Rosslyn Redux

Tag: Poetry

  • Icehouse Door

    Icehouse Door

    Icehouse Door (Source: Geo Davis)
    Icehouse Door (Source: Geo Davis)

    I’d like to shift your focus for a moment to the almost-ready-for-groundbreaking rehabilitation of Rosslyn’s historic icehouse situated just north of the carriage barn. Has your focus shifted? Good. Now let’s zoom in a little tighter to the icehouse door. Perhaps imagine yourself walking south on the sidewalk in front of Rosslyn, looking across the front lawn past the stone wall, toward the setting sun. Can you see the west facade of the icehouse? Can you see the door?

    Icehouse Door Haiku

    Sightlines and viewsheds
    in the historic district
    hinge upon a door.
    — Geo Davis

    As I’ve remarked in the past, there are times when a tidy haiku might accomplish more than a verbose dissertation. If in your estimation my mission is accomplished in the seventeen syllables ahead, I invite you to abbreviate your read here.

    If you’re inclined to probe a little deeper, or simply have no clue what I’m getting at, please read on. But, note that a dissertation isn’t in the offing. I’ll take a reasonable run at the idea(s) in the haiku above, but the bottom line is this. The west facade of Rosslyn’s icehouse is within the public viewshed and various sightlines reveal the icehouse door from sidewalk, road, etc. What does that mean, and why is it important?

    Sightlines & Viewsheds

    In architecture, design, and urban planning “sightlines” is a relatively self-explanatory term combining perspective and line-of-sight visibility within built and unbuilt environments. Hhhmmm… I’m pretty certain that armchair definition wouldn’t pass muster with the AIA, so let’s try a different approach. Within a building or any space, really, what you can see and the relationships between what you can see are your sightlines. What is visible? What is partially or completely obscured? How do visible elements relate to one another? Is the relationship between visible elements visually appealing?

    Okay, so what about “viewshed”?

    The good folks at Merriam-Webster define viewshed as “the natural environment that is visible from one or more viewing points”. Sounds a little bit like the way I’ve tried to explain sightlines. Let’s see if I can muddle things even further by dipping into the collective genius of Wikipedia.

    A viewshed is the geographical area that is visible from a location. It includes all surrounding points that are in line-of-sight with that location and excludes points that are beyond the horizon or obstructed by terrain and other features (e.g., buildings, trees). Conversely, it can also refer to area from which an object can be seen. A viewshed is not necessarily “visible” to humans… (Source: Wikipedia, September 18, 2022)

    All cleared up? No? Hhhmmm… Let’s tap a few other resources.

    Viewsheds are visualizations of what is visible from a given point and are often used in urban planning. (Source: ArcGIS CityEngine Resources)

    When I was 5 years old, I used to play hide-and-seek with my friends. Just like any kid, I’d always try to find the best hiding spots. I used to wonder: If I hide in this spot, what is visible from the observer’s point of view all around them (viewsheds)? Or if the observer looks in a straight line, what is obstructed or not (line of sight)? (Source: Line of Sight vs Viewshed: Visibility Analysis – GIS Geography)

    Assessing what’s visible in a straight line from an observer’s specific location involves consideration for obstructions, topographical/elevation change, etc. This, as I understand it, is the sightline. Whereas the viewshed encompasses all visible objects and areas from the observer’s point of view.

    In the case of our about-to-start icehouse rehabilitation, both the public viewshed (from the road, the sidewalk, even the lake which is a public thoroughfare) and the various sightlines (all three I’ve mentioned not only offer multiple perspective and multiple lines-of-sight on a spectrum from roughly north-to-south, but they also represent different elevations ergo unique topographical angles) are relevant, and they loosely informed the considerations of the Town of Essex Planning Board (and general public) when we presented our proposal this past July and August.

    Essex Village Historic District

    Because Rosslyn is a prominent part of the Essex Village Historic District, and because the historic icehouse is deemed important within the historic district’s public viewshed, the icehouse door became a point of discussion during our Planning Board approval process. The discourse and consideration is actually quite interesting. Historic icehouse. Historic icehouse doors. Historic District. Public viewshed. Public sightlines.

    I’m going to treat this as a two-part post, this first installment to introduce the relevant considerations, and a follow-up once design decisions are finalized. For now, I’ll withhold the drawings as originally presented, in order to stimulate your own contemplation…

  • A Lake Is Born

    A Lake Is Born

    A Lake Is Born (Source: Geo Davis)
    A Lake Is Born (Source: Geo Davis)

    No night, I’m thinking
    (willing, really), lasts
    forever, endless.
    But my confidence
    flutters then falters.
    What if I’m wrong?

