#gjertrud schnackenberg

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"My father puzzles why / It is my habit to identify / Carnations as 'Christ’s flowers,' knowing I // Can give no explanation but 'Because.'"

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[robcam-wfu]

— Gjertrud Schnackenberg, "Signs"

[phantom-trollbooth]

My father at the dictionary stand Touches the page to fully understand The lamplit answer, tilting in his hand

His slowly scanning magnifying lens, A blurry, glistening circle he suspends Above the word 'Carnation'. Then he bends

So near his eyes are magnified and blurred, One finger on the miniature word, As if he touched a single key and heard

A distant, plucked, infinitesimal string, "The obligation due to every thing That' s smaller than the universe." I bring

My sewing needle close enough that I Can watch my father through the needle's eye, As through a lens ground for a butterfly

Who peers down flower-hallways toward a room Shadowed and fathomed as this study's gloom Where, as a scholar bends above a tomb

To read what's buried there, he bends to pore Over the Latin blossom. I am four, I spill my pins and needles on the floor

Trying to stitch "Beloved" X by X. My dangerous, bright needle's point connects Myself illiterate to this perfect text

I cannot read. My father puzzles why It is my habit to identify Carnations as "Christ's flowers," knowing I

Can give no explanation but "Because." Word-roots blossom in speechless messages The way the thread behind my sampler does

Where following each X, I awkward move My needle through the word whose root is love. He reads, "A pink variety of Clove,

Carnatio, the Latin, meaning flesh." As if the bud's essential oils brush Christ's fragrance through the room, the iron-fresh

Odor carnations have floats up to me, A drifted, secret, bitter ecstasy, The stems squeak in my scissors, Child, it's me,

He turns the page to "Clove" and reads aloud: "The clove, a spice, dried from a flower-bud." Then twice, as if he hasn't understood,

He reads, "From French, for clou, meaning a nail." He gazes, motionless,"Meaning a nail." The incarnation blossoms, flesh and nail,

I twist my threads like stems into a knot And smooth "Beloved", but my needle caught Within the threads, Thy blood so dearly bought,

The needle strikes my finger to the bone. I lift my hand, it is myself I've sewn, The flesh laid bare, the threads of blood my own,

I lift my hand in startled agony And call upon his name, "Daddy Daddy" - My father's hand touches the injury

As lightly as he touched the page before, Where incarnation bloomed from roots that bore The flowers I called Christ's when I was four.

"Supernatural Love" by Gjertrud Schnackenberg

[spencerluvtrinagh12z]

“Afghan Girl” | Work in Progress

Afghan Girl

[lunchboxpoems]

NIGHTFISHING

The kitchen's old-fashioned planter's clock portrays A smiling moon as it dips down below Two hemispheres, stars numberless as days, And peas, tomatoes, onions, as they grow Under that happy sky; but though the sands Of time put on this vegetable disguise, The clock covers its face with long, thin hands. Another smiling moon begins to rise. We drift in the small rowboat an hour before Morning begins, the lake weeds grown so long They touch the surface, tangling in an oar. You've brought coffee, cigars, and me along. You sit still, like a monument in a hall, Watching for trout. A bat slices the air Near us, I shriek, you look at me, that's all, One long sobering look, a smile everywhere But on your mouth. The mighty hills shriek back. You turn back to the hake, chuckle, and clamp Your teeth on your cigar. We watch the black Water together. Our tennis shoes are damp. Something moves on your thoughtful face, recedes. Here, for the first time ever, I see how, Just as a fish lurks deep in water weeds, A thought of death will lurk deep down, will show One eye, then quietly disappear in you. It's time to go. Above the hills I see The faint moon slowly dipping out of view, Sea of Tranquillity, Sea of Serenity, Ocean of Storms... You start to row, the boat Skimming the lake where light begins to spread. You stop the oars, midair. We twirl and float. I'm in the kitchen. You are three days dead. A smiling moon rises on fertile ground, White stars and vegetables. The sky is blue. Clock hands sweep by it all, they twirl around, Pushing me, oarless, from the shore of you.

