Gemini.

Raoul Dufy

2012-02-08T07:28:00.001-08:00

Raoul Dufy

Artiststhere are, who mention “low”,

To love youdear: know what is meant;

What can wesay, it just won’t go?

But foundthe tension heaven-sent.

Yet not ascritics kindly said

Nor of theartist’s notes on art,

I mind notof the life you led

Perhaps itmay be in your heart.

You knowyou know you’re one of us,

A personnageinvolved in life,

Stuck onthe blasted omnibus,

The slowone: rattle, barge and strife.

Not manyfear the lack of cure

See tenderpressure good as might,

Yet love itis, that we for sure,

Wouldrender tones of colour-light.

Somethingof mass given in glaze

And starkthe regency of sun.

Briefmoment of a passing gaze

Where linesdo bleed and colours run.

Nothing todo that could be fain

And allthat were, all gone away.

A time whenpeace and joy did reign,

Quite newin Nice, the angel bay.

Rememberedthere the lack of link,

Or maybebetter, lost the lie;

It’s baby’seyes that look and blink:

The wonderof it, you and I.

Today it’sfaster, many, much:

AlthoughI’m fit I don’t think great

That diceare cast from grudging clutch

And chewyfudge is not-to-wait.

New Poem

2012-01-10T06:04:00.000-08:00

We Lived in Sin

Although they say that less is more,
I cannot vouch that I would smile
At what you said you thought you saw,
But keep me here a little while.

Perverted lessons, tainted loves,
Bewitch with esoteric style.
Spent ammo missed the whirling doves,
That rested, just a little while.

To some it seems a contretemps
That life is not a single file;
Not every child can say “Maman”
For little girls a little while.

A smug logician curtly notes
Successes notched about a dial;
Was it Beethoven damned the notes
That kept her there a little while.

So some might say we lived in sin,
Still others that we had a style;
I’ll have them know the jokes were in
That made us stay a little while.

Now know you all such rank faiblesse
Which youth and humour only rile.
I heard them say “God Bless” - God bless,
And come back in a little while.

Art about love.

2011-12-13T05:39:00.000-08:00

Bespoke

Bien qu'une tristesse
Dont il a fallu faire face
Quand il s'agit des pricesses
On a toujours su faire grace.

(Translation: Although a sadness/We had to face up to/ When it comes to princesses/ We always knew how to forgive).

Have I grown so much older?
Too old to attempt this role,
Since I have seen you last
It all seems a little bit colder,
I fear to show them my soul
Nostalgic for the past.

I suppose it's time that I wrote
Though this may never arrive,
I know that song by rote:
Melancholia will always sell
If you don't let it thrive
And if you can do it well.

What hasn't been a hit?
Nothing, I say, let them stare.
Sure, we all have our faults:
A gentleman can use wit,
If a lady smelling-salts,
And naked isn't bare.

Despite what is said of Charlie
(It may be true, I suppose)
I'm a lover of women and girls;
I also like to parlez
And you know Christ only knows
How deeply I fell for your curls.

Picasso's arabesques
Whores of Degas, and Matisse
Both love and law, your desk,
Since we shared a single-room,
Remains sacred, tes cuisses,*
The work of an artisan loom.

If there was something to learn
(Precious are those who can teach)
I could have owned-up to my own.
We all get upset in our turn
And passion that cannot quite reach
Can lack the dryness of bone.

Time has the upper-hand
Though we may up the bid
What luck that so much is free,
How little we understand.
Though I'm glad I can never be rid
Of the sketch that was you and me.

* Tes cuisses: Your thighs.

Sister Wendy Beckett, who some of you may have heard of, is very interesting on the history of painting. About Picasso she compares the softness of his portraits of Marie-Therese, an earlier lover, with the fractured harshness and evident cruelty of his "crying women": portraits of a later lover, the intellectual Dora Maar. She claims, rightly I would say, that this intimicy, joy and softness is not replicated in portraints of later lovers. A shame?

Those who are familiar with my work will perhaps understand that I treat the subject of sensuality most often counterpointed against the loss of sensuality. This is a treatment that works quite well, and has value in the effects that it can produce. It is also something that is true for most of us. For a single guy, this can be used to describe brief flirtations, relationships impossible to embark upon, however tantalising in our imagination, and so forth. Again, all true and possible.

