This is a word cloud of a quote by EE Cummings. I think that the word cloud design resounds well with EE Cummings’ personality and poetry style as he was generally random, goofy, or hard to understand,. The colors match well with the ideas of destruction and creation.
Thanks for adding me as an author 🙂
I chose this poem because it is inspirational to a lot of woman.
I am a photographer for the Daily Evergreen, and one of my recent assignments was to photograph an artist, who had recently won the “Moscow Plein Air” contest’s gallery in Viola, Idaho. I listened to his interview, and got to learn about this awesome guy who is great at what he does. Andy has been painting for a long time now, and just the last ten years or so went full time artist. His gallery is full of prints and originals of both water color and oil, as well as some really cool metal work that he does. He spoke passionately about his art, and most every piece has a story behind it. His art is truly beautiful, and is a great reflection of the Moscow/ Pullman area, where he has spent most of his life. His 18 year old son is now taking after him in the studio, and I was able to see some great oil pieces done by him as well. Andy won the Plein Air contest this year, and has been featured in many shows and galleries in the area. He was a pleasure to meet, and his art was such an example of when you practice and experiment, amazing things can happen to your ability.
I chose a famous quote from Mathama Gandhi, because they are very powerful words that should be spread.
I chose a quote by C.S. Lewis for this word cloud: “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind”
Betsy Sholl’s “Geneology”
One of my parents was a flame, the other a rope.
One was a tire, the other a dial tone.
In the night I’d wake to a hum and the faint
smell of burnt rubber.
One of my parents was a flag, the other a shoe.
The ideogram tattooed on my lower back
is the one for dog trying to run on ice.
One of my parents was a star already gone out,
the other a cup I carried into the night,
convinced it was fragile.
One of my parents I drank, the other I dreamed.
In the revolving door of my becoming,
one pushed from inside, one from without.
Thus, my troubled birth, my endless stammer.
One was an eyebrow, the other a wink.
How they amused each other.
One was a candle, the other a bird. I was ashamed
of not burning, embarrassed I couldn’t fly.
I was a girl calling across the ice to a dog
she didn’t have.
The poem I chose was TS Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.”