Snowdrops
By Louise Glück
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring--
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
Photo by Peter Hosey
I discovered “Snowdrops” in a terrible poetry class at Brown, but I kept coming back to it again over the years and read it with students countless times, and now those last two lines are so much a part of me that they’re the only words I have for this feeling of early spring, the anniversary of the pandemic, being halfway vaccinated, and having lunch with a friend for the first time in over a year.
Sometime this winter I found this photo essay about sheering sheep on an island in down east Maine. It transports you to another place and time, which is what some of us need every now and then. Take your pick from the whole series, The World Through a Lens, and it’ll be your DeLorean out of quarantine.
(Photo by Greta Rybus)
Scientists reproduced the sound of an 18,000-year-old instrument and you can listen to it.
Ruth Asawa Rabbit Hole
I remember the first time I saw Ruth Asawa’s sculptures and was captivated by their doubling in the shadows on the walls.
(Photo by Jon Rendell)
At some point this winter I stumbled across this image of her home and studio and had to create a free account to The Telegraph just to see the rest of the article.
(Photo by David Livingston for The Telegraph)
A Ruth Asawa rabbit hole is a good rabbit hole to fall into. Check out this interview where she shares her memories of Black Mountain College, among other things, and also watch this video:
You can even get her new stamps and make your letters a whole lot cooler.
Asawa’s work echoes natural forms, and I like thinking of it in conversation with Ernst Haeckel’s sea creatures, which I learned about from a student who doodled his portrait in her notebook.
I remember finding Bande à Part one those nights in college when my friends and I would go to the little indy video store that had extremely specific categories and films organized by director—I was on a Goddard kick. When Criterion Channel made a streaming service, I got to return to that habit of browsing and choosing something at random or working my way through a director’s oeuvre, and this helped me get through the isolation of winter/Boston/quarantine. This scene is ndelible.
I’ve been asked by several people to share this shortbread recipe. I was lazy/smart and just made the dough into a long, square-shaped roll before putting it in the fridge and then I sliced them off. They were nice with morning tea, but I bet it would be amazing to dip these in melted chocolate.
The last live music I saw before everything stopped was a series of intimate shows Ezra Furman played solo at their local dive bar in Somerville. Furman played this LCD Sound System cover while I sat on a filthy floor with a bunch of strangers and we all collectively held our breath.
Lastly, I really don’t plan for this newsletter to have much about me in it. But what are the odds that I get this stunning issue of Conduit in the mail the same day I start a newsletter? I’m geeking out over the design and the table of contents where I get to belong with so many poets I admire, not the least of which is my teacher and mentor Peter Jay Shippy. It’s an honor.
And it’s the second poem, right across from Marina Abromović. Marina-fucking-Abromović! When you close the book, it’s like she’s staring into the eyes of my poem like it's in the other chair of “The Artist is Present” (which, incidentally, I saw when I accidentally wound up at the MoMA retrospective).
This might be my last publication for a while and the whole issue is worth your time, so go get one. I’ve also got two extra copies that I’ll mail to you if you message me that you want one.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this first Notions & Notes. While I like to think of these as messages in the dark, I’d also be happy to hear if something resonated for you.
Sticking to my idea of discovering odds and ends and ideas, I’ve tried to share how I found something, but sometimes I just forget, and the very best discoveries are accidental.