Art & poetry is like chocolate and fine red wine… I love exploring older writing; it feels as though I’m stumbling through dusty tomes of forgotten lore online.

I had previously created a graphic narrative to accompany It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up by Emily Elizabeth Dickenson for Day of the Dead. So, this year for November 2, I wanted to again share some of my art alongside some public domain poetry of decades past. Enjoy this brief assortment of pieces in honor of Dia de los Muertos.

At Last I Got a Letter from the Dead by Richard Le Galliene At last I got a letter from the dead, And out of it there fell a little flower, - The violet of an unforgotten hour.
At Last I Got a Letter from the Dead by Richard Le Galliene, with From Pasture sculpture featuring real horse skull & faux flowers
Dirge by Edna St. Vincent Millay Boys and girls that held her dear, Do your weeping now; All you loved of her lies here. Brought to earth the arrogant brow, And the withering tongue Chastened; do your weeping now. Sing whatever songs are sung, Wind whatever wreath, For a playmate perished young, For a spirit spent in death. Boys and girls that held her dear, All you loved of her lies here.
Dirge by Edna St. Vincent Millay, alongside an assemblage with broken doll parts and preserved insects
The Distance That The Dead Have Gone by Emily Elizabeth Dickenson The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year. And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect.
The Distance That The Dead Have Gone by Emily Elizabeth Dickenson, with Classification assemblage of sand covered faux skeleton pieces
Epitaphs by Unknown An epitaph in an old Moravian cemetery reads thus: Remember, friend, as you pass by, As you are now, so once was I; As I am now thus you must be, So be prepared to follow me. There had been written underneath in pencil: To follow you I'm not content Till I find out which way you went.
Epitaphs in an old Moravian cemetery, with Message & Victim artworks featuring faux skeleton and broken doll parts with resin over polished river stones
A Mood by George MacDonald My thoughts are like fire-flies, pulsing in moonlight; My heart like a silver cup, filled with red wine; My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.
A Mood by George MacDonald, with Until Death Do Us Part assemblage focused on half of a found Best Friends necklace, a faux skeleton hand and a key
Ghazal Of Mira translated by Edward Powys Mathers From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century). The world passes, nothing lasts, and the creation of men Is buried alive under the vault of Time. Autumn comes pillaging gardens; The bulbuls laugh to see the flowers falling. Wars start up wherever your eye glances, And the young men moan marching on to the batteries. Mira is the unkempt old man you see on the road; He has taken his death-wound in battle.
Ghazal Of Mira from the Pus’hto, alongside Mingling Memories found objects covered in fragrant cumin, cloves and cinnamon in a cigar box lid

These images feature mixed media assemblages and sculptural pieces incorporating real and faux bones, skeletal fragments, animal jawbones and more.  The works considered mortality and the fragility of being, memory and forgetting, and the passage of time.  These pieces were first published in the Halloween 2020 Contest themed around Death, Fear and Fantasy through The Abstract Elephant Magazine.

portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Related posts:

  1. It Was Not Death, for I Stood Up by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson and revisited by Jennifer Weigel: Part I
  2. It Was Not Death, for I Stood Up by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson and revisited by Jennifer Weigel: Part VI
  3. It Was Not Death, for I Stood Up by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson and revisited by Jennifer Weigel: Series Index
  4. Seven: Senryu poetry by Jennifer Weigel
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