well i'm marsha reese and i'm so happy to have all of you here and this show today which has both my paintings and my poetry is a journey and this exhibit is the place i am in this part of the journey and i like anyone else might be i'm curious about what there is beyond this as well so i'm excited to share this part of the journey with you  and i am going to read a number of the poems that are from this book and the book by the way emily has copies of there at the front for sale as part of the gallery today if you would like one when i was a little kid i was like lots of little kids love to play i was very spatial did all sorts of things just yesterday my mother my ninety four year old mother who is here told me another story about what it was like when i was a little kid in the things that i used to do with patterns and design and i developed like most kids do and i hit a fifth grade art teacher and we will in a moment meet my fifth grade art teacher and that ended my artistic journey in some ways for forty years so this is the journey that i've taken since i turned fifty and you will get to share in some of that i when i first started learning about art and poetry i learned some of the skills and the competence and eventually what happened is i really wanted my voice to be part of it it was great to have the skills it was great to do things representation only but i wanted to say more it was easier to do that with poetry and two years ago  one of my teachers freed me to use my poetic voice in my painting so this is the stage of this part of the journey so the first poem is called hand painted life in this world of transparent impressions i see a hand painted life master piece of its own expression blank paper filled with colorful mistakes and musings on which i can sign my own name fifth grade art class other students are confined within the walls of dr mildred dominators fifth grade classroom she insists we address her by her newly earned ph d none of us are supposed to know she has a first name just as we are not supposed to know teachers go to the bathroom or sleep naked at night though i am sure she does not other students orient to place by seeing through the huge twelve over twelve windows into the afternoon sun reflected off the tennis courts on hardwood floors they slide there wouldn't chairs to avoid disturbing the classroom commander as she barks instructions i listen carefully draw a line freely with no thought a line which moves around the paper then ends where it began color in the spaces i lose external markers except for the orb of energy in the palm of my left hand my hansel and gretel trail home into the dimensions of time and space expanding shapes intersect curves on porous vanilla paper inviting color into their form and emerging stained glass window reflecting my creative impulses a telephone receiver appears in purple and green connecting listening and speaking within my being then out of the blue cutting words stop how dare you ignore me terrified confused i freeze in place for forty years every time i begin a line of poetry or hold a sable brush saturated with water color i expect the harpy to come shrieking out of the blue wisdoms sight my heart is a wise old woman mixing potions deep in the woods for many years she remained undiscovered both content and yearning for me to come and live with her to be with her is to know fullness the quiet of a stream the rage of niagara  whirlpools storms eddies a soft brook a warm pond sheltered in the foothills old woman may i be of your tribe and see through your eyes blank paper with arches embossed on the corner white cold pressed paper awaits water spritzed on my palette reawake own gold and permanent magenta brushes maybe fifteen stand at the ready flats rounds mops riggers and fans waiting for me to make the first stroke what story will i tell what tour will i guide what carnival ride thrilling or scary will draw me in will pen mark pencil sketch or free form color splash lead the way once colors mingle on the page once light and dark skin trast once line and shape lead the i anticipate an accelerated tingling my forearms my fat bodied fine tipped squirrel hair brush slurps water from the wading trough so bristles seek out yellow lemon and cobalt blue first separately then sluicing on the palate to marbled green poised over the image of yet to be they hold their silent potential before entering the garden of the blank page i'm going to take a sip of my favorite drink which anybody who knows me is plain water in a long stemmed glass repartee makes me laugh i snuggle in the seal coat of my body singing sacred vow and feeling jazz rhythm vibrates my physical being still point and deep sleep allow me to change trains and ride on the timeless express to the middle of nowhere everywhere returning i really enter the opportunity to be in the limitation the golden mean proportional harmony the center of a sunflower leonardo da vinci's outstretched human form the  cochlear ear what breathes to me feels warm swamp filter of my blood here's my heart beats swish in my ear drum lingers in the regions of sexual tension and release smells of soft spring air and the evergreen ever fresh stain of winter what breathes to me exists before i am born and continues after i die all that is experiencing its own creation i am we are i thou exploring from home when i am off base repetitious reassurance bores me greeting card racks filled with door wide children butterflies and rainbows intended to calm inspire and assure me pinch my spirit give me a symmetry any day my curiosity s tree branches odd numbers rocking ground jazz blue notes chaos the disparate spices and tie sing me into the full meal i yearn for that home base anchored in my embodied being resonating beyond understanding with the origin of gravity with the spiral center of the milky way only when i am at home in my own center can i dance into tomorrow's possibilities can i travel to the inner world of another's psyche can i invite friends to visit my naked so that's from the section of the book called inner landscapes now we're going to go to some of the outer landscapes and many of the or some of the poems in the outer landscape section have paintings which go with them and sometimes i would have a poem and a painting would emerge from it and sometimes i'd have a painting and a poem would come out there are also paintings that are standalone and poems that are  so this painting i think is actually around the corner behind my right shoulder and it's from the mountain trilogy and it's called the unseen no mountain to be seen today no strength no majesty in my field of view only fog a barrier too deep for my eyes to penetrate i reach out with my bellies in a radar the deep resonant of the mountain returns my call and this one is called mountain sunrise and it actually has two pieces that go with it one is the mobius strip here and the mobius strip is the the form the mobius  single surfaced single edged form which when you look at it in when it's turning in a particular way makes an infinity sign in three dimensions so it is a perpetual cycle which goes on and sitting from my studio i can watch the sunrise begin at the winter solstice off the south side of the mountain watch