the bucolic life

I've finished reading the paper, emptying the dishwasher, washing the pots in the sink, folding the laundry, and sweeping the kitchen floor while listening to Joe Lovano and Stefon Harris. Occasionally, I looked at my daughters' blogs or the NY Times website to see if a financial armaggedon  had commenced yet. My dog is snoring softly (as opposed to her thunderous nighttime snore) by my feet as I write this. The sky is grey,grey,grey, and gray - one trademark of the Great Northwest at the end of winter (also at the beginning and in the middle). This is the season of change in the Northwest. The day may open with streaks of  intense light fragmenting the fog and patches of bluest sky occupying the space over the butte on the other side of the small valley our house faces. As the body begins to ease into thoughts of work outdoors, hail rattles the stovepipe. This is followed by a downpour  the house gutters can't handle, flooding the view.  Then another blue opening in the sky and flashes of intense sunlight. This might go on all day, or the grey/gray/grey might descend again. Aside from the summer when Nature is a beneficent goddess beyond the imaginations of downtrodden East Coast urbanites (which was my former existence decades ago), this time of year is my favorite - the epitome of being in the moment! This is real drama, not the bullshit we tend to fill our lives with and chatter endlessly about on our updated cell phones (mea culpa). My dog just woke up and gave me the I-want-to-go-out look. She'll go out, lie in the rain till she's thoroughly soaked, slop through the new strawberry bed, and then bark insistently at the door to tell me she's ready to come in so she can take another four hour nap, resting up for tonight when she'll decide at two in the morning that she wants to go out to check the poop the deer may have left as they passed through on their evening rounds. At every door of our house there are wet, muddy towels. It's raining. The sky is grey/gray/grey. My dog is sleeping by the heater. Ah, the bucolic life! 

seeking some practical aesthetic advice

I'm working on a series of photographs accompanied by poems I have written or on a series of poems accompanied by photographs. The poems are not intended to be explications of the photos, and the photos are not intended to be maps of the poems. There are elements of commonality, and these elements are used to provide a ground for each to extend the emotional/intellectual/spiritual/physical/aesthetic content of the other.  As I work on this series, I've been thinking about their presentation. The photos are either 8 x 10 or 11 x 14 matted on 16 x 20 board.  I'll probably frame them with black metal. I like that presentation of b/w work. Right now, it's the presentation of the poems that is up in the air. I write in unlined journals with Staedtler pigment liners. I like the aesthetic and physical feel of printing on white space with dark black ink. I'm leaning toward  printing the poems in my own  hand (developed over forty years of writing).  My style is raw but legible (although my student might debate the legible part of it).  I'm seeking ideas on paper selection and presentation.  If I frame the poems, I think the literal line between the photo and poem may be too defined. Maybe not.  I'd like the paper to have some texture but be accepting of the physical act of printing by hand. If you have any suggestions or can recommend sources of info, I would appreciate hearing from you. Here's one of the poems.

our lady of the blue notes

in the church of our lady

of the blue notes

a madonna holds a small

bird in her prayer-

clasped hands

her mother rests beside her    light

with evening's grace      on the wall

icons of African

fathers    poets

of sky song

     Earth chant

     the A train's sway & chatter

     the watermelon man's green call

in the church

of our lady of the blue 

notes    bassman thrums

a fourstringed cross

drumer crashes

metal into fire

saxman conjures

breath to flesh

sleeping spirits to holler

to shout

in the church of our lady

of the blue notes

a madonna opens

her prayer

filled hands        a blues

flies                                           out