Wood Engraving Wednesday
WESLEY BATES
The noted Canadian illustrator and wood engraver Wesley Bates (b. 1952) produced the engravings for an edition of poems by the somewhat obscure 3rd- or 4th-century CE Greek epigrammatist Rufinus, translated by the Canadian writer and scholar Robin Skelton and printed in British Columbia at the Barbarian Press in an edition of 200 copies in 1997. Little is known about Rufinus himself, but Skelton informs us that the works of Rufinus combine sensuality with wit and show an appreciation for female beauty. Many of the poems are explicit in nature, and often have misogynistic undertones. Each poem is translated into rhymed metrical verse, demonstrating Skelton’s appreciation for past traditions of translating Latin and Greek in the 18th and 19th centuries.
Wesley Bates was born in the Yukon in 1952 and raised in South Western Saskatchewan. After studying painting and printmaking at Mount Allison University in Sackville, New Brunswick from 1972-1977, he pursued a career as a painter and printmaker in Sackville, and turned to illustration and wood engraving 1981. He has since been a much sought-after illustrator by numerous publications and publishers.
The engravings were printed directly from the blocks on Zerkall White Wove and Zerkall Cream Laid papers, with the book designed, bound, and the text handset in Jan Van Krimpen’s Van Dijk type, with his Cancelleresca Bastarda and Open Kapilalen for display, by Barbarian Press proprietor Crispin Elsted. Elsted’s wife and Barbarian Press co-founder Jan Elsted printed the book. Our copy is signed by Robin Skelton and the Elsteds and is another gift from our friend Jerry Buff.
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Tag: poems
Spencer Finch – 366, Emily Dickinson’s Miraculous Year (2009)
This work is based on Emily Dickinson in 1862, when she wrote 366 poems in 365 days. It is a real-time memorial to that year, which burns for exactly one year. The sculpture is comprised of 366 individual candles arranged in a linear sequence, each of which burns for 24 hours. The colour of each candle matches a colour mentioned in the corresponding poem. For the poems in which no colour is mentioned, the candles are made out of natural paraffin.
A game of groans.
Squirrel! Shot.
Sunset! Shot.
Reading! Shot.
Neighbor! Shot.
Speak! Shot.
Sit! Shot.
Shot! Shot.
A game of groans.
Squirrel! Shot.
Sunset! Shot.
Reading! Shot.
Neighbor! Shot.
Speak! Shot.
Sit! Shot.
Shot! Shot.
the black bones
Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals
on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the
stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the
hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground
and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand
and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert
air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour
even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your
shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin
of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh
with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the
old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me
your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but
I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than
is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just
a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old
bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart
where everything should really be from. Read the placard
about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home
would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones
with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is
what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own
my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?
the black bones
Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals
on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the
stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the
hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground
and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand
and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert
air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour
even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your
shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin
of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh
with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the
old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me
your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but
I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than
is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just
a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old
bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart
where everything should really be from. Read the placard
about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home
would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones
with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is
what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own
my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?
Dinner.
It’s alright to be shy
About my hand on your thigh.
You will let go in the car.
Dinner.
It’s alright to be shy
About my hand on your thigh.
You will let go in the car.
nothing so holy
There is nothing so holy
(save for your eyes)
as the nod, the unzip,
and the kneel.
nothing so holy
There is nothing so holy
(save for your eyes)
as the nod, the unzip,
and the kneel.