Marianne Werner

Since the time I was young, I have always felt more at home outside than in, exploring meadows, streams, canyons, traipsing through woods, or gathering small creatures—turtles, frogs, salamanders.  As I grew older, these creatures were replaced with a reverence for things growing in the earth.  Now, in early Spring when I see purple dahlias blossoming in my garden, I am awestruck at the flowers’ symmetry—petals emerging precisely, almost mathematically, as the buds open.  I could study these patterns for hours, searching for them not just in plants, but in leaves or trees or fruits, vegetables.  Just as I am drawn to patterns, I love low hanging, aromatic wisteria—or roses, or sunflowers, or tulips—and I marvel at the elegance of a tall purple iris.  I have come to understand that it is nature’s lack of volition that appeals to me; nature simply “is” as it needs to be, without consciousness or guile.  It represents moments of perfection, and when the person-made part of life seems unmanageable, unfixable, nature thrives and endures, helping to sustain my balance.

Thus, my poetic imagination is ingrained in and deeply stirred by the natural world. Since my passion is travel, when I journey to distant places curiosity prompts me to pursue what nature provides, and I am always thankful:  the ice sculptures of southern Iceland; fields of tulips in my home state of Oregon; Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher; cactus flowers blooming after pushing through stone in the bottom of the Grand Canyon; monarch butterflies migrating to the oyamel fir trees in Mexico; the Royal Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh; the invasive African tulip trees spreading throughout Kauai; scalesia shrubs in the Galapagos Islands—these moments, now memories, are all part of how I have experienced the world, and they help inform my poetic vision.

Photography means “to write with the light,” and it is through the coalescence of written image with visual image that I think best represents what I try to capture or create— words and photos that seek to preserve and perpetuate touchstones of beauty in a world where such preservation seems ever more needed, more urgent.  Poems and photos can stir something deep within our souls, hopefully compelling us to protect our natural world, and thus, ourselves.  Long after our departure, daffodils will still bloom in Spring—followed by tulips…then by iris…and the natural evolution of life will continue, emanating from the ashes of our whitened bones.