how Art thou? Do you drink from the deep sink of inspired creations at an art museum, gallery, or maybe a street art fair on a street near you?sometimes?
Do you have something on one of your walls that only you could only fall for?
And, can’t help but stare?
It’s an important thing,dontcha think?
It has been from an early age for me.
I’m told that soon after I found my father who had killed himself (the Hemingway), while all the distraught adults who knew and loved him were off balance with emotional and practical adjustments (like selling the house and moving on)
One forgotten first son had got into several paint cans and expressed quite a colorful statement on the backside of the new house for sale.
I
I was perched  high for me
in a pinepitchtree
and waited out what I did
as I watched our house’s back side
where I painted from all the paint cans
stacked out back. Though very new plans
made us move away from that life.
Daddy had died and left that life.
Somebody and something could only cover
my work.

II

a french girl with hair from the girl in Breathless
was our art teacher that visited
Miss Blue’s 3rd grade class,
and liked my painting so much
she asked if she could take it
for a contest, or a book she was working on.
The blurry greens and blacks,
browns and blues,  was a ship deep in a storm.
I never saw it again but
somebody and something could only recover
my work.

 

 

still, tie me to the mast.

and

I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.

MUY GOOD JOKE

October 6, 2015

picasso  is said to have said

“Art  is the lie that tells the truth”.

seems  if he did, seems valid.

.

(Though  some tries  along these lines

can only shine as sly & slippery lies)

.

His muy good joke/

& lucky for our sake/

Actually/  the accidental times

us/  Fog & smoke machines make

bonfire smoke signals rise up

until unreasonably  sound  Beauty clears/

Us holding the pen? we’re  without a net nor warm blanket.

.

.

.

.

.

Sure, sweating stallions are dynamic

& may have beauty

but some  Clomp! the blossoms

god & me made.

clods  now

LOOSE CHANGE

September 19, 2015

I don’t even half choose

to carry loose change.

It lets itself be known  to me.

A quiet man  might be noisy.

I search for the underlying themes

That surface, as blue gills & dying perch will do.

I search an unresolve.

I search an unsettlement I mean to settle up,

Which flotsam, which riches  from the deep end;

Raucous & compelling, can tell all  in sleeptalk?

.

Finally

Find a pen

And something to write on.

Mind,  legs-open for

Something to write on.

.

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.                                                                                                       (from 2009)

20150727_090324

Here’s a gold pen

Hope it lies open

Hope it lies openly

And when what lies beneath

Surely is.

Surfaces.

And one (And all) will know more, bequeathed

What surely is.

Explore then expose then espouse/

Pungent scents  of../

Off on  tangent hints of../

Resurgent urgent urges of

Essence  

MORE FOR BLOG

June 29, 2015

jazzing low the box before I go to sleepmode.

letting go.

falling so, right near my foreigners,

rightfully for my formally  modern science…

More    our freshest poetry.

.

boardering

the plane

that I said just now has sent us,

led,  and just now   lent us

home some/

.

.

.

.

(from 2009)

.

.

.

“Glass V”- Laura Smith

glassVLauraSmith

THE ABSENSUALIST

March 30, 2015

I could finally confide

that lately I’d  lost

that long drive that’d taken me

off all my maps.

.

She would certainly intercede,

She brought fresh buds through frost,

I’ve a return drive  she’d taken me

Back onto new paths.

.

.

.

I can close my eyes  and see

Her heart  near and warm

But open  I can not see

Her hand upon my arm.

.

.

.

.

(from july 2010)

DIRECTOR

March 30, 2015

Before  I can

Finally rest in peace

I hope  I can

Film  my  masterpiece

Hope I’m around

To get down  One P.O.V.

Though  honestly

Once embroiled in the dour

Toil & task  I’d more

Likely  less honestly…

I’d allude to  motion pictures’

Laws of illusion, facts mixed with fictions

And when signing off  very late

Off  to their too soft waiting cinema seats

(“Out there in the dark”)

I’d tout   toujour perdrix

French for “Too much of a good thing”, Oui?

As  the last resolve.

I doubt I’d  frame it all

In the ole  fade out

I’d bet  I’d settle for

A  last  dissolve.

  .

.

.

.

.

.                                                           (FROM 3 YRS BACK)

I take my ten tablets.

Wash  ’em w/ Irish.

It’s my time

for medicine,

& no time for nonsense.

I’m ready I’ll try to pull hard

for a merciful god.

Finally I’ll try my hand

To move a pen

To move my words

To move me.

.

.

.

.                                             (from 2009, slainte)

DARK LAKE

January 6, 2015

the_darkest_pond_by_namelessneed-d4akd3i

By chance I saw  by a sentence

“..A kind of paroxysm of silence..”

I did not make out what it meant

I hid but got godsent

To just this spot

Lost at the lake

.

.

It might have meant  within bright moonlight

To lose one’s self  would quiet

The woods’ sounds/

Down to/

Heart pounds/

Lost at the lake

.

.

It might have meant

To choke on the gag of

That space between words

The place unforeseen by our mere words

Here, lost at the lake

.

.

.

.

.

my photo

STRAND

Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s anabsence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.

from interview in Paris Review./ http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1070/the-art-of-poetry-no-77-mark-strand

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Mark Strand, April 11,1934-November 29,2014