GJERTRUD SCHNACKENBERG

[derangedrhythms]

Gjertrud Schnackenberg, Supernatural Love: Poems 1976-2000; from 'A Gilded Lapse of Time'

TEXT ID: Angels were there, and one of them turned And struck me when I spoke, and I lifted my hand And touched blood on my mouth, and then I saw They were holding an impression from your face

[themadscene]

Nightfishing by Gjertrud Schnackenberg

The kitchen’s old-fashioned planter’s clock portrays A smiling moon as it dips down below Two hemispheres, stars numberless as days, And peas, tomatoes, onions, as they grow Under that happy sky; but though the sands Of time put on this vegetable disguise, The clock covers its face with long, thin hands. Another smiling moon begins to rise.

We drift in the small rowboat an hour before Morning begins, the lake weeds grown so long They touch the surface, tangling in an oar. You’ve brought coffee, cigars, and me along. You sit still, like a monument in a hall, Watching for trout. A bat slices the air Near us, I shriek, you look at me, that’s all, One long sobering look, a smile everywhere But on your mouth. The mighty hills shriek back. You turn back to the lake, chuckle, and clamp Your teeth on your cigar. We watch the black Water together. Our tennis shoes are damp. Something moves on your thoughtful face, recedes. Here, for the first time ever, I see how, Just as a fish lurks deep in water weeds, A thought of death will lurk deep down, will show One eye, then quietly disappear in you. It’s time to go. Above the hills I see The faint moon slowly dipping out of view, Sea of Tranquillity, Sea of Serenity, Ocean of Storms… You start to row, the boat Skimming the lake where light begins to spread. You stop the oars, midair. We twirl and float.

I’m in the kitchen. You are three days dead. A smiling moon rises on fertile ground, White stars and vegetables. The sky is blue. Clock hands sweep by it all, they twirl around, Pushing me, oarless, from the shore of you.

[bluberry-parfait]

[mooneyedandglowing]

Sitting at the desk and digging into the selected poems of Gjertrud Schnackenberg.

[poem-today]

A poem by Gjertrud Schnackenberg

Supernatural Love

My father at the dictionary-stand   Touches the page to fully understand   The lamplit answer, tilting in his hand His slowly scanning magnifying lens,   A blurry, glistening circle he suspends Above the word “Carnation.” Then he bends So near his eyes are magnified and blurred,   One finger on the miniature word,   As if he touched a single key and heard A distant, plucked, infinitesimal string,   “The obligation due to every thing   That’s smaller than the universe.” I bring My sewing needle close enough that I Can watch my father through the needle’s eye,   As through a lens ground for a butterfly Who peers down flower-hallways toward a room   Shadowed and fathomed as this study’s gloom   Where, as a scholar bends above a tomb To read what’s buried there, he bends to pore   Over the Latin blossom. I am four,   I spill my pins and needles on the floor Trying to stitch “Beloved” X by X. My dangerous, bright needle’s point connects   Myself illiterate to this perfect text I cannot read. My father puzzles why   It is my habit to identify Carnations as “Christ’s flowers,” knowing I Can give no explanation but “Because.”   Word-roots blossom in speechless messages   The way the thread behind my sampler does Where following each X I awkward move My needle through the word whose root is love.   He reads, “A pink variety of Clove, Carnatio, the Latin, meaning flesh.”   As if the bud’s essential oils brush Christ’s fragrance through the room, the iron-fresh Odor carnations have floats up to me,   A drifted, secret, bitter ecstasy, The stems squeak in my scissors, Child, it’s me, He turns the page to “Clove” and reads aloud:   “The clove, a spice, dried from a flower-bud.” Then twice, as if he hasn't understood,   He reads, “From French, for clou, meaning a nail.” He gazes, motionless. “Meaning a nail.”   The incarnation blossoms, flesh and nail,   I twist my threads like stems into a knot   And smooth “Beloved,” but my needle caught Within the threads, Thy blood so dearly bought, The needle strikes my finger to the bone.   I lift my hand, it is myself I’ve sewn,   The flesh laid bare, the threads of blood my own,   I lift my hand in startled agony   And call upon his name, “Daddy daddy”— My father’s hand touches the injury   As lightly as he touched the page before,   Where incarnation bloomed from roots that bore   The flowers I called Christ’s when I was four.   

