Designskool.net

Justine Hand has posted a really beautiful feature on my animals on her design blog.
You can find it here: http://designskool.net/paulina-temmes/

Thank you, Justine!

This is my October donkey wearing his silk coat. He is going to travel to another continent.

This will be my new donkey's silk coat. I will add some more stitching and maybe some colour.

I am going to open my Etsy shop on Thursday 6th October.
and this is a decision, I need to get back to work.

I love this song, his songs.
Today I have been trying to sew a donkey, or maybe it will be a mule.

Pentti Sammallahti: Solovki, White Sea, Russia

Linda sent me this beautiful poem.

Her Grave
by Mary Oliver

She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile----
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming perfect arch of her neck.

It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but, anyway, it began to rain
slowly.

Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce, her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.

Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.
A dog lives fifteen years, if your're lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house,
but you do not therefore own her, 
as you do not own the rain, 
or the trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge 
and the refreshment of her long slumber?
A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her, 
that you know almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?

She roved ahead of me through the fields,
yet would come back, or wait for me, 
or be somewhere.

Now she is buried under the pines.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.

Through the trees is the sound of the wind, palavering

The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste?
of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body
How apt is her grave place.
How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.

Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.

Poem by Sirkka Turkka from Niin kovaa se tuuli löi
('So bitterly the wind struck', Tammi, 2004)

Translated by Herbert Lomas

Rover's lying under the burnet rose.

   And good-natured Nosy, and Gunilla Rosa's cancer

 exploded the bones of her big soft paw,

    her shinbone shattered into a sky of stars,

 you knew it at once from her face and the X-ray.

  I lay over her body and howled.

    I placed a hyacinth by her cheek,

  a white hyacinth by her black cheek

    for the journey.

When something good goes out of the world,

    all you can do is howl.

Tuffe makaa juhannusruusun alla.
Ja kiltti Tuppu, Gunilla Rosa, syöpä
räjäytti sen pehmeän suuren tassun luut,
ranne hajosi tähtitaivaaksi,
sen näki heti sen naamasta ja röntgenkuvasta.
Makasin sen ruumiin päällä ja huusin.
Pistin hyasintin sen poskea vasten,
valkean hyasintin mustaa poskea vasten,
matkaa varten.
Kun hyvä lähtee tästä maailmasta,
sitä vain huutaa.

Sad news from a friend, feeling heavy-hearted.

I found some old drawings. I made them 13 years ago when my cat died.

The cat is dead. There is a shadow in his stomach.

                                             

The stone mausoleum at his grave.

 

This summer: two tiny pieces. Silk remnants and aimless stitching.