I can approach the theme directly: my translations (see post Translating Emotions) from Old French are more direct invocations of sensuality, but of course these are originally the work of another author. For now, I am content with the work I have done, and I have to hope that the sensuality that does come across is taken to be sincere, which it is, and that the reader, just as the artist's viewer must, takes a pleasure in the work.

Here are some examples of the contrast theme, from Dynamics of Loud.

In November

We shared a bed, it was late in November
The time after what had gone before,
When you looked through my window in your suede winter coat
And carried your cleverness around in files;

That time seems connected to now:
Lying in our shared bed,
Our different lives, touching still
Picking apart silently at the seams.

Was it after all that love?
More a kind of smug delight
To havbe found oneself the right side of night

Behind dumb doors, a seducer.
Hoping to have found diversion
In the tart luxury of grapes and perfume:

Two adults at the far corners of a room
Smoking intermittently and talking of omens.
So today I have nothing more to report

Of that ticker-parade of former times,
And this summer's haze of unwritten lines
In unaffected hindsight seems

Beyond anticipation of retort,
That would break a silence sweetly, to have been
The uncomfortable cuddle of disparate dreams
The criss-crossing of restive limbs.

The Rain Cloud

The sky is oplaescent, blocked and blue,
The wind carries the twigs and seeds of our care
I look out the window to see whn the rain will come.

The clouds hold water, heavy like a sponge,
The washing shifts indolently from here to there,
And sees nothing so remarkable in you.

Remains itself, quite ordinary, the song sung
One of the profaner variety, nothing new;
The quiet tea-time ascent of the stair,

Mundane emotions washed and left to air
In the space between downpours, and the sun,
Burning in the near and early blue

Will draw unconcerned worshippers to a fair -
The differences are far-between and few,
Quite as much might be said of anyone,

And life goes on, here, as everywhere,
So why this feeling when I think of you,
When all that seemed the truth is said and done,
Of being alone, quite wanton, blocked and blue.

.

More Poems from Footsteps collection.

2011-11-01T05:45:00.000-07:00

The Tough Mothers Who Adore Us

My heart! My wish came back "return to sender",
Things were otherwise that I had before seen,
In truth, reluctant as I am, and loath to end a
Good thing: that I should say "Where have you been?"
And draw in ink the body, the tender
Mother's touch, the electric sun shines full keen
And lucent. I was never a spender.
Should one say so? I do say what I mean
And mean what I say, nor lift one iota,
One hair from the parting of my sister.
Read the epilogue, coda, take time to preen
And primp, to shade, to colour, read nota
Bene - I read them well. If I missed a
Trick in this old world, if I failed to queen

A queening pawn, skipped the breath that blew out
The flickering candle, could I increase the ration
At once, see mud and water more than grout
And quaint bonhomie more than just a fashion;
Slow the motion of a step, and stop the doubt,
All that's the case, coo and calm every single passion;
Loud via tannoy, give the intructions, but not shout -
Just calmly give directions to the whole cash 'n'
Carry, facts and facsimile - yet didn't
I finger the flesh and the anomaly,
Wasn't I cheating? In my turn I could tout
My way into a person, quite easily, but doesn't
A gaze go further than mere homily,
A life unto the corners of your pout?

But no further. Our small babies do babble,
Nothing rhymes with "mother", what about "mum"?
Fatigued mum of the whole washed and unwashed rabble,
Counting crumbs and pennies, of whom the tum
We derive, have popped hence, gauche kids, to scrabble
Pocking through the wet sand as far as scum
Overlapping, to bid toes and shale dabble.
Consider awhile the whole rummaging scrum:
The wind, the water, sleek bird on the wing,
The usurping sand, gestural. Here the hunter
Treading dactylic, by intervals to come
Closer, having seen you from a mile, king
Of the chip-shop, the lay-expert, the punter,
The apple of someone's eye, the peach, the plum.

Silently witness is born to a new day.
Truths spoken and broken in voices that stutter.
Songs in September mean playtime in May,
Or at least perhaps. Down in the gutter,
There is a home, here there is a path away.
I know those girls, though they say that butter
Wouldn't melt, it would, some don't mean what they say
Or say what they mean. Whisper or mutter
As all do and must, a promise must appeal.
It must glisten, listened to, just be some small thing.
Some token, some icon before which to pray
Or, in the absence of sight, that we may feel,
Remember to remember, smile and sing:
When you speak sometimes you mean what you say.