    Just then, before dawn,
    day breaks early and
    undreams the darkness,
    banishes black that
    ripens to eggplant,
    fades to indigo.

    A solitary
    sunbeam’s hatchet honed
    cleaves wide somber dome,
    spills veins of amber,
    honey smeared scarlet
    over-ripened, bursts.

    A vast aquarelle
    unleveed shimmers,
    a lake is born and
    mountain range cutouts,
    mirrored but mottled
    on breeze dimpled plain. 

     

  • High on Nectar

    High on Nectar

    High on Nectar (Source: Geo Davis)
    High on Nectar (Source: Geo Davis)

    I recently learned that autumn isn’t the best of times for drone honeybees, but there’s still time for the rest of us to get high on nectar. And since the humble haiku is nearly nectar in the poppy fields of poetry, I’ll defer today to an industrious honeybee high on nectar of a windblown poppy blossom.

    High on Nectar Haiku

    Pink petals flutter,
    honey bee, high on nectar,
    bustles, persistent.

    High on Nectar Video 

  • October Rain

    October Rain

    October Rain (Source: Geo Davis)
    October Rain (Source: Geo Davis)

    Sometimes it’s as if frames from two different films overlap. For a moment. Sometimes longer. Occasionally the overlapping images complement one another, but often the experience is jarring. Confusing. Unsettling.

    Seasons bleed into one another playfully, testing our agility, our resilience. Far-flung geographies, domiciles, and life stages muddle, merge, and drift apart again. Our worlds intermingle. For a moment. Sometimes longer.

    October Rain, Wordy

    Tell me a story
    of prism pocks on pears.
    Sing me a song 
    of raindrops on apples.
    Pen me a poem
    of flickering daylight,
    flirting with nightfall;
    of sleepless longing
    for toil-oiled muscles
    and limber limbed spring;
    of sauntering through
    my cherished orchard
    in sultry summer,
    still oblivious to
    the dreary drama
    of October rain.

    October Rain, Visual

    Sometimes poetry leans on language, word bricks and word mortar, to sculpt a song or a story. Sometimes vision is enough to free the singing underneath… 

    https://www.instagram.com/reel/CjYQvj3AtKY/ 

    October Rain, Singalong

    Another perspective on October Rain just might wiggle it’s way into your mental repeat. I happened upon the subtly hypnotic jingle by Robin Jackson, and now it’s continuous looping like a subconscious 8-track tape in my graying gray matter. 

    Mostly October is crisp and clear along the Adirondack Coast. Quintessential autumn. But exceptions and rules are made in mysterious ways…

  • Lone Oak

    Lone Oak

    Lone Oak (Source: Geo Davis)
    Lone Oak (Source: Geo Davis)

    I remember, as a boy, seeing a mature bald eagle sitting in this oak tree. It must’ve been 1984 or 1985. My mother was driving us from Rock Harbor to Plattsburgh, where we went to school. It was less common to see bald eagles back then. They were present in the Champlain Valley, but less abundant than today. So it was a big deal to come upon one unexpectedly. My mother slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road, cautious because there was very little room to pull out of the lane without getting stuck in a ditch that divided the road from the adjoining field. We sat a few minutes — my mother, my brother, my sister, and I — observing the majestic bird. Substantial in size and commanding in posture and intensity. It may have been the first time I saw this iconic raptor up close, and it made an enduring impression on me.

    It was late winter, as I recall, and the monumental oak was bare, damp from rain, imposing. It seemed the perfect perch for such a majestic bird. A tree with dignity, with gravitas. And yet, I yearned for the eagle to spread his wings and soar. We asked my mother to honk the horn. She declined, reminding us that the eagle had been there first, that startling him would disrupt him unnecessarily. I suspected that she too wished the eagle would fly. But she slowly pulled back onto the road, and we continued our commute.

    Since returning to the Adirondack Coast in 2003, I’ve made a point of stopping to appreciate this handsome tree during jogs, in the early years, and bike rides, over the last decade. I’ve never spotted another bald eagle presiding over its gnarled limbs, but some day I might. In the meantime I honor the tree — vibrant leafed, laden with acorns, rusting in autumn, bare but for snow frosting — enduring across decades but otherwise virtually unchanged.

