ART AND WRITING OFTEN EXPRESS SIMILAR THEMES

Cygnet, Color Etching, 9x12".                                    © by Ruth Zachary

The image was made for my daughter when an adolescent, when so many things in life were such a cause for angst! I likened her to the story of the Ugly Duckling, actually a swan, because to me, she was the most lovely of children, but I could not convince her of it at that age.

And then, again, I saw her as a mermaid, because she seemed so at home in the water.
Again I wrote this poem for her, but never showed it to her not wanting to make her feel more self conscious. Maybe one day she will read it and understand, because she is a mother herself.

Little Mermaid

            

Little naiad, solitary swimmer,

who sings siren songs to unwary

sailors, there is a story told

you really long for love.

Little mermaid, sensuous 

traveler of sky and foam,

viewing dreams in your mirror

from beneath the tide, do you

long for sun on the water's surface,

or to dance with fireflies

skimming over the water

under the swelling moon?

Do you think you have only

gills for swimming? Do you not

also have feet for the land,

where you may walk,

sprinkling water and seaweed

where you go? Come near,

look through the sparkling water,

see me, your mamsellefly.

Little daughter, damoiselle,

come up little nymph! Feel

the wind's caress. Breathe

the fragrance of the rose, and

taste her honey. Love may

also give you wings to fly.

See me here, arms beckoning,

peering into your depths.

Come up and see the beauty

above the water's surface,

try the view of yourself

in the mirror from above.

Discover the rhythm of love

in the beat of your own heart

through love given and returned

again. Little water child,

in your dark solitude, do you

think only bloodless shades

inhabit the earth? I would show

you rainbows; forests, mountains,

the Aurora Borealis, the Milky Way.

Writing and Images are the copy right © of Ruth Zachary

A BOOK REPORT -THE ROBBER BRIDE

The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood

This book is mainly about four women, one of whom, Zenia, seems bent upon destroying the other three. At first the three others, Roz, Charis, and Tony, although friends, do not know the full extent that Zenia has affected each of them.

The story is told through the perspective of each of the characters, told in each of their voices, stemming from their experiences, and of each other, but from their back stories, each strikingly different. Zenia’s story is revealed through her own relevations to the other characters some of which may have been true or not at all true. Atwood’s characters, except Zenia’s, were well developed, and she revealed humorous aspects of each person, that lightened the reading, and highlighted their differences. 

Writing from inside a character's head is counter to the popular admonition to writers, to "show" instead of "tell." Atwood does show her characters but also does a lot of telling in this book.

The plot is a complex and involved psycho-drama, a genre which I find intriguing in general, and I enjoyed the book. I am also interested in what motivates malice in some people, and am interested to see how other authors explain this. Zenia, a Medusa- like character, may be motivated purely by a desire to get things she wants from others, and her malice may only be an attempt to fight back when her destructiveness is confronted by one of the others, although her complex lies and malice are never fully explained. Violence is seldom understood, and Atwood didn’t add much about intentionally destructive behavior that might shed light on that question.

Atwood has dealt with similar topics in other books, Cat’s Eye and A Handmaid’s Tale. From her book conclusions, I suspect she thinks malevolence just IS, and others are victimized for a variety of reasons, until they learn ways to avoid such situations and /or people who inflict harm. Atwood has competently described the subtleties of character and the nature of how different kinds of people become ensnared as these situations unfold.

Each of the characters became somewhat more aware during the extended encounters they had with Zenia, and realized how they had once been victimized by her and yet still had only partially broken their own part in the pattern by the end. People do get victimized, and these women, and even their husbands had not become impervious to being victimized by the end. Zenia died as a result of her own lifestyle, leaving the other characters free of her, but not as yet resolved to be more resistant to exploitation.

The book was too long, I thought, and could have been cut down by about 20 percent, by making the philosophical views of each woman, Roz, Charis, and Tony more concise.

The character of the three or so decades in which these friends evolved should be familiar to many readers of middle age or older. I did find that since the decades of these women’s experiences of each other and of personal histories were not chronological, the author might have explained the date setup with a sentence or two to let the reader know which period was being described, to avoid confusion.

Overall, I liked the book and would read others by Ms. Atwood.

Review by Ruth Zachary.