Dumb, helpless, baby gums her plastic toy.
The toy beeps a well-known Mozart chorus.
A sandwich in the lunchbox of a boy
Goes stale, the box is shut; still, it's porous
To air, where regents bump up to the hoi-polloi.
Caught in the schedule of a thesaurus
The differences between "sincere" and "coy",
Between where I'm going and where I once stood,
Are momentary answers to a taxing riddle
(Such as they are, to the extent they reassure us)
And suffice. Let stand then all that is good,
Bid calm ambience for our timely middle:
Bellies of the tough mothers who adore us.

Behind the Curtains

A slick of kohl under each eye,
For the third or fourth time, I think;
The note handwritten: "Come and drink",
Even though you couldn't know why;

You breathe, I breathe, and we both blink,
Promises are broken, untruths
Laid bare, the nakedness of youth:
Eighteen year-olds can tip the wink

And often do. Crammed in the booth,
Your hair, close to, tint candy-floss,
That time I felt no need for gloss,
Extemporization or ruth,

No more need to dwell on the loss,
To go over the same worn issues -
The slow night-mile walked in his shoes,
Clinging to the path like dark moss -

The salt tears and the white tissues,
Even though you couldn't know why;
The same hungry look in your eye,
To take your first steps in his shoes.

Latest art-work.

2011-04-28T06:13:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

Recently I have been doing some visual work. The first four are copies from photgraphs by Brassai. I hope you enjoy them.

Au Bar. '11 (after Brassai)

Bal at Magic City (after Brassai) '11

Bal de la Montagne (after Brassai) '11

Foire de Neu-Neu (after Brassai) '11

Brothers '11

Repas/ Meal '11

Sugar Snap '11

The Pond in the Rain. '11

The Pond. '11

Burning Pond. '11

The hour of bats. '11

Reflexivity. '11

The Dominion of the arachnids. '11

The Abstracness. '11

Capabiity Brown vs. Essex County Council. '11

95 Winnock Road. '11

34a, Cheveling Road. '11

Female figure '11

Mask '11

Twins '11

Spirit Companion '11

Cats '11

6 poems from "Footsteps": my second collection.

2011-02-15T05:25:00.000-08:00

Some recent poems. The form for the following four is a “Ghazzal”. A short, Arabic form, quite nice.

As it were

I had to take your gift back to the shop today.
The spit and choler that we agreed to swap today,

Has been withheld, as a dark sky will threaten rain,
And when the rain came I thought it wouldn’t stop today.

Now the lorries move in slow pulses; city’s blood.
The wild listens, post-flood. Speaking to a cop today;

He had forms to fill. An agenda: that's enough,
While shy poets will lose the thread in loud pop today.

The Lyre

It’s been said: “I never want to be bad again”.
Since the world’s a crazy place, we’re going mad again,

Though the peep of the alarm clock and the bells sing.
Lucky folk wish never to be so sad again;

Sun streaks through cloud, this sound of blues pentatonic -
Just recently I’m talking to my dad again.

I kill, you kill, we kill: normal conjugation.
An old man dozes, dreams of being a lad again.

Moment to Moment

Among a throng of voices I heard your voice: clear, quiet;
"The fact we're rarely given to is choice". Clear, quiet

And warm was the day. Elysian fields, far to us
Welcome children, and the old games of the boys: "Clear! Quiet!

The old man, the enemy approaches. "The length of the garden
I knew; the shallow fast moving water clear. "Quiet

Down!" - the bidding we never wished to hear: having said
Which, when can adulthood claim its thinking clear, quiet?

Showbiz

I had to queue so long again in the bank, bluff, Twink -
Took the bin out: stared into the blank, bluff twink.

Of course it was there, as a mirage moves at sea.
Staring so long I didn't know who to thank. Bluff, Twink!

I'm joking. The words do not escape me, this time.
Even so, we are reminded of our rank: bluff, twink,

The bored walk along the contemporary board walk.
A piece-work man cuts swathes in sequence: Lank, bluff, twink.

Better to Have Been Mistaken

Slow-going me, when you were born
I thought I had everything,
Despite the page where the book got torn
Trying to describe the state of things.

Who dropped the catch? One musn’t grumble.
Was it ever a different class,
As we stumbled, tripped and fumbled,
Into a passionate impasse?

Lay asleep by the calculus of a fruit-machine,
Where we learnt to forget our sympathies,
Denying what we never ought to have been
The day we withdrew our personalities.

