Winter Trees: a videohaiku sequence
Twenty-two videohaiku with texts prompted by the footage and existing in dialogue with it.
Twenty-two videohaiku with texts prompted by the footage and existing in dialogue with it.
A selection from Todd Davis’ sixth book of poems, due out from Michigan State University Press on January 1, 2019.
backwater pool / stream-blurred trees come into sharper focus
Despite the hiatus, this edition isn’t any longer than usual, but with twice as many posts to choose from, I think it might be one of the more compelling digests I’ve had the pleasure of assembling.
It may seem odd, me being a poet and all, that I hadn’t really given much thought to reading poetry at our wedding, but it was only on the day of our wedding that I mentioned to Rachel that I had a poem in mind to read, and it seemed that she did, too.
A slightly more experimental videopoem than usual: words mutating into other words while an annoyed porcupine communicates its displeasure by clacking its teeth.
How and why Beth Adams and I came to make the book Ice Mountain.
It’s cold. Mid-day
and the hepatica flowers are still
only half-open, nodding
on their thin stalks.
My mother tallies them up—
stroke-marks in her notebook.
At the top of a hemlock tree,
a porcupine sleeps in a sunlit
halo of quills.
When it died, the porcupine leaked its fluids onto the snow like a junker car. I turn it over with a stick: no sign of a wound. Startled up from the forest floor, sixteen doves go whistling into the snow squall.
Let us bid a fond farewell to January. With its low-angled light and unpredictable conditions, it’s always the best time of year for spotting oddities.