdle about
As they always do in the morning though I am frantic
To leave the quietness of steaming coffee
And enter the train of morning drivers
On their way to pay the bills.

In my car, I reach to turn on the news, the audiobook, the noise
That replaces my thoughts.
But I want to return to the podcast of birdsong
And the reel of sand-hill cranes feeding in moist leaves
With their trusting infant.

I want to hear the donkeys braying
And that damn rooster at 6am.
I love that rooster at 6am.
The patter of the early risers waking up to wonder
That feeds my spirit.

Then the air fills with smoke and laughter
Tea and tarot and talent—
So much talent—and spirit, and nourishment
I reveal myself. I reveal too much.
But I am caught by the many hands
Of this community
And I am buoyed and I am safe.

And it is Swampfire.

Zed’s paintings . . . more to come, but here’s the one painted during the retreat

Notes after SwampFire . . . a pantoum of sorts by Rachel Baker

Mary Catherine says we are poets if we write a poem 
And the words echo around me in the classroom–
No, now, under the canopy of the trees–
And Michele, always brave, dives in first: a poem.

And the words echo around me in the day–
Restless in my office chair, I long for tea and tarot in the cool evenings among the motherwort.
And the others, so talented, dive in next.
My cat sleeps deeply, limbs splayed in all directions, on the Persian rug.

Restless in my living room, I long for golden hour in the cool evenings among the wild ginger.
That community was a treasured gift. 
My cat still sleeps, limbs stretched in all directions, on the Persian rug.
He has not left the rooms I am in since my return.

This lingering is a gift of belonging 
In the tender flesh of my heart–
My thoughts have not left the woods since my return.
Mary Catherine says we are poets if we write a poem.

Dawn Burns’ photos