Tag Archives: Art

“And Comfort Comes”

chaucer1

“And Comfort Comes”

And comfort comes too late from stations on the bank
Of all great rivers, benchmarks, watersheds
And monuments petrified as zeitgeists; glories led
By strange humility in masters whose histories are blank
With whom generations cavil and invoke
In lesser moments a meaner age,  a leaning toward
The more prosaïc goals framed to ward
Off meteoric national malaise. These, the Titans, evoke
Wonder in the people, and awe
Amongst their artisans, and in the hour such light
Cannot be masked nor can the transitory might
Of kings suppress such eagles, neither nets nor censors, nor the law.
And then comes Chaucer, then Shakespeare, Fathers of the modern text…
And what are tongues that roar so loud and thunder in the index?

william-shakespeare-007

Advertisements

“This You Chose”

“This You Chose”

This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.

“A Sonnet for Ensomniac”

Ensomniac

“A Sonnet for Ensomniac”*

Sleeplessness, restive sanctuary
Of the damned in thought;
A constant, twice binding knot
That only an Alexander can resolve.
And even within this pale inlet, pastel
Half-lights spiral endlessly through the maze,
Redoubling trails left as haze
Of cobalt smoke, fresh fractals of the last time round; absolve
The whole, and sign for yet another toss.
But if the sleeping,  perchance the dreaming is missed,
There is what may or may not be a while, sitting
Upright, wide-awake within a trite belittling
Of what one might see if only blown
Through dusty distances, vagaries and yesterdays alone.

…* the site of an artist of note whom I admire and used to follow on Stumbleupon.com before that group shot itself in the foot and went commercial while evicting thousands of simple members amongst whom was yours truly…this man’s site is worth more than one visit…http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/ensomniac

“Of course! Art”

spider-web-computer-chips-537x373

“Of course! Art”

Of course! art, the cheek of brilliance balanced, bold
Enough to catch the inner eye,…but soft!
What lights in wider window webs, and lofts
Within such cinder rooms as spine and centrefold
Can mean so much, that feed so little but the soul?
It is the ache of apples ripe for picking,
Snowflakes chiseled, storm clouds mimicking
Latter day ablutions of spirit-slaves in chains within the cold
Bewildering creosote docks and sealed wine barrels of the wharfs
Of distant Northern European seaport shores
Whose denizens in beauty live then forgotten by the whores
Of Paris, Rome; or whitewashed backyard city dwarfs
Whose meretricious coffee tables will in time collapse
Beneath the weight of monographs when time and currency have lapsed.

—Once

********

“Art shows us how to be more than we are.
It is heightened, grand, an act of effrontery. It is
a challenge to the confines of the spirit.
It is a challenge to the comfortable pleasures of everyday life…”

-J. Winterson

“Precedence”

Precedence-Homepage

“Precedence”

Precedence in expression comes as an attack,
Frontal to anyone whose inner eyes are closed or dim;
Signs of deep betrayal camouflaged in subtle gestures, slim
Effort to disguise emotion in its many bodies will not back
An image or conclusion reaching out from the abstract of the soul.
As in the end, beginnings broadly drawn and crudely etched
Within the memory yield stem cells for vanity and little but stretched
Canvases-in-waiting for raw imagination. The lotus cannot unfold.
Rarely mentioned are the consequences in the general rounds;
The finite mind will dictate penalties and fees. Internal purities
Direct themselves from what is sensed in cropped mantras as securities
In souls who support but single syllables uttered as their universal sounds.
So, what’s the currency? By definition, art, and all recorded moments despise
Realities beyond the theatre of the mind,
and in the end, expose themselves as lies.

