TITLE: Contrary Visions. Paperback.
Kreiter-Kurylo, Carolyn K.
"Dragon in Flight" (on cover above) and
"White on White" (see excerpt) both
painted by Author/Artist.
Poetry; Poetry inspires Art: Creativity's unique Catch 22."
-- David J.
Carr, State Council of Higher Education for Virginia (retired)
DESCRIPTION: "It is in a Blakean sense of Contraries that Carolyn Kreiter-Kurylo
[former name] titles her first book Contrary Visions . . . The people in a number of these poems are deaf or blind or infirm, but the poet knows the world is no less various and intense when the eye is lightless or the ear mute, and she intuits how the senses may complement and supplement each other . . . Kreiter-Kurylo's poems proclaim the beauty and abundance of this world--of memory, history, art and music, of outcasts and exemplars and the fragile, natural economies they inhabit--and as they do so, quietly they celebrate themselves. They are their own best source of wonder."
"The concern in these poems with the visual, with how artists see, is
obvious and praiseworthy, but what strikes me even more forcefully is
the variety of tones and sound effects that are available to this poet,
whose ear is as keen as her eye. There is plenty of intelligent pleasure
in this collection."
"Each poem in Contrary Visions is like a painting in an illuminated manuscript, marking not the passage of months, but the progress of the soul toward harmony."
Contrary Visions in the Gallery,
White on White
©1981 by Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda
. . . just a white surface that is simply
a white surface and nothing else.
The child in the paisley frock remembers
the terrible storm, how her father saved
her, how suddenly the white winds came.
Stepping forward, she folds her hands
intently into a gesture of peace
like the dove, before her, darkening
the surface halfway across the canvas.
Beside her, two mystics vow
this is not the coming of light
or white blossoms at the hands of God,
but a ceremonial stone that brings calm
to any man, if only he will embrace it.
Whereas the artist intended nothing
of this, no more than a white surface,
the lilies I remember turn back years,
and I am a small child again,
comprehending the emptiness of white
offerings, their incantations cold
beside the burial ground. I am moved
by this stillness, by the beguiling white
canvas holding just enough light
to enfold this darkness, this grief.