The Fool Poem, Jon Collin Music, and a Video

Last fall I saw Jon Collin––a beautiful improv guitar artist––perform in a groovy vintage clothing store in Charlottesville. Hearing him live was an alchemical experience. I wrote a bit of a review here. The review is a kind of poem, too.

One spring evening I found myself listening to his recordings all night. His music brought the magic and l wrote a poem. While playing one of his pieces, I read my new poem, and recorded it. When I listened after, it seemed the words and the music fell together just right.

I received permission from him to share the poem with the music. His piece is called Smoke and Wind, from the album Water and Rock Music Volume 1. You can listen to it in its entirety here. Please do. And then listen to the rest of his music and then buy something.

As I continue to try to be bolder in 2018, I'd like to share this. I didn't want to post just a sound file however, so I looked for a video that might work. The video I came to is nine years old. It's a bit random but I think it works ok. 

So here it is, The Fool, set to Smoke and Wind by Jon Collin.

The Fool poem by Zoe Krylova set to Smoke and Wind music by Jon Collin from Zoe Krylova on Vimeo.

leaf turning

the blog posts have become so few and far between. 

i find that amidst processing photos and trying to come up with the right words, i sometimes spend several hours pouring over a single entry. those are hours i simply don’t have any more.

this blog has been a place to share my domestic world and my community. crafts with children. light filled corners of my home. baked goods fresh out of the oven. thrifting finds. play dates. travels and travails. the seasons. thoughts on the peacefulness, and sometimes the struggles, of a family life. 

but those long daunting and delicious days of parenting have diminished as my five year old boy comes home five days a week tired and titillated by kindergarten, and my sixteen year old girl curls up on the couch with her head deep in text books & online assignments & formulas & figures.

my job fulfills some of my creative inclinations. as product photographer i am learning things about light and settings and photoshop i've never had opportunity (or real interest) in prior. as social media coordinator i find myself stimulated by engaging content having to do with art, animals, conversation, and reuse. there is repeated opportunity to turn a phrase and bring my writing skills to the page. and if i am going to learn about marketing at least it is through an original and awesome product designed by artists. 

my doula work is something that keeps my heart open, involves me in the most nourishing aspects of life, and keeps my hands on the true pulse of creation. i am so grateful for and honored by each experience that comes my way in the realm of childbirth and healing work.

but how to make this blog an active creative outlet again? how to do it so it remains thoughtful and honest when days are so filled to the brim? perhaps some of what i have mentioned will work itself into themes, brief though the content may be. 

kids on two opposite ends of the school spectrum. a new career unfolding. continued healing and birth work. a secret reading series. trying to find peaceful moments in the tumult of activity. 

as the leaves  begin to change and the acorns knock, 

may a fresh perspective and tune ring out from these pages!

(all the photos but for the family photo were  conveniently taken with my phone!)

grid work

that old bend

a bridge across it

orion reflected on bay

cup full with infusion

lake city, long sound

between street and shore

baskets on mule

large bell

dock root and nettle

soaking

the patience grid

bleachers at long game

lash of wind upon broad view

tight weave

when stitch is laid even

spell of understanding

collecting stones along coast

constitutional

foggy port where ferry returns

eyes write first sentence

suitcase poem XXII

that which drapes from. aloft only. rising up to stay. sway of notion. cobbled trace makes path. strong beam anchors intention. fortified stance. reverberations build stem. flesh and phylum. bridge between odds. undoing brings about beginning. course.

suitcase poem XXI

trying to push off resisting object. smothered by mumblings. calculations that are unequal to heart's pace. swatting at constant. opening clenched palm and watching several crescent moons fade. one glowing embrace pads brittle day. sitting moments force exfoliation. sway breaks stiff insistence. peeling back preconceptions to discover authentic grain. hot syllables fill ear. kicking away gathered uncertainties. primary focus sings.

suitcase poem XX

which door leads to second chances. chasm of what may be. that which you thought not possible. within book. below structure. around bend. inside forest. flash of doubt followed by surprise. starlight dissolves to pain. bright idea folded up neatly, slipped into box. lifting one's heavy limbs from burnt out mattress. one foot follows another across thin ledge. whisps of old settle in piles. plunge into ashes.

suitcase poem XIX

tug the essence. single stitch nudged. keen acknowledgment. soul rearranges molecules. flesh by flesh she explores the deeping tale. aromatic drift rustles oatstraw. beyond the particulars, conclusion is embroidered. she trots toward opening thread. texture makes no uncertain announcement. tapestry is discovered where cloth she nuzzled. a quickening breeze ripples linen across line.

