Yesterday afternoon at the river, James and I witnessed a juvenile Bald Eagle, seated most proudly at the top of a tree. I couldn’t capture a photograph that was at all focused because of the bright sunlight. The raptor remained directly across from us. Near us, Suzanne was sitting on a bench, commemorating the day that her forty year old sister had passed from a lethal dosing of Percocet. The bench was a memorial to a fourteen year old girl who had passed many years before (there is a metal dedication card posted on the bench). Suzanne’s sister liked to come to this, her favourite spot for river-pondering. Suzanne is a neighbour of mine, living on the far side of the circle. I talk to her evenings when I pass by and she is sitting, smoking, on her front porch. Yesterday, James and I were walking Max. It was a warm and beautiful day. James said, “It’s supposed to be like this all week.”
I found a photograph of me and Laurie-dog tucked into my journal. It was taken on July 17, 2003, by a friend of mine. She and I were out walking on a beautiful afternoon. At the Bow River, all those years ago, I remember that the two of us spoke about fear and fearlessness. The photograph that she snapped of Laurie and me was anything but sad…look at us smiling!
It happened to be that the Ginsberg poem I read the next day was titled The Voice of Rock. I had received a phone call from Cayley and James, both on a trip to the east coast. I received news that my dear friend, Father James Carroll, had passed. Elma was in Rockyview Hospital. I had painted a small canvas at the river in the morning. At the time, I was doing a painting every morning, but that particular morning it was very hot.
Fourteen years ago…and I remember the feeling of being incapacitated. It wasn’t long after this that I stopped painting, altogether. (I say this but, in truth, I have painted a lot these past many years…different context and purpose, is all.) During the past two weeks, I have readied my studio…made it snug…put fresh paint on the walls. My son helped me with that. As I look at the simple lines of poetry that I wrote in response to Ginsberg, I am celebrating today. I finish hanging things back up on the walls and then I will take a photo. My studio is ready.
Untitled…just a very few lines typed into my journal, but a response, regardless.
I can not sleep
Or paint.
Today, though, I sang a song
From my heart where no
One was present to listen.
©Kathleen Moors
Allen Ginsberg wrote “A Voice of Rock” in August of 1948 in Paterson. I am posting a link to a wonderful and article titled,
The piece gives some clarity to the context…linking up to a short bit of text, here. But, it is important to read in its entirety if the reader wishes context. I need to read more about the relationship between the writing of William Carlos Williams and Ginsberg. They have a shared geography…that is for certain…reminding me of my strong sense of a person’s creative response being profoundly connected to a sense of PLACE.