February 16, 2017
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 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
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
still, tie me to the mast.
I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.
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.
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?
Find a pen
And something to write on.
Mind, legs-open for
Something to write on.
. (from 2009)
July 27, 2015
June 29, 2015
jazzing low the box before I go to sleepmode.
falling so, right near my foreigners,
rightfully for my formally modern science…
More our freshest poetry.
that I said just now has sent us,
led, and just now lent us
“Glass V”- Laura Smith
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)
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.
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)
March 17, 2015
I take my ten tablets.
Wash ’em w/ Irish.
It’s my time
& 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)
December 1, 2014
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
Mark Strand, April 11,1934-November 29,2014