My evening walks through the rolling hills of the Blue Ridge mountains repeat themselves. Sometimes I'm studying twigs. Other days find me memorizing the way hill meets sky. These aspects of the landscape then move through my hand into clay translations although some days it feels as if I am speaking in tongues. This untranslatable language of form and use, the way a vase accepts the twigs of my walk, is what sets my life to music.
"Over the Blue Ridge, the whisperer starts to whisper in
tongues.
Remembered landscapes are left in me
The way a bee leaves its sting,
hopelessly, passion-placed,
Untranslatable language.
Non-mystical, insoluble in blood, they act as an opposite
To the absolute, whose words are a solitude, and set to music.
All forms of landscape are autobiographical."
All Landscape is Abstract, and Tends to Repeat Itself from Appalachia: Poems by Charles Wright
"Over the Blue Ridge, the whisperer starts to whisper in
tongues.Remembered landscapes are left in me
The way a bee leaves its sting,
hopelessly, passion-placed,
Untranslatable language.
Non-mystical, insoluble in blood, they act as an opposite
To the absolute, whose words are a solitude, and set to music.
All forms of landscape are autobiographical."
All Landscape is Abstract, and Tends to Repeat Itself from Appalachia: Poems by Charles Wright
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