Welcome is something that freedom teaches,
Lit by the same generic gloom
That slowly cuts your distinguishing features,
As gestures made between friends in a room

Are mystery except to those who guess right.
A case of being more of less
Correct - certainly or quite -
The point at which knowing cedes to a guess.

Better, perhaps, to have been mistaken.
Behind every patchy door, to see
In every holey tall story a lesson:
I would that it should seem so to me.

Elektra

Taxis breeze past silently, gas and diesel.
Would I, could I, tell you what counts as feasible?
Autumn brings the sycamore whirling, warm-breeze,
Cuddle me, please dear.

When you’re losing, laughing about it; funny -
Will not, cannot rip up this game, politely
Smiling: Nothing more than pretence, pretending;
Musical ending.

Bawling mind reminds me of prison’s gloaming,
Slop-out, shouting, exercise, always moaning,
Feels so far: Home, kindred, your arms around me,
Sprawling at night-time.

What’s so wrong? Start smiling. Give up your gurning
Grimace, that frown – buying you reprieve from burning;
That’s right! Burn witch, your magic spells won’t save you:
All that we gave you.

Six translations from Old French

2011-01-11T07:20:00.001-08:00

Hi all,

Although this set of translations is from medieval French, I think a great deal of relevance to ourselves today is preserved. What I love about medieval poetry is the tone. There is often an emphasis on distance and frustration - but this is all done in the medieval style. I think the following is quite exemplary in respect of what I mean.

This is a motet.

In a Leafy Wood

Alone I pass the leafy wood
Having no companion
And if I’ve lost my friend through outrage,
Alone I pass the leafy wood.
I’ll let her know by a word
That I’ll make amends.
Alone I pass the leafy wood,
Having no companion.

What I am trying to do is more to bring the Old French to life, by using modern references, or, better still, to sound some of the many harmonies that exist between such, on the face of it, disparate times. This poem is an example, as well as the short motet that follows it.

Who is the Jolly Bachelor?

Who is the jolly bachelor

Who was born of the sword
Nourished in the womb, Lord,
And rocked in the rusted Ford?
Raised on blood, crushed teeth, guts
Slept in the season of ruts
With his waiting face - a dragon
Leopard's eyes, smiling, a lion
Cogs of credit, fast like porn
Of his fist - a club, a growth
Smashing horse and horseman both.
A microscope to small things. X-Ray specs, without asking
Night-owls hearing without prayer.
Coat on the back of his chair
In this life: General versus
Curser, come nurse and nurse us.

In one bound striding the sea
There to see what he can see
Riding the underground carriage:
There is his sex, his marriage.
And when he comes to battle
Like wind makes the leaves rattle,
They flee so frightened they run.
He won't joust with anyone
Save feet at sixty degrees
Beats knight and horse both: to knees.
Often winning by sheer size,
Laugh nor smile, shell nor disguise
Can protect from this assault
His mighty chest is the vault
Over the nave where he lies
Cold stone closes cold-stone eyes;
He wants no other hors d'oeuvre
Than spear-points, broken, aux herbes,
Or bayonets in mustard
A waiting, hungry bastard;
Eat peppered body-armour
And drink the dust of summer
With the diesel of the tank
Chasing the wood at the bank,
Bear, Lion a rutting stag
Down to two legs - there's the blag,
And gives all without holding.

This man should have great standing
And maintain a cavalry;
Even though the heralds should cry
(Who were not found laid or hatched)
If they knew, they knew their match
And they would owe him tribute.

Robin

By a copse
I saw Robin
He was looking good,
Hiked up soft
Shoes, cut and style, the coat
Grey
And hoodie;
He wasn’t without his dog
Pipe
Knife
Nor his ringtone,
He had a flute and he played it
Mary jumps
When she hears it,
And beautiful Emily.
So time and again
The melody
The melody
In the field
Where every little girl
Has her lover in her arms.

Many poems from this period are by known authors, others are fragments or single poems whose authors remain anonymous to us today. Sharing in many of the typical qualities of the period, these two poems combine frankness with politesse, yearning with fulfillment or its promise. The voice is often somehow distant but near. Although betraying the tumult of passion, the execution is neat and precise. There are visual cues, however the voice is never lecturing. I have not kept the rhyme here. An Aube is a "dawn-poem".

A Wood Around.

Between me and my love
A wood around, by Bethune,
We went playing, Tuesday;
All night, by moonlight
Until day broke.
And the wood-pigeon sang,
Saying: "Lovers, leave now"
And she says, tenderly
"It's not yet day-time,
Slow and soft girl, love me still,
The wood-pigeon deceives".

