Welcome to the worldly adventures of SEVEN

SEVEN is a collective of multi-disciplined artists from rural Nova Scotia. Collaboration is the foundation for creativity, where each artist responds artistically in her own medium to a selected theme. Through collective discourse, various elements combine to form a much richer body of thought - adding new and perhaps unforeseen levels of creativity and interpretation.

Rurally routed to their tidal landscape, SEVEN knows, what goes out, does come in.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Let's Do The Time Warp...

Because our blog is new and our artist collective is 3 years old, it seems appropriate to take jump into our time machine and visit some of our past creations.  In no particular order...

a bit of sculpture from Pam Frail...

... silk fusion with encaustic from Marilyn...

...acorns from Pia...
...Marie's copperwork...

...a painting by Angela...

... Deborah's digital serigraph...

and, last, but certainly not least some of Kelly's poetry...

Staying Awake
by Kelly Marie Redcliffe

i . sleep

Awake? No, please, begin with sleep
a crow on murkied ice tugged out with tide. Bye

bye to time its hazards
no questions no accomodations
a herd of cloud-animals
galloping off to moon.

Quiet, the wingflap's darkling
I recognize as love.

ii wakesleeping

Waking is emergence, a yellow scope
poking from Calla Lily spathe.

Peek-a-boo I see you
squash-blossom horns delivering

pitch-perfect hellos
crayon streaks for sunshine

Now up
how to stay awake?

Gooped corners needing
excavation folding socks dirtied in a day.

Manners a white cane prattling pavement
safe across minutes.

Action a game of checkmarks
ta-dah! Cha-ching.

Washing machine is musac slish-sloshing upstairs
down. A sigh wants an excuse

a deep breath wants time
a trapped truth hates pretending

white lies white noise clutter
an aggressive unspoken wanting

forging forward
people aside


Don't walk away from it.
If you do you'll pay for it.

Shame an upturned tree
roots groping moss dangling.

Midday hoot of an owl
clear cylindrical.

Even ants build highways a pencil mark
through sand to get where they are going.

iii. waking up

If you want to change
you can! Vigilence

splayed under brush
chin stiffed into hand-heals pshaw

truthsayers and mimics here yea
hear yea stop waving exclamations at me

(please). Do not tease with aphorisms crowd
fear with sensations a throng of Cedar Waxwings

gorge fruit half-eaten spluttering to ground
red planets sweet squished

not an ounce of beauty wasted: eyes meet
in shared caring know that I love

doing as I said I would. Want

Squash palms may ponder growth meanwhile
collect sunshine.

I lay on lawn on hand-stitched quilt from a friend's ex-partner's mother
sky-story writing shadows the universe on my back.

Being awake is what I do when

Skip routines try
a tidied entrance

soup made creamy with béchamel
spoon clunked in empty bowl. Satisfaction

yet incomplete weed-root
half in hand.

Learn flight
from reocurring dreams.

iv. awake again and again

It's so quiet I hear thirst lies
carelessly scrawled on chalkboard

sponged clean. A sunflower's root
drawing dew.

I am one who has not yet fallen
in love with herself believes it possible.

Squiggles of half-formed words
piled up falling asleep elongate into

stories lived in moonlit day. Sadness
turns orange is harvested. A last

yellow leaf twitches teardroplets plunk
in pond a harmonica note shudders
still a kiss is soft pucker blow
dandelion seed-darts are bubbles

encoded with hope

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