Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary.

Tag: lost love

Rice Pudding and Rumi

All I wanted was a can of rice pudding. After a long day I wanted a reward. Not a drink. Not dope. Just some rice pudding.

In other stores I’ve seen cans of rice pudding beside the Devon cream near the condensed milk or in the baking goods section.

I thought of her, who I lost, and how she would heat pudding and serve it topped with Devon cream. I wondered who she was serving now.

The staff had no clue. One said aisle 13 with a blank stare.
‘Isn’t it with the pudding?’ said the one with centipede eyebrows.
I was determined to find the rice pudding section.

A woman without a shopping cart or purse or umbrella studied a jar in aisle 13 and then a bag in the organic section freezer. I figured she was the store detective or an immigrant figuring things out or maybe somebody lonely looking to get picked up.

I checked every possible location. No luck.

I walked away half an hour later in the rain wondering what sort of loser looks for rice pudding at ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

I thought of Rumi saying sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
But I didn’t have any cleverness to sell.

Drawing 14 assumes new form

After I broke (shattered!) my ankle I began drawing for long periods in bed.

I used a Sharpie marker on lined paper and numbered the drawings.

Sometimes I titled the drawings and indicated how I might use them, a linocut or a painting.

Drawing 14 broke free of its mooring and reappeared after traveling through several rooms.

I recreated Drawing 14 using digital tools.

1 + 4 = 5. Some people say 5 is a dynamic number of change. An indicator of flux, of positive movement,

& some things never reappear & you realize there might be something else, down in the roots, you need to want more.

And you experience both mystery and loss

while wearing wings and antlers.

Wherever those came from.








When it is gone… (Nietzsche, a quote)

aseductive glance

“When it is gone,

passion leaves behind a dark longing for itself,

watery figuresan oval

and in disappearing

glassy cavefilmstrip

throws us one last

seductive glance

seductive glance.”

turn to youredly
watery figures
Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900)

masquefinaland closerfinaltwo of two

Pilots Nobody Believes (in homage to Gabriel Garcia Marquez)


Thinning my studio


I discover your unlined face looking into the future,


sketched with charcoal on lightweight paper.

partial face

My memory of you


a weak pulse


sealed away like a forgotten dimension.

the half the half

I drop clear, blue, plastic bags to the sidewalk

i copy

like fallen


sections of sky,

fadeout 1 copy

reported by pilots


nobody believes.


“Wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.”

― Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude


A (forgotten) charcoal drawing digitally contemplated.

fadeout 2fadeout 2fadeout 2


The Sorrow of a Brown Hat by Steven McCabe


Crumpled fading newsprint

As yesterday’s armies march

Into tomorrow


A future we predicted

fly by


We accepted sleep standing upright

Sleep never understood;



A chapter of blank pages: my darling, your wrist hanging

Over the bed

extreme sorrow

Your blood a confusion

Your heartbeat the black window

Swallowing my hands


Fingers forming a circle

simple sunset

Bottom of a fleet casting shadows across the seabed


I toss my hat overboard



new pearl

from my book Hierarchy of Loss (2007) Ekstasis Editions

Stop Being So Religious by Hafiz



Do sad people have in



It seems

They have all built a shrine

To the past


And often go there

And do a strange wail and



What is the beginning of



It is to stop being

So religious






Translation by Daniel Ladinsky


The animal figure was originally a shadow puppet created last year by a Grade 8 student in a small Ontario town.  I delivered a poetry and shadow puppetry workshop & we created a quite striking multi media production. I decided to experiment with a photo taken during the workshop. Simultaneously I discovered this Hafiz poem which follows the previous post by Rumi very elegantly.

On Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh

flower feathery

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;

Read the rest of this entry »