Phillip Harris

…painting by Philip Harris…

“A Sonnet for Ephemeral Blog Sites”

Climber

“A Sonnet for Ephemeral Blog Sites”

I see them there with angel hair and brown-
Bagged comments from the swell of sites. Satanic husks–
Petty theft of references–explicit shorts,
laconic ironies, implicit lusts
For power to bend a spoon no less or
honour ghosts of half-abandoned towns
In lowered, hushed, the chosen laboured tones.
The cache, the whole with cluster-clowns
Of paper stickers, wind-up dolls, cartoons
and callous captions in balloons too thin
To serve a purpose, too contrived to be of use.
Scores of whistles, kittens, tops that spin
And largesse that lives to spend, whose purposes
defy belief that what was lost will dwindle down
To momentary ecstasies addressed with pride
as meaningless distraction in a rind–
To say nothing of the fruit–no, nothing deeper,
nothing in the nursery more intended less refined
Than children’s rhymes, and rat’s behinds
and mindless felines with as much to say in time
As weavers of a campfire yarn, confessions as the spinners’ spin
their cotton candied synergies from wastes that knit and intertwine
Enough to bring a credit card or any laminated surface to a shine
with bubbles burping gold dust
Leaving all to wonder who on earth does business here?
… unless he’s blind…
unless he’s sad, unless he’s lonely
…unless he absolutely must…

…photograph above from George Boe….

“Ah, Yes. Art”

LBL-34

“Ah, Yes. Art”

Ah, yes. Art. The cheek of brilliance balanced, bold
Enough to catch the inner eye, but soft.
What lights in wider window webs, and lofts
Within the cinder rooms?  The spine and centrefold
Can mean so much that feed so little but the soul.
It is the ache of apples ripe for picking,
Snowflakes purposed, mimicking
Ablutions of spirit-slaves in chains within the cold
Bewildering docks and wine barrels of the wharfs
Of distant Northern European seaport shores
Whose denizens in beauty live yet are forgotten by the stores
Of Paris, Rome, or whitewashed backyard city dwarfs
Whose meretricious coffee tables will in time collapse
Beneath the weight of monographs when time and currency have lapsed.
Up from mountains to the skies, the plumes
Will rise, dispersing dusts, the breath of Gaia
Purple, striking greens, and streaks of liquid sapphire
Echo not through ears, but to the eye in lower cobalt valleys; rooms
Of empty desert flats, and somewhere nowhere near
The third dimension sits the second and the first,
Whose wisdoms are the toys of both the camera and the eye; bursts
Of colour trapped in jars; minimal, austere,
And rough-hewn set between, the hues of classic frowns;
The lacquer-pinched and stylised will out the same with shrouds and gowns
As do inhabit lenses, surrogates, the eyes, the nymphs, the kites and sounds
That are the stuff of jesters and the clowns
Before the press and after pantomime has lost his throne,
His puppets loosed from strings begin to roam.

“Art shows us how to be more than we are. It is heightened, grand, an act of effrontery. It is a challenge to the confines of the spirit. It is a challenge to the comfortable pleasures of everyday life…” —J.Winterson

Gold

Art at the top of this post, Liu Bolin 刘勃麟 – Photography of China.stolen from Louvain95 without a “By your leave!’ and with enormous appreciation and thanks…Once

“The Isotope Remains”

“The Isotope Remains”

The isotope remains—the poet, the element,
The precious gem—so reckoned in the raw,
So endemic to the lottery, the accidental draw
From which a this or that satisfaction in sentiment
Suggests addiction, defies abuse, or finds his way to hearts
And minds that think on distant destinations
As tools and vehicles that defy both procrastination
And rush delivery. The seer’s chants divorced from scenes, his arts
Will flourish with little pause to where the artist ground
His pigments or the siren purchases his precious stones.
Balanced even so, the unknown crews who violate borders all alone
To rape, to maim and pillage those whose labours’ fruits are found
Unguarded in the novice from inspiration leaches produce for philistines,
thieves of raw materials whether in the first or second person spaced;
No, the poet needs no acclamation, nor is the diamond’s progenitor effaced.

“From Chaos”

“From Chaos”

From chaos comes ordre; it’s a promise
Not a threat, and see to it that you heed
A willing radiance, an acquiescence, the need
For civility in the journey from initial surprise
To final recognition, from knowledge in the eyes
And from the illumined page while both are lost in wanderlust and steal
Away to what for all the world seems
Neither here nor there. Umbrage seeds both choice and compromise
As winter’s cold surrounds the heart’s dissatisfaction,
colder still than death
Itself and not at all to anyone’s liking. Where do joys of spring
Lead but to sorrows in the coming fall and from that fall, the season’s
Proceeds, naked trunks and brittle branches, reason
Feeding hollow hopes and simple traffic in dreams? What’s left,
My friend, but bones of separation
in the present and reunion in eternity?