As I lay abed this morning staring blindly at the ceiling a memory came to me that is at least 25 years old.
Back in the day when I was a young, penniless lion I used to roam the streets of Portland on foot, putting in many miles daily. I can't recall the date or the place, but one day on one of my walks I passed a young tree. It was about this time of year and the tree had no leaves. In the tree, fluttering upon a twig, I espied a very small booklet, perhaps three inches square.
I reached into the tree and disengaged the booklet. It was hung by an unfolded paper clip's wire, like a Christmas ornament. The paper was good, heavy bond. Inside, printed in letterpress (about 8 or 9 pt. font) was a translation of the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite. By that time I was already familiar with that poem and I recognized it.
Several years later, in a completely different quarter of town, my then girlfriend (now wife) showed me another such booklet she found hung in a tree in front of her apartment. This one had a nice illustration on the cover and contained the Hymn to Pan.
I am still grateful to whomever it was that made a hobby of dangling poetry from trees, purely anonymously. It always lent a fine air of mystery and sacredness to the day. The printing was excellent and I suspect the maker did the printing on a hand press.
I found myself this morning mulling the possibility of doing something similar, but using a laser printer. Such an offering to gods of chance would be less precious, but still welcome I think. I hope this story inspires you, too.
― Aimless (Aimless), Tuesday, 22 November 2005 18:11 (twenty years ago)
Sunday my friend called and asked me if I was busy. His latest project involves putting little poems into puddles on the street corners here in Portland. He said he had found some good ones and would I like to join him. Sadly I wasn't busy, because it sounded like it would be great.
But if you're in the neighborhood of SE 16th and Ash, keep your eyes on the puddles.
He has also done tree-dangling poetry, in which the poems are on two, uh, tags, the sort that have a bit of string on them, you know the kind. And the poems flutter in the wind and the tags twist back and forth and so you get four possible poems: Front/front, front/back, back/front, back/back. They're very simple and elegant.
― Casuistry (Chris P), Tuesday, 22 November 2005 19:57 (twenty years ago)
Not quite as elegant/random perhaps, but every so often the children from my local primary school have to write a poem, and their teachers hang them (the poems not the children) from a tree in the park opposite. I always go and have a look.
― Archel (Archel), Wednesday, 23 November 2005 13:11 (twenty years ago)
Hand printing makes me feel all funny. Lovely? Heavy-handed? Sad? What kind of person has/makes enough free time for that sort of thing?
― Annie Sterz, Thursday, 24 November 2005 05:37 (twenty years ago)
Not a real life example, but the soon-to-be-remade/ruined-by-Kevin-Spacey Norwegian film
Elling features the supermarket offerings of the Sauerkraut Poet.
― k/l (Ken L), Thursday, 24 November 2005 13:19 (twenty years ago)
Well, book artists. A friend of mine knew this book artist who made a piece out of a poem of his. She stitched the text onto a ribbon, hand-stitching each letter. She said she was happy to find a way of making books that was even slower then using a printing press.
― Casuistry (Chris P), Thursday, 24 November 2005 17:37 (twenty years ago)