Sunday, October 29, 2017

The Muse as She Whispers in My Ear

Here in the center of the world, I lean against warm adobe, let the Southwest sunshine sink through skin, into bones until all my cells are simply the light again. The Muse has been visiting me in my dreams, encountering me in the natural world and I am alive with vision and rhyme. 

The world waits for us to take the risk to sing in our one true voice- and when we do a healing echoes back to us, sometimes in a poem. 

All Poets—

Begin again with discipline,
with commitment to page and pen,
to that harrowing journey
of the written word ridden
like Crow’s wings
into the nebulous hollow
of the unknown.

Invite tryst, discourse, happenchance,
acquire the hard earned treasures derived
from staring into the bareness of the Void
—when no one else can bear it—

craft your words like stars,
invent new constellations
that twinkle and shine,
there for all who look

-Renee Podunovich, 2017
Dolores, CO, USA

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Swimming With Sedna

"Playful Sedna" by Kakulu Saggiaktok

Slide the shoulder under,
I am (not) a fish
but that same liquid
is (in) my cells.

I sink into the unconscious like Sedna—
the girl whose dismembered fingers
were lobbed into the sea
where they became all the whales 
and other gilled (but limb-lacking) creatures,
became Waddell Seals and Walruses, hidden
yet calling out from arctic ice shelves (now melting)

a backward birth of shadowy progeny—
we swim forever with our lost selves.

when her own father tosses her from the boat,
she gradually descends,
her sickening hair floating free above her head,
swaying like seaweed, the texture of moss, 
like fennel fronds (that fragrance)
down to dark depths where light doesn’t illuminate

finally submerged to a place where bones
are crystalline establishments
broadcasting through mineral messages
a connection to eternity and stardust

do not despair.
eventually she becomes a Sea Goddess
who will visit the strange ocean of your dreams

-Renee Podunovich, 2017

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Fall Backward: Honoring the Call to Rest

When autumn first starts to yawn it is contagious and I begin to feel the invitation to slow down, unwind, retract my energy and attention. I start anticipating the sheer, bare stillness of winter solstice with relief. My body takes cues from the yellowing tips of leaves, the morning’s snappish air, the sunlight slipping away just slightly. The planet twirls and spins and this is why seasons change and when I am in resonance with these natural signals to decelerate, I typically find myself busier than at any other time of year. In past years, I’ve dreaded winter, resisted adjusting my pace and ended up SAD! This year, holidays and all, I’m resolved to claim my quiet space, to have meaningful inner dialogues and rest in the verdant dark.

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Thursday, June 25, 2015

Black&White or Lavender: Integration of Opposites

Entering the vegetal world of the garden feels like entering another realm, one in which bees, sun and lavender are most important, and the checklists piled on my desk at home fade to a nagging memory.
Yet both worlds exist simultaneously. I watch silvery butterflies on a voyage through the fragrance garden, inhale the pungent, sharp smell of lavender blossoms crushed between my fingers, feel the cool spray and hear the air-meeting-water sound of the sprinklers. I judge all of this to be pleasant and easy. Still, the image of my cluttered desk and the tasks waiting there arise in my mind. These, I associate with stress, pressure and unpleasantness.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Connecting to the Wise Self: Allowing

In a plein air setting, there are elements to contend with. And they are beyond my control. Storm clouds. They gestate on the backbone of the Bonneville Shoreline Trail, rolling and rolling. Insects. I imagine the pause, the space between their delicate wings. Their “zzz” is an invitation to settle now.
A yipping dog, the growl of machinery— I can suffer or I can accept these things just as they are. I choose to accept them and my awareness expands to the include bird song and the sensuous sway of the oaks in this overgrown grove. I start to notice my breath deepen.
I’ve been away from myself, lost in the world of business and achievement. I feel a deep relief at returning to my five senses. This is the place I can always return to, it will not let me down- my own body and the miracle of sight, sound, touch, smell and taste.

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Sunday, November 23, 2014

No One Understands A Thing I Say

And it is because I'm a poet. I've tried to give up writing poetry. Really tried hard. However, even with its serious and archaic nature, its reputation for obscurity, its saturation in academic snootiness, its status as unwanted stepchild of the arts, and the continual threat of extinction, I find arranging words helps me take the experiences of my life and make sense of it all. We are biological organisms designed to process our experiences through thoughts and feelings. We do this in dreams states, in dance states, through music and song and through words and poems. I can't seem to do this as well in another genre of writing or in making other forms of art. So I'm stuck with poetry, always feeling around at the edges for possibilities.

Many contemporary poets argue the value of poetry to be in its ability to be a linguistic bridge between the numinous and our daily grind. It's an art form that speaks to us through cultural, universal or archetypal images and we are transported into connection with something larger than ourselves. Poet Denise Levertov states, “People turn to poems (if they are aware poetry exists) for some kind of illumination, for revelations that help them to survive, to survive in spirit not only in body. These revelations are usually not of the unheard-of but of what lies around us unseen or forgotten. Or they illuminate what we feel but don’t know we feel until it is articulated.”

I've been deeply influenced by this idea of illumination through the written or spoken word. I have spent a lot of time exacting the art of finding words to describe transcendent experiences that are deeply personal into words that others can understand and perhaps relate with. I'll always value the feeling of satisfaction when a reader states a poem has moved them deeply. It feels like a full circle that starts with the impulse to express and ends with a shared experience that has moved both writer and reader into a kind of sacred, uplifted realm. 