suitcase poem XVIII

scent of sunrise. clatter and clink of opening. mixed with sand. overlooking municipal market. taste of waking. day might provide. possibilities captured and released. single focus upon star. swallowing sky.

self portrait: tuesday

i decided to play along with the flickr group. perhaps you will as well?

i am having a quiet little creativity crisis here. lacking time & energy to transmute. lots of little projects in my head, jotted on lists, but always at the tail end of what is required in my day.

i hope to blog more frequently as a form of creative exercise. my entries might become shorter. i may post single photographs. word experiments. scraps. but if i post at least something daily, i will manage to briefly touch upon my planet. and right now, that is important.

perhaps some days will have their own theme. i am hoping to create more suitcase poems. suitcase saturday, perhaps. sunday may be a round up of the week's most excellent moments. and so on. there has to be room for spontaneity of course.

so i begin this process with self portrait tuesday. cheers!

suitcase poem XVII

who grasps
soft underside
both vulnerable and revolting
icy hand insists
a portal
where nightmares pass
& pass
drifting into ease
clinging apprehension dissolves
palms cup cleansing plash
stems fill clutch
color sky

suitcase poem XVI

leaves are the handprints of light
little bells sing as something drifts to earth
crystals grow with each piercing glance
they broadcast the news
with the shake of her hips seasons shift
a baby is born when candle is lit
each rotation finds a page torn
rust blooms in depression

august approaches

perhaps august is my favorite month.

you rub summer notes from your eyes in thickest heat while anticipation of autumn builds.

august is ripe.

trees are thick, tired, blowing motes and swinging dances.

by august you might feel comfortable in your own skin, having shed layers in the undulating meadows of summer.



you are no longer critical of the fact that you are sometimes not out of bed before 8am.

the vine is thickest in august, or beginning to build. fruits in abundance bring every color to your table. august is juicy. open. dramatic.



as you look to webbed summer skies and question galaxies, black night sits on bright day like expensive dark chocolate. wind is a coveted tapestry on a most luxurious of weaves. august is a subtle shade that is lowered.



in august the earth vibrates through our flesh and we find our breath.



tashi said to me tonight as we lay limbs akimbo on hammock slowly gliding, "we don't spend enough time together."

in august i face change.

my posts may be spare or infrequent. what ever the interval, i hope to capture a bit of august's mystery, the journey tashi and i have of it.

suitcase poem XV

ripples radiate from sunk moment
she snatches tumbled lens each shower
a quivering instance breaks levy
what hadn’t now scours what had

old snaps undo luminous garment
sudden locket confirms theory
burnt edges of sepia episode
crumble in bejeweled clutch

a powder tin too late
cracked up bolted chamber
a backward glance too old
she ponders rearview mist

suitcase poem XIV

tucked inside tapestry
taken by giddy transgressions
strange slapdashery

surprised witness
offers sober assistance
uncorks silent vapor

to study composure
a settled intelligence
dignity of gingerly

perfumed fanfare
blends simplicity with exotic preference
removes plumes and precious stones

suitcase poem XIII

thrum in loft
bells command attention
she returns stern glance
sharp judgment slices passage
inner sanctum holds pliable matter
to spear a wavering possibility
pound shape from vapor
severity rises in vaulted chamber
brings warmth to stone walls

suitcase poem XII

cool attraction
scent of moist soil
where sipping espresso
leaf song

language of bark
clip clop on cobbles
conversation alights on ledge
shaking twigs from tresses

vast upper bower
candlelight against white wall
stories caught in folds of curtain
sealed landscape

byway for delivery
what footprints
an intended exchange
eyes lock across aisle

suitcase poem XI

to differentiate ajar and undone
spray of foliage beyond gate
assert certain canopy
light spill through spindles and circuits
trigger state of languid unlace
which seed may fall first
shrinking of clock
loose roving
measure of day across copse

suitcase poem X

lipstick smudge on princess sheet
spaghetti straps
cloth doll
they carry away secrets from back seat
leave behind crushed juice boxes
we build fairy huts, caterpillar kingdoms
her dangle earrings snag on oat straw
with self sketched stamp she posts mail
sews on patch so rip remains

suitcase poem IX

there was a switch
first that first that then that
aroma was a reference
slight expression in pocket
salvaged glint
eyes adjust to fresh exterior
newfound canopy flaps open
hint of crescent
all that remains
of grasp

suitcase poem VIII

she stitched a satchel for half finished sentences
it replaced that sinking feeling
a patch or two would mend the pitfalls
she loosed scrawl
wound a skein
certain tangled threads were beyond repair
ever deeper she plunged
there was a sheen to her discovery
it heightened expectancy
buoyancy was essential to carry burden
not viable
yet valid
accurate incision enabled departure