    Lone Oak Haiku

    Dripping after rain,
    a vast acorn nursery,
    lone oak towering.
    — Geo Davis

    Sally & Sentry

    When I shared this lone oak photograph and haiku on July 23, 2021, our friend and Essex neighbor, Tom Duca, surprised me with a previously unknown detail about this tree.

    “You know Sally Johnson saved that tree. Look close. She had a cable strung between the two big limbs so they would not split apart.”

    Tom Duca

    I had not known. But knowing has added to my affinity for this lone oak. A quiet, timely, essential act of kindness by an admirable woman to honor and preserve an iconic tree, our Adirondack horizon’s sentry.

  • Papaver Bee-ing

    Papaver Bee-ing

    Papaver Bee-ing
    Papaver Bee-ing

    Whether hummingbirds or butterflies or honey bees or bats or scores of other pollinators accidentally doing the work of fertilizing flowers from generation to generation, the appetite for nectar powers progeny. A sweet song of perpetuity. A dulcet dance engendering poppies aplenty.

    Papaver Bee-ing, Haiku

    By coincidence
    a poppy pollinator,
    the bee nectaring.

    I wonder, in our quest for mythological nectar, if we ungainly landlubbers might inadvertently be pollinating poppies. Occasionally. Let’s hope so.

    https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cjtgtd9ADpQ/
  • Tempest & Terroir

    Tempest & Terroir

    Tempest & Terroir (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)
    Tempest & Terroir (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)

    It’s time for a tumble into tempest and terroir. And so I return to storms and dirt. To dirt and storms. More specifically I revisit that sudden, destructive blast that crashed through the Adirondack Coast between Westport and Essex back on August 30, 2022. (See “Storm Damage” for the gory details.) And then I fast forward to our recent dirt work, sculpting and regrading a portion of the almost century old clay tennis court back closer to what it *might* have looked like two centuries ago. (See “The Art of Dirt Work” if you’re undaunted by dirt and clay and raw site work.)

    Tempest & Terroir

    A derecho, they said.
    A straight line blast, they said.
    A microburst, they said
    in the hours after.
    I'd watched at the front door
    forehead hard against
    sharp-edged muntins pressing
    elliptical tattoos
    into flesh above my brows.
    Moments later, panting,
    I stood in the screen porch
    looking west toward the barns,
    filming the angry minutes,
    prolonged, distorted minutes,
    while the sky blackened
    and rain blurred horizontal
    and leaves — at first, just leaves
    and then clusters of leaves
    and then whole branches —
    streaked horizontally, 
    southeast to northwest,
    no gravity just a fierce force
    ripping through our lake life
    as crazed and decisive
    and mesmorizing and efficient
    as a runaway subway train.
    Later, still spongy earth
    gaped in the failing light
    like a mute maw anguished,
    roots unanchored, failing,
    drip-dripping muddy tears 
    in a disinterred void.
    Silence now except for
    moisture's music drumming,
    a chorus of water 
    drops and weeps and seeps,
    melancholy melody
    foretelling the dirt work
    now underway, today,
    two months after the storm.
    Excavator guided
    by imagination,
    plans, words, hasty field notes,
    and the dexterity
    of shrewd operators
    slicing precisely and
    scraping layers of sod,
    then soil, then clay away.
    Worry wells within for
    savage scars unsettle,
    whether microburst rought
    or man and machine made.
    But Rosslyn's fertile ground —
    robust, resilient, and
    memory of ages —
    will nourish and nurture,
    lifting lofty notions
    and simplest seedlings
    from rudiments and seeds
    to safe sanctuary
    and towering glories.

    Goût de Terroir

    Let’s chock this post up to poetic license. Sometimes poems (and sometimes stories) are more effective than nonfiction prose, I find. Hopefully some of you will grasp what I’m grappling with, the tenuous connections I’m making, the profound faith in this healing property that has, since 2006, guided us through transition after transition.

    Why poetic license? Well, for one thing the French idea of “terroir” (literally soil or earth) is usually used in reference to wine, specifically the aroma and flavor profile as derived from the environment within which the grapes have been grown and, more loosely, the wine produced. So the idea as used by those of us who enjoy wine usually encompasses the geographic location and characteristics such as soil composition, climate, and topographical siting. I think it’s fair to extrapolate from this usage a broader albeit agricultural application of the term, but I’m trying to amplify the idea a bit further. Needless to say, this poem is still a work in progress…

  • Leaky Spigot

    Leaky Spigot

    Leaky Spigot (Photo: Geo Davis)
    Leaky Spigot (Photo: Geo Davis)

    I’m fond of the French word, “robinetterie“. In English the translation is “fixtures”. Not quite as intriguing a word, in my opinion. Nor are “plumbing fixtures”, “faucets”, etc. But “spigot“, now that’s a fine word! It conjures the drip, drip, drip… of a leaky spigot.

