THE THERAPIST PRACTICES HER ART
Dorsey paints with people
dips into their hearts
where all colors
have merged
to mud
***
Gently
lays them out
ultraviolet to infrared
spaces between clearly seen
and hands them back the brush
Tag Archives: Art
SALVADOR DALI AS ROCK STAR
SALVADOR DALI AS ROCK STAR
Fails because of melting guitar
FOR IUDITA
FOR IUDITA
(a child of the survivors)
Artists without hands
hold the brush with their feet
Without hands or feet
hold the brush in their teeth
As for me and my friend
all that remains is the navel
And small circles
in the center of
the canvas
CHARTRES CATHEDRAL MAY 9, 2001
CHARTRES CATHEDRAL MAY 9, 2001
Standing at last
in medieval thought made visible
one hundred and seventy three of the most
beautiful stained glass windows in the world
ten thousand figures in glass and stone
Feeling the light and form form feelings
Dorsey and I drift apart
pulled for a moment by different magnets
I look up I have no words
I beckon her over she crosses the rough stone
I kiss her gently hold her a moment and
point to the small center window
high in the west side of the south wing
Where light breaking through cloud
throws fractured beams
through centuried dust
in an exact way and at an exact angle
that it has never slanted before
and will never slant again
We wander in awe
together and apart
light candles, marvel at the art
Famous labyrinth where penitents
crawled three football fields on their knees
Without knowing it had once been there
I miss the Minotaur in the middle
As evening falls I sit on a stone step
by the central altar
watching
for a long time the sun as it sinks
rising in the West Rose Window
From the center
each ring moving outward
moves towards me in explosion 3D
Again I have no words
The words are
From the unquestionable hand
of the undeniable God
a universe flung forth
in crystal cacophony
and order
FRANK HALS MUSEUM
FRANK HALS MUSEUM
The pictures, the building
the furniture, the tapestries
the fireplaces, dishes and crocks
we walk into the sixteenth century
Our landlord at Camperduin
Dorsey reminds me at checkout
could put on the ruffled collar
and fit right in with the guildsmen
KAROLINA
KAROLINA
Artist Laureate of Mykanos
her adopted town floats above the canvas
Windmills dance on the hills
church domes and white houses
rebound light across the narrow lanes
Ships bob on the bluest water
watched by pink pelican and faithful dog
In her pictures, handsome Greek men
work the boats and bars
Forty years from Boston town
she knows too much of these men
but the island nights get cold
Her art raised their two children
it cost a lot
But to marry one of these
patriarchetypical sons of pirates
would have cost more soul
than this artist or her art would pay
COUNTERPOINT
COUNTERPOINT
If you’re going to grow old anyway
Consider doing it as an artist or a poet
Waxing powers may well meet the waning
Tides coming in meeting waves going out
Coals cooling as the iron tempers
A Poem Before Holland
A POEM BEFORE HOLLAND
I travel to Holland
on wings of a childhood story
silver skates and finger in a dike
To lands wrestled from an angry sea
a sea that dearly wants them back
Unceasing vigilance to keep the prize
a dark line drawn across their eyes
I see windmills chop the salt wet air
Art and flowers leaping up in faith
behind thin walls
Back to the little boy and the dike again
legal drugs and red lights in the rain
These are a fair and sturdy people
I like them now, and I like how
In a land where children must
so often act as men
They do not pass acts that treat
their men as children
THE PIETA
THE PIETA
Michelangelo
polished the Pieta, polished the Pieta
polished the Pieta
Tired past all tired
polished the Pieta, polished the Pieta
polished the Pieta
Polishing her breast
he fell into a sleep, fell into a sleep in the
arms of the Pieta
When the polishing was done Michelangelo
stood back
The Mother was alive, the Mother had an
Aura and the Mother was alive
And yet the Son, the Son lay dead, the Son
lay dead there in her arms
In the mind of Michelangelo a thought began
to grow
Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy
yet I know
I must take the red black blood, I must take
the red black blood
From his side of cold white marble
I must take the blood within me, I must take
the blood within me, I must take the blood of
death, I must take the blood of death to the
center of myself
Unworthy, unworthy, yet unworthy
in my prayer
I must change the blood that’s there
In the mind of Michelangelo, in the mind of
Michelangelo, in the midst of Michelangelo
the red black blood was changed to light
unworthy, unworthy, unworthy
Michelangelo
the red black blood was changed to light
Then the mind of Michelangelo
saw the light return to marble through the
marble hole in side
Saw the Aura of the Mother
saw the energy of Mary
Saw the energy of Mary through her arms
into her Son
Saw the Christ no more of death, saw the
Christ to be reborn
When Michelangelo lay dying
When Michelangelo lay dying and his
friends were gathered round
They saw him tired past all tired on a cot
within his home
When Michelangelo lay dying
When Michelangelo lay dying, he saw the
statue and the stone
Saw the polishing was done
And fell into a sleep
In the arms of the Mother, in the arms
of the Mother
Of the Mother of the Son.
ONE ROOM SCHOOL
ONE ROOM SCHOOL
There were seven students and eight grades
With the inkwells covered to save the braids
The first day of school
the boys all rushed through the door
to fight for their seats
with their father’s initials carved thirty years before
At recess there were garter snakes, and gophers, and mice
which girls who were being chased, and teachers
who had just opened desk drawers didn’t think
were so nice.
At recess you could get on the big teeter totter
on the North side. If you could get high enough,
long enough, you could get a bobbing glimpse of
one of the big boys, hand outstretched for the
well deserved strap.
In winter the pot bellied stove was set up in the
back center of the room. How warm you were
depended on how close you were to the back. The
teacher didn’t always teach from the front of the
class
There was a big tin shield five feet high around
the stove to keep us from burning ourselves
although it got hot enough itself to do a pretty
good job
Any lapse in supervision added to its décor as
we melted our wax crayons into modern art on
its silver sides
It was always great to hear the lessons
meant for other ears than these
and to sting the older kids in spelling bees
In those days outdoor toilets were cricket
and so was the game we played
with firewood for posts
and baseball bats
for bats.