Cedar Waxwing in texture

271/365 Work with textures

 

I found this wonderful image from my new friend Philip Dunn and I couldn't resist the temptation to ask his permission to work with it and he kindly agree and I'm so very grateful for that.

 

I used "The Little Blue Book" from Florabella for my work with textures.

 

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LARRY LEVIS

In 1967

 

(reprinted by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press)

 

Some called it the Summer of Love, & although the clustered,

Motionless leaves that overhung the streets looked the same

As ever, the same as they did every summer, in 1967,

Anybody with three dollars could have a vision.

And who wouldn’t want to know what it felt like to be

A cedar waxwing landing with a flutter of gray wings

In a spruce tree, & then disappearing into it,

For only three dollars? And now I know; its flight is ecstasy.

No matter how I look at it, I also now know that

The short life of a cedar waxwing is more pure pleasure

Than anyone alive can still be sane, & bear.

And remember, a cedar waxwing doesn’t mean a thing,

Qua cedar or qua waxwing, nor could it have earned

That kind of pleasure by working to become a better

Cedar waxwing. They’re all the same.

Show me a bad cedar waxwing, for example, & I mean

A really morally corrupted cedar waxwing, & you’ll commend

The cage they have reserved for you, resembling heaven.

 

Some people spent their lives then, having visions.

But in my case, the morning after I dropped mescaline

I had to spray Johnson grass in a vineyard of Thompson Seedless

My father owned—& so, still feeling the holiness of all things

Living, holding the spray gun in one hand & driving with the other,

The tractor pulling the spray rig & its sputtering motor—

Row after row, I sprayed each weed I found

That looked enough like Johnson grass, a thing alive that’s good

For nothing at all, with a mixture of malathion & diesel fuel,

And said to each tall weed, as I coated it with a lethal mist,

Dominus vobiscum, &, sometimes, mea culpa, until

It seemed boring to apologize to weeds, & insincere as well.

For in a day or so, no more than that, the weeds would turn

Disgusting hues of yellowish orange & wither away. I still felt

The bird’s flight in my body when I thought about it, the wing ache,

Lifting heaven, locating itself somewhere just above my slumped

Shoulders, & part of me taking wind. I’d feel it at odd moments

After that on those long days I spent shoveling vines, driving trucks

And tractors, helping swamp fruit out of one orchard

Or another, but as the summer went on, I felt it less and less.

 

As the summer went on, some were drafted, some enlisted

In a generation that would not stop falling, a generation

Of leaves sticking to body bags, & when they turned them

Over, they floated back to us on television, even then,

In the Summer of Love, in 1967,

When riot police waited beyond the doors of perception,

And the best thing one could do was get arrested.

 

.../

Done