AND, I'm currently interested in finding something original in my own writing and shaking free of the lexicon that has carried me this far in the process of making art out of my life. I'm interested in finding out what happens if the words I use to describe my experience only make sense to me because no effort has been taken to render them available to others. It's an experiment in verbal abstraction and a journey into postmodern subjectivity. 

We are living in a social networking world where we have become accustomed to sharing deeply personal information via words, images, videos, etc as a way to "connect" with others. It's become as much a part of our day as eating or working. I'm curious about poems as a sort of meta-aware "selfie" not so much to be narcissistic or to objectify the self further, but more of an exercise in mindful awareness that is free to wander internally and externally without a commitment to get anywhere. The impetus is to capture one's own personal experience in a moment. OK, maybe a few "filters" aka edits and crafting are still being used, but it is without a need to explain, deliver or illuminate anything more than a shot of the self, as it this moment, fully subjective and without apology. 


no teeth to hold
the tongue in
flop out rain chaser
wet streets unknown appliance sound
quivers her letters irregular
prescriptions are waiting
chase the hours spent sounding
irregular vowels the Os

he puts down tracks
gadgetry finish the coffee
reheat & reheat
a bigger book means mind in the margins
wander the rumble under the refrigerator
the food gone
an arrow made of engine poking the rain
& wet tongue

-Renee Podunovich, 2014

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Being In-Between

Here I am again, between projects and while deeply satisfied with my last collection of poems, “Let the Scaffolding Collapse” (Finishing Line press, 2012), I also find myself deeply unsure if there is new inspiration that will emerge for me as a writer. I’ve spent a few years shedding the lexicon of the previous collection but the fresh vocabulary of new work still eludes me.

In the best moments, I use the imagery of a fallow field to acknowledge the fact that when I sit down to write, there is a dark silence in my mind and nothing appears to grow from it. I contemplate emptiness not as a deficiency, rather a space for unlimited potential. In moments of panic, I believe I’m washed up and that my best work is behind me. This leads to avoiding the writing process altogether— a big mistake I believe (though it’s difficult to see why spending time in an empty field is of any consequence in this in-between state). It’s at times like this I draw on the wisdom of mentors and role models.

Author and photographer Christina Nealson is a person committed to inspired living. At a writing workshop she facilitated, she emphasized the idea that when one creates the space and intention to invite the Muse to dine with us on a daily basis, there is a greater likelihood for it to show up. This makes sense. My general approach has been to wait until I’m struck by inspiration, then pull to the side of the road, step out of the meeting, or leave the dinner table to start writing frantically, not wanting to lose that sudden spark. That hasn’t happened for a long time now, so I’m trying the sure and steady method for a while. Every day I write a few spare lines of mostly personal journal babble, filling in the gaps with collage or doodling. I believe something will emerge from this effort and in any case, it's fun.

Intentionally making space for beauty is a value that another inspirational person in my life, artist Sonja Horoshko, impressed upon me. I’ve watched her studio, Art Juice Studio, move from place to place over the years. It even existed as a “cardboard” studio in her back yard one summer in which deconstructed appliance boxes made walls that held space for remarkable student and mentor work to emerge. Art Juice “Studio” in the end appears to exist not as a single address but as something that permeates the moments of her daily life. I learned from her that a life imbued with generativity exists in small creative gestures:  using beautiful cloth napkins and colorful dishes at every meal, placing one stem in a vase, or rendering one small pebble from a vast landscape. These offerings add up to a life constantly filled with creative moments (rather than mundane tasks) and they are the stepping stones to keeping creative inspiration alive.

In the end, it may be that the process counts as much as the end product. In his essay “Virtue Aesthetics” Steve Neumann describes a poet’s process as one that supports a life of “flourishing” which involves an integration of personal process and art. He states “to live the good life, one has to incorporate certain experiences, traits or tendencies that dispose one to act in certain ways, just as a flower absorbs light and water, and nutrients from the soil, and then manifests its particular “virtues” of color and form — in other words, it thrives as a flower.”
He draws on the poet Levertov’s idea that writing poetry requires a “faithful attention”. According to Levertov, “What many people don’t recognize is that poets write poems from the same impulse that others read them. People turn to poems (if they are aware poetry exists) for some kind of illumination, for revelations that help them to survive, to survive in spirit not only in body. These revelations are usually not of the unheard-of but of what lies around us unseen or forgotten. Or they illuminate what we feel but don’t know we feel until it is articulated.” The poet’s process encourages an openness to experience, sensitivity to the nuances of experience as well as creativity and these virtues support a flourishing life.
I found myself this morning contemplating the image of a hen scratching for corn in the dirt as a metaphor for my brain searching out new words. I was about to jot it down in my journal when I remembered that I had used this image already at some previous in-between time:
When the muse dies
words rustle and break
under the weight of ordinariness.
The breath catches
at the sudden expanse
beyond the peak
of a mountain trail,
sighs at heading downhill again.
The pen scratches like a chick
looking for corn.
The mind is a dog
hunting prairie dogs or baby rabbits
in the burrows and dens
of stillness.

It’s still a good image. And somewhere a new image, a new topic, a new process exists. In the meantime, onward with the endeavor of not so much to write a good poem, but to be invigorated by the creative process – every day.

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The Muse as She Whispers in My Ear

Here in the center of the world, I lean against warm adobe, let the Southwest sunshine sink through skin, into bones until all my cells are...

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