Symbiosis

by Barbara Guest

Poetry. Art. Collectors and literature lovers alike will want to own a copy of this collaboration between Barbara Guest (poet) and Laurie Reid (artist). Reid's spidery watercolor lines mingle with the letterpress text of one of America's premier writers. A writer and an artist working together establish a Symbiosis, as in Nature, where dissimilar organisms productively live together. Limited edition of 1,500 copies.

Genres: Poetry

36 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2000

About the author

Barbara Guest, née Barbara Ann Pinson (September 6, 1920 – February 15, 2006), was an American poet and prose stylist. Guest first gained recognition as a member of the first generation New York School of poetry.[1] Guest wrote more than 15 books of poetry spanning sixty years of writing. In 1999, she was awarded the Frost Medal for Lifetime Achievement by the Poetry Society of America. Guest also wrote art criticism, essays, and plays. Her collages appeared on the covers of several of her books of poetry. She was also well known for her biography of the poet H.D., Herself Defined: The Poet H.D. and Her World (1984).

Reviews

[mwpm]

 A writer and an artist working together establish a Symbiosis, as in Nature
 where dissimilar organisms productively live together.





 Hiss
the wool
 fable,


 close and away.


 Hiss in turning wool,


 and envied the circle
 and volume,

 working in layers.





 The spirit
 sails along,
 amid live speech.






 "Ripening beyond sheer height," calls itself.


 Is symbiosis aflame stroked 


 each line power would up in volume,
 when spoken to, fear in place of the woven,





 often, it says, in place of the line.
Thinned down, staggering looks up at the drawing;

 bodies all the way up the hill.







Will it belong, or is symbiosis aflame each pine stroking,

 symbiosis aflame,




 each day autumn. Day awakens, no break in the
thread.








 Needing, needing, needing




over the surface perpendicular

is not something to chat about filled
by iridescence.

 They talk about
loosened bones. Could be a shuttle

 if it worked in direct light.








 The thread loose


 as any from the underworld,

 more in iridescence, hidden.




 A suggestion in mid air

 dropped on the hid body, no nerve blinding nothing 
attached,
 no weight, no thing to litter,

 free as unusual







 Plume of impatience the petal,

 a clue to ensnare the undrawn,


 O valley. O wine.


This is the point where the strophes meet,


 one line interweaves with another,





 room of liberal fountains,


 a different speech and metabolism,







 near an ancient site of accord

 and priority.







 In no climate whatsoever

 noise traveling up the tower







 bronze green in the tournament,

 each player hit a wood ball.


 Positioning the strophes
 ended in calm,




 after the strophes are positioned.








Knitting or singing a song, hair let down

from the blue - ranging and rumbling the blue


magnolia nestled, the wild berry, also.


This is a strange way to tell a story being

where one does not wish, in the midst of a storm . . .







Gas lights and lost

 the cares of thought, an oil lamp, Maupassant

 put it there. He stands at the window.





 She places her hand on her hair.


 She looks at a Poem-Painting





 "The walks of Saint Cloud

 are open,







 the eyes of the fish

 are closed.







 Remarkable basins,

 you give me ten years"








The difficult! the difficult!





 loosen the ropes that entangle it,
 tear them down from the mast!





 The schooner off its route,

 adios to the bird of prey,
 flies in another direction, the nineteenth
century

 wears a plaid cap.








 Say adios when you see

 the figure from the mainland crossing on tiles.







And they have no intention to avoid


 the gaze of symbiosis,
 or the century,


 pasting and printing in the same room

 - sharing




 the furry moment draped over their head,


 light from the transom.






A sign of being gentle,

 the scene is more mature.






 She is not so silly

 as they thought in her mantle,





 coming from outside
 






 studying to be someone else,

 why not? And write her own script,

white it then she did


 first learn about prettiness the make-up and lounge dress


 authority and the syllabus.






A tendency to respond (lacquer) near the driveway, she was



 thought not pliable or overtly sensitive. She is more
fluid,

 she is outside.






Coming from outside, fluid orange.


 Rhythm

 and festivity.










 A sign of being gentle, plain orange.






 She can read the image in the overlapping



even from outside,

 those parts that overlap,







 lip and facial movement,


color of the image as it changes -








pushed her leg through the rippling


 image changes.

[Holly Raymond]

Sitting on the edge of a bathtub, looking out the window at some sick roofs.