THE SURREAL APPROACH

Apparitions 1.  Photograph.                                                                               © by Ruth Zachary

                                                                                                                       
                                                                                                                     The following  poem was created by  writing down impressions, phrases, and lines as they occurred during one morning. The approach felt very surreal, and I had no end in mind: even a topic I could identify, until I began to try to put the words into an order, to make some vague sort of sense out of them. This was the result.

Apparition

She lost her mind one day last week

then found it on this morning, pressed

between the pages of a heavy book,

flattened; like a one-time living rose

no longer round, dry, and colorless.

She found her memories stored

in journals lined up on the shelves.

Someone else had written there

the stories penned about herself,

another life than she had lived.

She found painted dreams, all framed

and hung upon the walls, and in her

pockets;  cobwebs, dusty lists

crossed off; hopes shed along the way;

the unexplored paths of yesterday.

She found her image in the mirror,

a face she scarcely knew, reflected there.

She reached her hand out toward the glass

to draw the visage near and watched

her fingers disappear into another space.

Image and Writing © by Ruth Zachary.

JOT DOWN THOSE GOOD LINES!

Cracked Fragments. Study for Abstract Composition.         © by Ruth Zachary

Dr Jekyl and Mr. Hyde

She  was married to him, once.

She saw her life pouring out as he filled his glass yet again.

Again, she retreated  with  the dogs, away from their home,

checking the packed bag kept in her car,

spending the night in the front seat, with the dogs in back.

For years after he quit drinking, when he stayed out late,

she trembled in her bed, not knowing who would come home.

© by Ruth Zachary

Sometimes poems briefly written down in a moment of emotion, 

can be expanded  or combined with other ideas for writing. The 

second line of the above came first, and the title and first line came

years later, and were used together to good effect, I think. See 

more of my Abstract Art by clicking the link.

Writing and images are the Copyright © of Ruth Zachary.

CAPTURING CONVERSATION

Say What?   Image created using Kid Pix Drawing and Paint tools.          © by Ruth Zachary

Select a file

Select a file

The Second Saturday Writing Group in Greeley has decided to meet in a Village Inn in April.
The idea is to stimulate our writing by picking up on some of the conversations that over flow into our range of hearing, in an effort to improve our skills in relating not just the words people speak, but also to convey economically in our writing their meaning, their tone, individual character, and so on.

We all agreed that written language has to be different than spoken language.

Coincidentally, I just ran on to a poem I put down several years ago that came from just the same sort of experience in a public place, our group is hoping to respond to this time.

Coffee at the Martin Diner

Nine-thirty coffee break at the corner table, in the

Martin Diner along the road.

Alone, pen poised to put words to the notebook’s

unwritten whiteness, empty cup awaiting brew.

A dozen or so truckers are filing in, overflowing

the chairs, running the tables.

Shifting eyes

covet my half-empty corner; resent the boundaries

of my womanhood in a place they thought

they owned.

A burly hand

anonymously turns the empty chair opposite me

to another direction. As he sits,

the broad wall of his back jostles my table.

The waitress waits on them, even though 

I was here first. Cups clatter as she pours.

“Black” one says, scooping sugar.  

“Black and sweet, Like my women,”

The others guffaw.

Broad-back turns, and before I get coffee, 

his hand conficates the cream on my table.

Rattles come from another corner, as the

conversation  raises in volume.

“Keep ‘em barefoot”

           They glance at me for my reaction.

Another voice adds,“and pregnant, Haw haw haw.”

I try not to react to their tired cliches, 

thinly veiled hostility,  but

pen poised, words evaporate.

Pushing against the broad-backed man

with her hip, the waitress finally pours 

coffee for me, scaldiing hot,

I taste. It is bitter, acid,  undrinkable as is.

“Cream and sugar, please,” I say. 

She retrieves the now greasy cream pitcher,

from the circle of men and places it on the table.

I pour cream into bitter black.

Pen poised; page stained by verbal grafitti,

I begin to write my presence into the room.

Furtive glances eye my writing.

The din is slurped up, swallowed suddenly.

“Where has the summer gone?” one man asks, 

as if to fill the silence. 

The tone is now polite, banal, benign,

suspicious of the power of the pen?

The morning is written.

Writing and Images are the Copyright  © of Ruth Zachary.