Woodblock Prints by Jim Meyer
WOODBLOCK PRINTS
One of the oldest of all forms of printmaking, woodblock prints are made by carving a design into the surface of a flat piece of wood, applying ink to the remaining surface--either by a roller or a brush, and then pressing a piece of paper onto the inked surface.The piece of paper with the ink pressed into it is an original print, a piece of original art.
Color woodblock prints are made either by using a separate block for each color in the print (multi-block prints) or by using the same block for each successive color, but cutting parts of the block away after each color is printed (reduction prints).
IN THE MOUNTAINS ON A SUMMER DAY
Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting atone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head.
WAKING FROM DRUNKENNESS ON A SPRING DAY
" LIFE in the World is but a big dream;
I will not spoil it by any labour or care."
So saying, I was drunk all the day,
Lying helpless at the porch in front of my door.
When I woke up, I blinked at the garden-lawn;
A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.
I asked myself, had the day been Wet or fine?
The Spring wind was telling the mango-bird.
Moved by its song I soon began to sigh,
And as wine was there I filled my own cup.
Wildly singing I waited for the moon to rise;
When my song was over, all my senses had gone.
SELF-ABANDONMENT
I SAT drinking and did not notice the dusk,
Till falling petals filled the folds of my dress.
Drunken I rose and walked to the moonlit stream;
The birds were gone, and men also few.
SICK LEAVE
[While Secretary to the Deputy-Assistant-Magistrate of
Chou-chih, near Ch'ang-an, in A. D. 806]
PROPPED on pillows, not attending to business;
For two days I've lain behind locked doors.
I begin to think that those who hold office
Get no rest, except by falling ill!
For restful thoughts one does not need space;
The room where I lie is ten foot square.
By the western eaves, above the bamboo-twigs,
From my couch I see the White Mountain rise.
But the clouds that hover on its far-distant peak
Bring shame to a face that is buried in the World's dust.
--all poem's by Li Po