So very close to me,
Not that I was scared;
She kissed me thrice -
I had more than one for her,
That was never a chore,
And we wanted, us two there,
That this night should count a hundred,
That it were never said
"It is not yet day
Slow and soft girl,
Love me still,
The wood-pigeon deceives".

Not a Fan of Mornings.

When I see the break of day coming
I can't hate it any more
Than I do, she's leaving -
My friend, that I seek out of love.
Now I hate nothing so much as the day,
Friend, that takes you from me.

I can't see you during the day,
For I doubt so the gaze -
And yes, tell you all, so you see:
They are agitating against us.
I despise nothing like the day,
Lover, that takes me from you.

When I am hidden in my bed,
And see, at my side
No love for my heart's care,
Yes, I moan to the lovers
"God I hate nothing like the day,
Friend, coming to take you from me".

Beautiful, soft friend: You're going.
Let God take your flesh,
For God I pray you don't forget:
I don't love anything more than you.
Now I hate nothing like the day,
Lover, that takes me from you.

Now take it all, you true lovers -
Go on singing in this way,
Despite the naysayers -
And that bad, jealous man,
I don't hate anything like the day
Love, that took me from you.

Where one tries to keep the rhyme in translation, the effect can be to put you even closer to the thinking of the original author: you are trying to solve some of the same problems that they did, albeit with a different language. This can help withe the process of "making it modern", which basically means saying what you feel the author meant, as he would express it today. This is the final translation for now.

Love Song

My friendly love and loyal lover,
Renders me piteous - lost in books
For at no time in my life, ever
Can I forget her or her good-looks
So if love doesn't want to give up,
Making of every bulldog a pup;
Every bitch - then leaves in the tea cup
Read no better, though shook or un-shook.

It was the desperation that shook
Me: never to see my loyal lover -
Her clear eyes and soft face, the long look
For such a smile - too long; and whether
She would call or write. I sucked it up;
Cannot drain to the dregs this bitter cup,
Waiting for the day she might pop up
And I'll have her warmth and succour.

So there's me looking like a sucker
In the hands of love - brought nose to the book
Sharply and rudely, by the greater Power,
Standing deprived of all you took.
The bottle on the table: ketchup.
I didn't know we ever broke up
And it's been so hard, of late, to get up
Although I'm happy, have found some luck.

Don't even think that I'm trying my luck
There's one thing I'm not, that's a scoffer.
I've no advantage, I won't check the book,
I know you gave me your best offer,
And the blood on my brow is ketchup
From the fridge. The children have broke up
Again, we did our best to get up
And this will all soon enough be over.

And all that, yes it's turning over
And over in my head, the words are stuck
In my throat - are they jammed forever?
Not that I ever gave any truck
To romances. We kiss and make up.
The wound is there - landscape or close-up.
It would be better if I shut-up
Than to say something to cause a ruck.

I don't want to see your forehead ruck -
I love you: I suppose that's forever.
Like a driver, cosy in his truck
Your photo brings me comfort, lover.
I call her name, you apply your make-up,
Holding the mirror to get close up
I said too much - now I shall shut up,
I know no more. I don't know any other.

A Crisis of Conscience

2010-09-20T07:45:00.001-07:00

I have just finished reading “A Crisis of Brilliance” by David Boyd-Hancock, a biography of five artists before, during and after the Great War. I enjoyed it very much, and I found the story of these very different, yet interwoven, lives quite compelling. I have been reading a great deal about artists and their work recently, something which I cannot explain solely by the fact that I have recently discovered that some of my closest school friends, closest friends, now lead successful artistic careers.

There are many ways to engage with an artist or writer – living or dead – today more so than ever. It would have been a privilege and a joy, from an artistic point of view, to have lived when, for example, Goethe was alive. One could dream of speaking with the great man, as indeed, one does about any number of artistic “heroes”. Top of my wish list right now would probably be Rabelais. Sometimes it is nice to be near in terms of dates. I can directly understand what W.H. Auden means when he talks about the detractions of the late 20th century. Yet although I can understand him writing about the first half, I have to imagine much.

