Bass Island: Poetry as a Time Machine

A Poem, a Painting, and a Reflection

Bass Island

A rocky bank in the Little Miami, just east of Cincinnati,

water riffling over stones on either side, I can hear Highway 50.

My hair's wet, the sun warms my back, and my wet dog sits

with sandy feet on my legs, his head on my shoulder.

I'll never get over this, this beautiful place and the warm air

filling my beautiful lungs. Their soft redness and purple veins

sifting oxygen from gritty river air. Pressing my eyes

into the sun-dried fur matting the dog's black ear, the light

turns golden. The river singing its own song around us.

I’m so honored to have had this poem published in the new issue of the Artful Dodge magazine! The mag has undergone some leadership changes and the issue came out much later than expected, so reading the poem is sort of a blast from the past. I wrote this poem over five years ago; I was in grad school at the time and living with my parents. Our dog Grizzly loves to swim, and I loved taking him to this spot on the Little Miami River.

My mom, Grizzly, and me near Bass Island in 2017. We laughed about her huge visor. :)

It’s so interesting reading this poem now—so much has changed. My mom passed away, and I got married. Grizzly stayed with my dad when I moved out—they’re best buddies—and we haven’t swam at the island in a few years. Just last year in 2024, Brad took part in a Paint Out in Mariemont, Ohio along the Little Miami and ended up painting a tree just upstream from the island.

“High Water,” oil on panel, 9x12

It’s a bit strange to read things I wrote while my mom was alive that don’t mention her. At times I feel like I should’ve mentioned her in everything I wrote, like I should have realized what a gift it was that she was alive. I know my mom wouldn’t have liked this; she never liked attention. And I know that as much as I could have, without knowing that I’d lose her so unexpectedly, I did realize that gift. Even though she doesn’t appear in the poem “Bass Island,” I can feel her love there. Her peaceful gratitude for the beauty of the world, and her love of Grizzly and water. I know that the “me” in the poem was joyful in that moment, and part of that joy, whether I realized it consciously or not, was knowing that my mom was safe at home while Grizzly and I were swimming. I’m a little jealous of the “me” in that poem, but I’m so thankful to have this simple, wonderous moment preserved for current-day me.

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More on Brad’s painting:

Little Miami River near Bass Island, Mariemont, Ohio / Sept 28, 2024

Brad slipped down a steep bank to a muddy patch along the Little Miami River to find a spot for the Mariemont Paint Out. (I visited for a bit but spent most of the day inside with our dog, Hopper.) The rain was off and on all day, so he strung a tarp between trees, twisting clumps of bank weeds together as makeshift rope. Thankfully our friend Ray Hassard was more prepared and lent Brad an umbrella when he stopped by.

Brad said that while he was painting, he was thinking of Frits Thaulow, a plein air painter whose work we first stumbled upon at the MET and then a year later at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Both paintings stuck with us because of how Thaulow so vividly captures moving water. (Funnily enough, just before the Paint Out, Ray had visited Skagen, Denmark, where Thaulow painted in 1879. He wrote an article about Thaulow and other Skagen painters for Plein Air Magazine.)

To top off a beautiful, rainy day of plein air, Brad won first prize in the competition!

P.S.—Don’t worry! Grizzly still gets to swim often, we just haven’t been to Bass Island in a while. We’ll have to take a trip over there this summer! :)

We’ve added my book of poetry and some prints to our online shop! Check it out if you’d like some Plein Air Poetry in your physical mailbox.