About kccoo

I make things with metal, words, and sound. More specifically, I make sculptures of steel, copper wire and other textiles; I write poetry; I play organ and piano and sing in choirs.

starlings

This is the time of year when the starlings flock.

I can’t help but inspire deeply and quickly

with quickened heart, and smile

when they are wakening in the morning,

firing from their eaves

or whatever lodgings they’d been hiding in,

waiting to ambush our very existence at first light

loudly – insistently – rousing each other and

anyone lucky enough to have an open window, able to enjoy the event with

a morning coffee.

But I love it best when

starlings flock at dusk,

when the crescent moon reclines and

the sky comes into lavender blue perfection – the hue

of periwinkles and heliotropes.

Singing, they flock and gather… a blanket of dreams o’er a cloth of day’s tales,

a thrilling signal that all should hurry

home for nightfall –

hurry home to loved ones and favorite places.

Evening, now, goodnight.

-kathleen c cooper. october 1, 2012

Homage to Richard Serra

Of Richard Serra’s massive steel sculptures, I’ve visited  Toqued Ellipses at the DIA in Beacon, NY, The Matter of Time at the fabulous Guggenheim in Bilbao, Spain and Five Plates, Two Poles in Washington DC at the National Gallery of Art.

My personal favorites are the immense curved structures in and through which a visitor can walk, thus becoming a part of the installation.

Here is my tiny sculpture (8 x 9 x 8 cm).  (A bit of whimsy – the little people in and around the sculpture – we are always getting mail for the misspelled Copper Family.)

Homage. Kathleen C Cooper. Steel, copper. (2012)

Homage. Steel, copper. Kathleen C Cooper. (2012).

Homage. Steel, copper; 8 cm x 9 cm x 8 cm.  Kathleen C Cooper (2012).

 

Springtime in an Old House

Springtime in an Old House

What started as a trickle

seeping from an unnoticed crack,

when winter snows were warming

and rain-soaked skies were coming,

found a flow-line in my basement,

towards a sump-pump, often fickle,

in a corner towards the back.

 

A fountain-pool of tinkling droplets

quietly collected as I slept.

Soon spring gathered volume and velocity;

by night, its sources gained variety.

Now in my boots and with my broom,

and frantic tinkering with the float,

I’m sweeping water from a moat.

 

Newport, RI  

April 17 , 1996 (Revised 4/02/12)