Yet of course (and despite the fact that somehow artists seemed in former times to make up for the lack of communications technology by being extraordinarily mobile –they all seem have met each other) it would have been a dream for most people, to actually see Goethe. A question then, of imagination. Today we have the internet, and with the development of sharing-tools, we can, at the click of a button, choose to see one or other of our favourite (usually living) artists, speaking about their work and interests, or even simply relaxing. I had read about Jean-Michel Basquiat and have seen his pictures in reproduction, but I hadn’t heard his voice, not seen him a vif, as it were, until recently. It is a privilege quite peculiar to our age, I think. I can say the same for Maggi Hambling, Gilbert and George, Tracy Emin, and I have seen some of the extant film of W.H. Auden.

Why all this reading and thinking about visual artists? Strange for a writer, to have such an addiction. Shouldn’t I be more interested in writers, and poets of the past? Well of course that is not say that one hasn’t read one’s Pope. But nonetheless, I seem to have a hunger for the visual arts at the moment which cannot, I think, be ascribed simply to the wish to emulate my friends, in their success or otherwise. Yet it is a strange and difficult question for an artist to ask themselves: “Am I in the right discipline?” It may not be unusual for an individual artist to have talents in other fields, or indeed for skills learnt in one domain to be applicable in another, but what is perhaps unusual is for an artist, having achieved a degree of success in a certain discipline, having moreover, dedicated himself wholly to it, to then reconsider.

It is not really the place of an artist to talk about how such and such is impossible to describe. Yet it remains the case that there are things in life that elude sentient, and by this I mean meaningful, description. Loss and love are two that spring immediately to mind. There is a danger then, of spending too much time and energy attempting the impossible – the analogous position in science would be that of a keen inventor having a drawer-full of plans for a unit to land on the sun. Of course, there are also areas of life that words cannot describe because they are unsuited to perform this task. A lot of mathematics is accompanied by words, but a mathematical equation, considered in and of its self, seems to me quite silent. Chess theorists argue that chess skills are a function of the linguistic faculties. Certainly a good player must have a conversation with himself, if he is to succeed in improving the position of his pieces, or in broaching the opponent’s defences. Yet the spatio-temporal movement of the pieces seems to me again, entirely silent, indeed mathematical in character. If you watch a Grandmaster play through a game, their discourse is often frequently punctuated by the silent shuffling of pieces, or rather; the silence of the pieces is often punctuated by a sporadic discourse.

Which brings me to the subject of visual art. Auden claims, time and again, that painting is a passive discipline. Writing he sees as active. Thus the painter is beholden to what he sees (or what it is he would like to express) whereas a poet can in some sense engage actively. I’m not sure about this line of thought, although one does worry about contradicting Wystan. Could it not simply be that the “language” of visual arts is a silent one, like that of mathematics or chess? As a child I had a talent for drawing, a talent that I still possess. My other favourite pastime was Lego, which is, of course, a sculptural form. Could it really be that I have a vocation as visual artist? In fact, the disciplines of poetry and visual art so often walk hand-in-hand, which is another basis of my objection to Wystan’s line of thought. Pictures are usually hung with a short verbal description of methods, subject matter etc. and this aids us in our comprehension and enjoyment of the picture. The artist may not have intended this, but can we say for sure that it was not her intent? Could it not be that art has “roots” as it were, in out language of words, just as mathematics and chess do, but that indeed, at some point (as is the case with maths and chess) the silence takes over and comes into its own.

Perhaps I have something to say that can only be expressed visually. I don’t think that Wystan would disagree, in fact, with what I am saying about visual art as a language. But need it necessarily be a passive one? Wystan would, I feel, say "passive voice", which is a subtle difference. Interestingly at least two artists I can name apply words directly to the visual field. These are Tracy Emin and Jean-Michel Basquiat. There is a poetic feel to their use of words both, working with the image to evoke what it is that the artist is dealing with or driving at. Jean-Michel Basquiat, working outside the strictures of metre and rhyme, nevertheless arrives at a poetic logic brought about by the confines of pictorial space. Phrases such as “THE WHOLE LIVERY LINE BOW LIKE THIS WITH THE BIG MONEY CRUSHED INTO THESE FEET”, sprayed onto walls in Basquiat’s graffiti days, show a remarkable talent for condensing meaning. These are later replaced (due to the confines of canvas where space is ineluctably reduced) by shorter phrases, single words often, whose meaning is beautifully condensed and wonderfully realised. “ORIGIN OF COTTON” and “GOLD WOOD” are examples that spring to mind. For much the same reasons many of the phrases Tracy Emin uses in her visual art are poetically concise, “You ruined everything”, “Leave him Trace”. Emin’s words are more often locutions – phrases taken from everyday discourse - but appearing weirdly out of context, devoid of surround. And here do we not supply much of the imagery ourselves? We know what is going on, and this is perhaps part of the meaning. Emin says that "I think when poetry is very good, when you read the words, you imagine what you're seeing, you're given a sense of vision by the words. When visual art is very good you're given a sense of poetry." This is part of what I am driving at. Perhaps there is room for poetry in visual art, and vice-versa.