Gjertrud Schnackenberg

[kafk-a]

I find your absence grimly problematic.

Gjertrud Schnackenberg, from Love Letter

[contremineur]

Gjertrud Schnackenberg, from Afghan girl

from here

Steve McCurry, Afghan girl (1984)

Sharbat Gula (born c. 1972) became internationally known for her photograph taken by photojournalist Steve McCurry during the Soviet–Afghan War, when 12-year-old Gula was living in a refugee camp in Pakistan. The photo gained international attention in June 1985 after appearing on the cover of National Geographic magazine. Gula's identity was unknown until 2002, when her whereabouts were verified and she was photographed for the second time in her life.

abridged from here

[firstfullmoon]

hi! could you recommend some poems on sea and/or sailing?

“Sea” by Katherine Mansfield

“To the Harbormaster” by Frank O’Hara

“Tides” and “I Go Down to the Shore” by Mary Oliver

“blessing the boats” by Lucille Clifton

“Immigrant Haibun” by Ocean Vuong

“Slow Dance by the Ocean” by Linda Gregg

“Black Sea” by Mark Strand

“Nightfishing” by Gjertrud Schnackenberg

[earlgreyhui]

Hey I was reading your absolutely stunning fic for kavetham, DO NOT GIVE NAMES TO THE ANGELS! Other than wanting to let you know you really pen beautifully crafted language, (I was seriously distracted from reading to marvel over your skill), I'm interested if there's any poetry or books you really recommend? I can't help but think you'd have some really great recs.

hi!!!!! omg thank you so much for asking!!! do not be alarmed but i am fighting the frenzied urge to find absolutely Everything i have ever enjoyed and cram it into this one post like I will never ever get a second chance if I forget a single thing this time around. if I had let the impulse win you would never have seen this response until 2 months later & I would probably have spent something like 70 hours curating it like the single manuscript of the culmination of my entire life's worth.... no i'm taking it easy. i am so calm and rational right now

poetry: haven't read many collections sadly, just scattered poems, but I love what I've seen from Emily Berry e.g. this and this, both from Unexhausted Time. and then Anne Carson e.g. The Glass Essay is really just divine, just sublime. Mary Oliver is great also. possibly my favourite from her that i've seen is Every Morning tbh. finally a shoutout to the current poem-in-residence in my brain that i can't stop thinking about... Nightfishing by Gjertrud Schnackenberg goes soooo hard & on that topic, i am sorry, this is entirely too much and i will shut up soon but one last rec for the blog @/lunchboxpoems which seems to always hit the spot for me with every last poem they post!!!

books: this is so hard but among the books i've read recently! there are

- Do Not Say We Have Nothing by Madeleine Thien; written so gorgeously and also broke me so thoroughly i was crying in sporadic bursts for three hours straight while reading it

- Cold Enough For Snow, by Jessica Au; just written so very masterfully. an absolute stunner and quite short actually, so perfect if you want a slimmer read!

- The Housekeeper and the Professor, by Yōko Ogawa (transl. by Stephen Snyder); unlike the other books listed here, not included so much for its writing qualities, but very much a plot-carried book; it's written wonderfully, of course, but in what i like to call a 'functional' way that doesn't dilute attention from the touching meaningful wholesome ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATING storyline 10000/10 for making me sob

- Strange Beasts of China, by Yan Ge (transl. by Jeremy Tiang); LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN this book is such a dark divine hallucinogenic kind of trip and it's everything i love. clear and direct prose that hits like a slow knife opening skin. slightly disjointed but not disorienting structure and story that unfolds bit by bit over a myriad of seemingly separate narratives