it progress up to the equinox in the center of the mountain watch it go down off the north shoulder at summer solstice come back to the equinox and return so i am part of noticing that experience all the time there is also another painting in the gallery that goes with mountain sunrise beacon radiant presence the rising sun moves south to north through all time returning each season along the same ridges rock layers vaulted by tectonic pressure polished by glaciers set the stage from inside my fishbowl window i catch one moment of the perpetual sun rise cycle yellow peach ray's peak between snowy crest and evergreen south hill morning searchlight catching lower ridges unaware by equinox dreams of daffodils draw me to share first light climbing the central peak midsummer sunrise slips off the north face shining sometimes rosy gold sometimes sailor's warning red as the heat of summer wanes and invisible pendulum swings the morning or back toward the mountain ridge center pursued now by chill autumn sunrise settling again at solstice in the lowest kno each sunrise in the journey bursts forth leaving no trace of where it rose yesterday we fixed point observers native peoples shepherds  cartographers astronomers you and i we ponder tilting spinning spheres in their celestial pattern we see the cycles of dawn twisting a figure eight of infinity with eyes and spirit open we are present meeting each day spring and all time at sunrise in the night beauty and in the night beauty is on the wall over here with the window and here is the poem at star midnight moonlight shines through the window pane i roused disoriented and my at sky farm in a cabin i inhale seeking the scent of pine needles none here am i at glen neary i listen for lapping waves silence this can't be blue mountain lake for there would be no window pane separating me from the big dipper from my eyes cradled in their sockets i see the waning quarter moon in verse of the mountains shape crystal crescent taped to the sky with a strip of transparent clouds beyond the night beauty are the seekers questions why am i for what purpose am i of the timeless or a microcosm inside whirling galaxies knowing the questions are too great even for the moon my inquisitive mind flutters and i return to silken slee ryan's belt on a moonless october night from under an enveloping comforter orion's belt snatches me into the vaulted dome reminding me one life time is too short to know all mysteries all birds and stars andromeda sucks my imagination beyond the birth of stars to shimmering lake of newly dividing embryonic cells embryonic cells about to align on vertical center stem cells form the essence of organs incipient being reaches out from its center each heart begins its journey a crown perched atop the access arm buds gracefully lower the human keystone into its thoracic home how will i ever know enough about the birth of everything laughing thought  cosmic orgasms how will i know why the flock of bohemian waxwings comes each year to get drunk stripping frostbitten crabapples from the tree by my front dawn in the woods has a painting tongues of blue black silhouette lick the steel blue light snow the mind knows is white spreads its gr up to the edge of the huddle trees yellow light leaks through the mountain top seem preparing the transition from my personal musing to the world of day memorial day show this poem came when irene came through our area and flooded us out and then on memorial day it snowed the mountain memorial day show more frequently weathers show is rain after rain sinking sodden shoulders opening unexpected crevices swallowing home and dreams trying to recover spring reaches for the alpine peak winding her usual fashion show of purple and fuchsia streamers around the maypole winter's jester in his ermine cloak accompanied by clowns and fortune tellers visits the mountains festivities snow becomes the carnival tent and tear the magic this is mountain born it's the painting it's at the far end of the gallery for which the show is named i am born of the belly of the mountain she has carried me through the ages to be her sister i huddle in her granite womb all time passes through the membrane which connects us at night when i listen carefully i hear her lola by humming together we dance as one wounded passage and those of you who have travelled the roads in vermont will recognize the location though not specific of this poem wounded passage for time unimagined by the human heart a billion sun revolutions or more heat and pressure fold mud silt and sand into plains of metamorphic rock foundation for the crust vaulted pillars of mountains with oxen teams and in durance pioneers follow the river valleys forging through mountain arches to their horizon home with horse and buggy and fords horseless carriage more travellers widen dear paths and solidify native lake shore trails in half a century barely the blink of an  geologic time makers of war transport drivers and commuters create highways blowing mountain faces away juxtaposing nature's power and human convenience leaving herringbone intersections of blasting scars and foliate to bedrock unaware on our way to somewhere we speed by weirdest things i know i know black holes are the twisted inverse of gravity stephen hawking says gravity is the only basic law of physics he says everything else can be explained from that law he says there is no need for god i know gravity is attraction love and gravity are the same basic law black holes and gravity feed each other they are escher's twisted infinity sign the mobius strip of opposites and it magically the same i am life is the inverse of all that is micro of our molecules inverse parallel to the cosmos god and gravity and love are each other's names deep sleep is a restorer to dip in the river of knowing both and neither meet at the center of paradox i know black holes are the twisted inverse of gravity the circulatory system of god and the last poem i'm going to read mountain dyslexia i try viewing the mountain left to right i see her upside down and from behind the ridge how will i find the meaning hovering above i look down standing on her chin i look out f scars tumble down her rocks hear the wind hint at the answer inhale the scent of evergreen and bar tasting thousands of combinations i reverse and rearrange folds and swales giving up hope of ever comprehending the right way to perceive the mountain prostrate on my back i quietly slip under the mountains foundation inside the igneous core every perception combined finally all together i know who i am dear just to get back in the corner over there that would be helpful and really has books at the front and there is there is a cd and i want to say thank you to several this this book would not have happened without a lot of help from my friends and the professional people that helped some but my friends came through in the end robert silverstein who is by the door took the photographs for the paintings john gale moore did the recording for cd for me and so i just want to thank you mary jane dickerson did the edits for me before i submitted the manuscript i want to thank all of you who have supported me in lots of different ways and enjoy your journey as well as sharing in mine thanks