Does it matter a great deal to think about such things? Wouldn’t it be more to the point to buy some colours, a canvas, and paint? I feel Maggi, Tracy and Jean-Michel urging me: “Yes!”

Paris a travers mes yeux: Paris in my eyes.

2010-07-05T08:23:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

Here is a poem in both and French and English inspired by my recent Paris visit. Hope you like it.

Paris c'est le chair: Paris is flesh
Renoir, Degas.
Je te prendrai doucement et sans contrainte

De quoi as-tu peur, allons, n'aie nulle crainte,
Je t'emprie ne soit pas farouche,
Quand me vient l'eau a la bouche.

I'll be gentle with you,
Why are you frightened? Come on, don't be scared.
I don't think you should be alarmed
When my mouth waters.

Emmanuel n'a pas appris a aimer dans les manuels - Serge Gainsbourg
Emmanuel didn't learn how to love from a book.

Paris c'est la joie de vivre: Paris is fun
Modigliani, Rousseau.

"Le ciel bleue sur nous peut s'effondrer,
Et la terre peut bien s'écrouler
Peut m'importe, si tu m'aime
Je me fous du monde entier." - Edith Piaf

The blue sky can fall in on us,
The earth can slide away,
Who cares? If you love me
The whole world can wait.

"Ne vous deplaise, en dansant la javanaise." - Serge Gainsbourg
Don't be a bore when you're dancing the Javanese.

Paris c'est un lenteur de l'oeil: Paris is a slowness of the eye.
Monet, Cezanne.

No painter has any single style as such, but they do have a face.

Paris c'est la logique des heiroglyphs: Paris is the logic of heiroglyphs.
Klee.
When you are in your own country, it is easy to feel at home. But one is still a guest even at home. Similarly, when you are in a foreign country, it is easy to feel like a guest, but it must be true to say that one is always at home among friends

Je te raconterai des mots insensés, que tu comprendra - Jacques Brel

I will speak words beyond sense to you, so you will understand.

Paris c'est la liberté: Paris is freedom.
Dufy.
It's a freedom of the eye.

Impressions, impressions... yes. But what impression are you making?

Paris c'est le miroir: Paris is a mirror.
Manet.
"Madame promène son accent Russe avec aisance." - Jacques Brel
Madame confidently shows off her Russian accent.

"Ton regard familier au fond de mon miroir" - Jacques Brel
Your familiar face smiling back from the mirror.

Paris c'est la tendresse: Paris is tenderness.
Van Dongen.
A quoi ca sert l'amour, on raconte toujours
Des histoires insensés, a quoi ca sert d'aimer? - Edith Piaf
What use is love? We always talk about it. But what use is it?

Moi je t'offirirai des perles de pluie

Venues de paye ou il ne pleut pas
Je creuserai la terre jusqu'apres ma mort
Pour couvrir ton corps, d'or et de lumière.
Je ferai un domain ou l'amour sera roi
Ou l'amour sera loi, et tu sera reine. - Jacques Brel

I will offer you raindrops, from the land where it never rains,
I will break open the earth, until after my death,
To cover your body with gold and light.
I will make a domain where love will be king,
Where love will be law, and you will be queen.

Paris c'est des formes, des lignes, des règles. Paris is form, line and rules.
Picasso, Soutine.Logic isn't magic, of course. But that does not mean that it must operate under such constraints as we would like, perhaps to attribute to logic in opposition to magic. These so-called constraints may simply be our prejudices.

Paris c'est la couleur: Paris is colour.
Matisse.
"La vie ne vaut d'être vecue sans amour." - Serge Gainsbourg
Life isn't worth the living without love

Paris c'est la fraternité: Paris is brotherhood.
Les Nabis, surtout Bonnard et Vuillard.
Puisque demain l'on se marie, apprenons la même chanson. - Jacques Brel.
Since tomorrow we're getting married, let's learn to sing the same song.