- The Waves, by Virginia Woolf; kind of a staple for gorgeous writing in any list and pretty much rewired my brain maybe

- On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong; on the subject of books with writing as a vehicle for the story vs the story as a vehicle for the writing (which i didn't really get into but we would b here forever,,,), i do think ocean vuong, with his poetry background, has this inimitable class of writing that's very. sorry for my lacking vocabulary. poetic and does fall into the second class of writing. it's less plot driven but one of the most beautiful lucid vivid pieces of writing i've ever read.

speedrun mention: Kitchen, by Banana Yoshimoto & transl. by Megan Backus; The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood; The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman (actually basically everything he's ever written is a joy and has all my adoration); also a blanket recommendation for all the translated fiction published by Tilted Axis Press which brings me so much unfathomable joy. could go on forever but i swear im done for real this time. thank you so much for giving me this excuse to gush about some of my favourite things. have the most beautiful weekend dear asker 🌱🌟

[still-snowing]

#showyourprocess

From planning to posting, share your process for making creative content!

To continue supporting content makers, this tag game is meant to show the entire process of making creative content: this can be for any creation.

RULES — When your work is tagged, show the process of its creation from planning to posting, then tag 5 people with a specific link to one of their creative works you’d like to see the process of. Use the tag #showyourprocess so we can find yours!

Thank you to @zelkams-art for tagging me and for explaining the process for this incredible piece that’s still one of my absolute favourites <3 i was tagged to show my process for nightfishing, so here we go! 

Planning

so, when i do a poem+art thing like this i usually write the text myself and i tend to think about the art before i think about the words; since for this i used an existing poem by Gjertrud Schnackenberg, i ended up trying to match the art to the words. 

the (mostly) unspoken about 13/16 years between wwx’s death and rebirth are one of my favourite parts of the story, me being a sucker for grief and longing and emotional pain and all that, so when i read this poem that’s what my brain jumped to immediately; the blank white space of the days between lwj’s punishment and him going out to find a-yuan, when nothing felt real except for his suffering. 

Sketching

the sketching part of this was surprisingly fast and flowed really easily; I had most of the vignettes clear in my mind before I started sketching, so I didn’t really change much from this step to the final piece. i knew I wanted to focus on the mundanity of grief depicted in the poem, so I chose simple imagery like rice and blankets and the view from the window to convey the passage of time.

(if you’re ever feeling insecure about your art skills, just look at the mess my sketches are before I start inking to feel better about yourself. Also, say hi to that “and again” I copied to the file from my lwj hands piece to figure out the font size and accidentally left in there until right before posting).

Lineart and coloring

After this extremely messy step I start working on the line; I usually do a pass in a color different from black to try to give the proper weight and shape to the objects depicted and then go over that with a darker color for a definitive lineart, but since this piece was pretty simple I mostly went in directly with the black. I also got some references for the rice bowl and the hands (taking the pictures myself) and for the windows of the jingshi (from the show). Also, I already had the red ribbon as the only colored object in the sketch, but I decided to add the red of lwj’s wounds in the top panel as well to both convey how recent his punisment was and to bookmark the beginning and ending of the piece with two different kinds of red (and two different kinds of pain, one physical and one emotional).

sketch vs reference pic of my own hands - there was no way I was figuring out that ribbon on my own.

Posting

I had originally drawn this on a continuous, very long file, but i was honestly worried about how that would look on Tumblr, so I decided to split it into two different images. Here’s the original for posterity (and with some minor layout differences):

If you read until this point, hi! I love you sorry for the rambling <3

Tags!

since i’m doing another one of these i’ll be tagging a couple of people here and a couple there, so:

@lanzhanshands for this edit of a-yuan as a yiling laozu disciple which is a.incredible b.all i’ve ever wanted

@yibobibo for this set of beautifully colored gifs that i’m just marveling at because gifmakers are literally wizards to me 

[walkinparadox20]

“I find your absence grimly problematic.”

— Gjertrud Schnackenberg, from Love Letter