When I was very young, I didn’t see this. I didn’t see the heroism of color, or the way we make colors ourselves, in our eyes, in our mind’s eye, or the bravery of Nature’s way, or its tremendous courage in painting as it does.
Yes, Nature paints, and that’s not just a Romantic notion. It’s not some pseudo-poetic way of describing the ineffable. It just paints. Nothing comes close to the skill set of Nature in regard to — well, everything, really. Especially shadows, colors, light, polarities of darkness and light. And nothing can reach its sublime power in making opposites cohere, mesh, harmonize, complement. . . . Read more. “Colors are Heroic.”
It’s almost inevitable that the conversation continues. About Art. About the way we humans structure things, because our brains were built that way. About the way we choose to structure poems, plays, novels and such. The rocks we use to get to something else. The fire inside that rock. The spirit of stone the best sculptors find and exploit. It was there all along, they say. And the best don’t just say that, they feel it with every fiber of their Being in the World.
Mixed feelings. Images clash. I don’t always or sometimes or never believe in phases, set eras, concrete life-steps that group themselves in any rational order. I don’t think we pass through these things on our way to wherever we find ourselves. It’s random. And this belief I feel at times, no times, as if it were always and never, is something that clashes with my art, what I think and feel about art, how it must happen and be.
Order. Order the chaos. Organize the disparate, random elements of our lives and our worlds in such a way that they, for a moment at least, make a certain kind of sense or anti-sense. . . . Read more. “Stages Along the Way”
The poem I sent into the aether yesterday,Probably the Last Dawn Poem, was an old one. It was already a slightly belated look homeward (angel) to a time of some social and romantic turmoil, when my life was at one of its all too frequent “crossroads.” I had written a series of poems ab0ut a young woman with the perfect name for all of this, whom I had fallen for, hard, but who was still entangled with someone else in our little, mostly work-based social circle at the time — and I had come to the conclusion that it was all for naught. I don’t think she ever knew she was my Beatrice for a few months or so, though she must have sensed some edge, some silent pleading in my eyes, my gait, my inconsistent confidence. . . . Read more. “Dwell Here: Nostalgia’s Graveyard Seductions”
Did I bring them closer Together in this soap opera chain- Smoking pseudo-wooden-fern-bar Port-in-the-storm?
Did I care once about her And her high looks soft Threat of a voice Long drink of eyes waiting For me?
It’s strange no it isn’t Now I’m old and they’re young And even though I must be above putting things In nice boxes I have to start doubting my level of Reason And my need to find my age Wherever it may have gone
They say that no one is Over Thirty without at least One or more of the following . . .
— But let’s not mourn for dead things material issues Bound to upset and suffocate us the social Phenomena are not worth a lousy poem
If she and I had met first if It had been on the strand In the moonlight Headphones playing Mozart quadraphonically I take her phones off she Takes mine off and the night Follows the music Played more beautifully deeply Waves as melody omen future ground and rhythm The sea pressing against us pressing our bodies against . . . . Read more. “Nostalgia for Nostalgia”