Tag Archives: Leslie Schultz photography and poetry

“Nocebo” for April 14, 2019

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Nocebo
   
 I am the dark flip of the diagnostic coin,
 treatment titrated into trauma.
  
 Inert as chalk, yet I circle in the mind
 summoning dark outcomes,
  
 torquing healing powers 
 against themselves, imagination
  
 metastasizing as fear. No matter
 where you look, “Hey! Over here!”
  
 precise warnings serve as spores
 fruited by a lively brain
  
threading unravelling and pain.
 I do harm. I fall like rain.
   
 Leslie Schultz

Last night, I wondered idly if today’s title might be “Narwhale” or “Notorious” or “Negotiate.” But….no.

I have long thought that fretting is an abuse of the imagination, so when I catch myself at it, I seek ways to short-circuit that. Recently, I learned that the term “placebo” has an antonym, and this poem sprang from that.

Some of the images here come from two past exhibitions of the American Swedish Institute: “Mansion in Mourning” (October 1-November 1, 2016) and “Quilting Art Today and The Nordic Quilts” (June 18-October 30, 2016)

“Majesty” for April 13, 2019

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Majesty
       for my sister, Karla
  
 All winter, this view has comforted me:
 your photograph, on canvas, filled with green,
 palest blue sky, golds, and red glowing leaves,
 supported by lattices of tracery.
  
 You sent it for my bleak, frozen birthday,
 knowing mine falls when our branches are bare,
 knowing how our heavy skies glower grey
 as unpolished silver here. I can stare,
  
 up from understory to sun-fired glow:
 a tree circled by delicate vine, a view
 as heart-lifting as a stained-glass window.
 Today, on your birthday, I offer you
  
 heart-felt lines of thanks for the quiet majesty
 of your soaring spirit, your care, your artistry.
  
 Leslie Schultz

Regular Winona Media readers know about the keen ability of my sister, Karla Schultz, to find and capture images of the natural world. Her images are dazzling and humbling, and I am grateful for her permission to share them here from time to time.

For the past four years, I have been happy that, since Karla’s birthday falls on April 13, right in the heart of the National Poetry Writing Month marathon, I have had the perfect spur to concoct and share a sororal paean. Though I can’t be with her on her special day this year, I am happy to know that right now she is out with her cameras.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KARLA!!!!

Earlier this morning…
Considering the patterns….
The artist’s signature…

“Jump Ropes” for April 10, 2019

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Jump Ropes

 Where did they go?
 They used to be everywhere
 in good weather,
 those wobbly parabolas.
  
 Little girls, holding
 one end in each hand,
twirled the ropes
 into spinning doorways,
 string lintels,
 stepping over them,
 rhythmically, lightly,
 over and over,
 carried by song.
  
 The beat of the rope
 against the hard ground
 kept time for the breath
 of the skipping girls.
  
 Where did they go?
 Into air?
 Into the ground?
 Into echoes 
 all around?
 Into cadences
 everywhere?
   
 Leslie Schultz

“Ichthyography” for April 9, 2019

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Ichthyography
  
What would it be like, the writing
 of fish? Something shining, I think,
 a muscular, flowing
 calligraphy, 
 a Piscean script—
 accents of whirlpool
 and fin flip.
  
 Shimmering, 
 colorful circumlocutions
 used, like kennings, over and over, 
 and with lots of sudden twists
 and turns in the plot, breaks
 long as winter, slower to resolve
than river fog rising.
  
 What would it be like 
 to write not with ink
 or light but with water?
 Describing each fresh syllable 
 with my whole body, then
 erasing it all as I go,
 every gesture a metaphor?
 
Leslie Schultz

“Honey” for April 8, 2019

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Honey
  
 Now comes the fall of glaciers, all fall down.
 Now comes the rise of blue, blue of the deepening sea.
 How do we rise to our task, stand common ground,
 in and out of nature, poison and key?
  
 Pavements are grey beneath us. Graffiti decks the walls.
 Fluorescents flare and sizzle, curdling night and day.
 Starlight seems to gutter, but still the moon calls,
 washing paths along the river silver-grey.
  
 The bees are falling silent. Iron gates gape wide.
 We have to seek within, clutching tattered maps.
 Can we summon our making powers deep inside?
 Invite new-made honey to fill burnt-out gaps,
  
 and return what we have eaten: instead consume
 flames of inspiration in a cleaner room?
 
Leslie Schultz
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