    I know, pretty subjective, and perhaps a little esoteric. But I’m an unabashed connoisseur of words. I appreciate words the way others value gems or cigars or heirloom apple varieties or single barrel bourbon. Ok, I’m pretty fond of the last two as well, but words are my currency. I collect words, romance words, share words. And so far as I’m concerned “spigot” and “robinetterie” are in a class apart.

    Leaky Spigot Haiku

    Sometimes the soap dish,

sometimes the [leaky] spigot,

always drip, drip, drip,...

    Spig’spiration

    It’d be tough to be an old house enthusiast without appreciating antique and vintage plumbing fixtures. Fortunately Rosslyn’s kitchen, bar, bathrooms, and hose hydrants have undergone years of rehab, replacement, and TLC. But I live a peripatetic existence, and travel taps into my drippy robinetterie nostalgia from time to time. That leaky spigot in the photo above was photographed on July 21, 2014 in coastal Maine. Even now, I recollect my relief at not being responsible for fixing it!

    But the seed for this micropoem was planted by another, Matthew Aaron (@_matthew_aaron_), with the following Instagram post. Thanks, Matthew!

    https://www.instagram.com/p/Cetwnq1uo1Q/

    Per Matthew, “the soap dish is everything”. Per me, the spigot is everything. It may not even be a leaky spigot, but I’ve exercised some poetic license. After all, the layers of life patinating the oh-so-very vintage robinetterie speak in drips. Can you hear it? Drip, drip, drip,…

    The soap dish is everything (Remixed from photo by Matthew Aaron)
    The soap dish is everything (Remixed from photo by Matthew Aaron)

    Poetic license bled into the visual domain. I’m not 100% able to explain why Matthew’s photo grabbed me the way it has, but I’m grateful for his permission to include both the handsome original and my derivative remix. A wonder-fueled wabi-sabi water faucet. A visual poem of a leaky spigot.

  • Almost Logical

    What if? Wondering what life would be like living full-time in the Champlain Valley...
    What if? Wondering what life would be like living full-time in the Champlain Valley…

    Within minutes we were tripping over each other, drunk with excitement, imagining one whimsical “What if…” scenario after another. No filter, no caution. Our reveries flitted from one idyllic snapshot to another.

    “What if I finally sat down and finished my novel?” After dawdling self indulgently for a dozen years – writing, rewriting, discarding, rewriting, shuffling, reinventing – my novel had evolved from failed poetry collection to short story collection to novel to a tangle of interconnecting narratives that loosely paralleled my life since graduating from college. Too much evolution. Too little focus. But what if I made time to sit down and knock it out? Reboot. Start over. Find the story. Write it down. Move on.

    “What if you weren’t sitting in front of your computer all day? Every day?” Susan asked, returning to a common theme. “What if you went outside and played with Tasha? Took her swimming or hiking or skiing every day?”

    “What if all three of us went swimming or hiking or skiing every day? What if Tasha and I went jogging along Lakeshore Road instead of the East River?”

    We could waterski and windsurf for half the year instead of just two or three months, starting in May with drysuits and finishing in the end of October. We could sail the Hobie Cat more instead of letting it collect spider webs on the Rock Harbor beach. I could fly fish the Boquet and Ausable Rivers in the afternoon while Tasha snoozed on the bank. We could join Essex Farm, the local CSA, supporting a local startup while eating healthy, locally grown and raised food. I could grow a vegetable garden, an herb garden, an orchard. Susan could work for an architecture firm in Burlington and volunteer at the animal shelter. We could buy season passes to Whiteface and downhill ski several days a week. We could cross country ski and snowshoe and bike and rollerblade and kayak and canoe and hike, and maybe I would start rock climbing again. And how much more smoothly the Lapine House renovation would be if we were on-site every day answering questions, catching mistakes before it was too late.

    “I could interview candidates for Hamilton!” Susan said. She had recently become an alumni trustee for her alma mater, and her already high enthusiasm had skyrocketed. She had become a walking-talking billboard for the college. “You know how much more valuable it would be to interview candidates up here? There are tons of alumni interviewers in Manhattan, but in Westport? In Essex? In Elizabethtown?”

    Suspended in lukewarm bathwater, our collective brainstorm leap frogging forward, it all started to make a strange sort of sense, to seem almost logical.