Paris c'est la lumiere: Paris is light.
Chagall
It's true to say that a mastery of language implies a certain degree of precision. But what art shows us is also the arbitrary. It shows us that it is sometimes important to be disinterested, that it is important to sometimes to have fun.

Selections from "Dynamics of Loud" collection

2010-06-15T06:51:00.000-07:00

Here are poems from Dynamics of Loud. I plan to upload the whole collection in the near future.

In November

We shared a bed, it was late in November
The time after what had gone before,
When you looked through my window in your suede winter coat
And carried your cleverness around in files;

That time seems connected to now:
Lying in our shared bed,
Our different lives, touching still
Picking apart silently at the seams.

Was it after all that love?
More a kind of smug delight
To havbe found oneself the right side of night

Behind dumb doors, a seducer.
Hoping to have found diversion
In the tart luxury of grapes and perfume:

Two adults at the far corners of a room
Smoking intermittently and talking of omens.
So today I have nothing more to report

Of that ticker-parade of former times,
And this summer's haze of unwritten lines
In unaffected hindsight seems

Beyond anticipation of retort,
That would break a silence sweetly, to have been
The uncomfortable cuddle of disparate dreams
The criss-crossing of restive limbs.

The Rain Cloud

The sky is oplaescent, blocked and blue,
The wind carries the twigs and seeds of our care
I look out the window to see whn the rain will come.

The clouds hold water, heavy like a sponge,
The washing shifts indolently from here to there,
And sees nothing so remarkable in you.

Remains itself, quite ordinary, the song sung
One of the profaner variety, nothing new;
The quiet tea-time ascent of the stair,

Mundane emotions washed and left to air
In the space between downpours, and the sun,
Burning in the near and early blue

Will draw unconcerned worshippers to a fair -
The differences are far-between and few,
Quite as much might be said of anyone,

And life goes on, here, as everywhere,
So why this feeling when I think of you,
When all that seemed the truth is said and done,
Of being alone, quite wanton, blocked and blue.

The High School

We’ve all been to high-school
Folks like you and me
But this is the story of the high-school
That floated out to sea.

On the day of the cataclasis
The youth still in the yard -
Between Crito and Anabasis
And the calculus stone-hard,

Seemed as charcoal markings
Upon a canvas, white
And the silence of those children
On a day that seemed as night.

In the sky the seagulls
Turning overhead:
The ground on which they stood
Hanging from a thread.

So the sea had undermined
To a depth of sixty feet
The cliffs, propped up with candy,
Which is very nice to eat.
Such things are beyond the concern
Of folks like you and I:
Over the lawn supernaturally
Roved the point of the principal’s eye.

Now this day the same as always
Out to keep the rule
Past the science block
And the swimming pool

A slightly dishevelled teacher
Having gained the old oak tree
Thought to himself, quite wanton,
“We’re five miles out to sea”.

This for the lack of motors
Ranged neatly in a line
And where the car-park used to be
A large expanse of brine.
Returning to relate the facts -
No obligation to convince -
Lunch had been rearranged,
There was fish instead of mince.

In athletics the four-hundred metres
Was rather a case of “farewell”,
Someone said “May I be excused”,
Jumped into the swell,

And someone’s yoghurt-pot robot
Had contrived a route of escape
Which wasn’t part of the syllabus,
Rather a ludicrous jape.

The school rose on the billows
Slid into the foam
The headmaster closed his eyes
And began like the wind, to moan.

And the children were smiling, singing
The children singing this song:
“You must learn the skipping game
And you must learn it long,

Lying in the low-cut grass
The girls as well as boys
I am the death of words, I am
The tolerance of noise,

They call me the glowing pulses, running
From your pelvis to your neck
So they lit me up with colour
Gave me value for effect,

I am the viral analogy
Your mistake has been seen
And I heard you calling me
The ghost in the machine.”

The teacher took his chalk from the board,
Pressed his glasses to his face,
And, in quite a serious way
Staring into space,

Said “Today the taxing question
Is not ‘Did I get enough?’
But, more or less expressly,
‘Where can I get off.”

There were those among that crew
Thought it quite the same as before,
But there were many others
Who were not quite so sure.

Perhaps that school may be still be adrift
Somewhere on the main,
Children squint at winking waves
That wink and wave again.

On the day of the cataclasis
The sky was canvas-white
And the strange, sad silence
Recalled the hush of night.

When the mothers came for their children
‘Twas a winter’s frost,
In the sky the seagulls calling
Mourning for the lost.

.