poemimage

Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary.

Month: January, 2022

Slowly but surely…like a turtle

Today:

Couple of days ago:

Today:

Today:

Couple of days ago:

Onward!

Posted by u/4K_Jay
2 years ago

Ceremonial (homage to Six Days on the Road)

The road less taken, pupil of the eye, salt storm

Tarkovsky’s sparrow, wheel of resonance & reconstitution

Derelict horizon, toothpick sculpture, Joseph Beuys’ hat

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

More pet rock, more Jojo Rabbit

More The Ramones, more amnesia in blue fish

More candle flame within fossil-bed

More typewriter in fog

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

More icicle tattoo, more Pointillism, more maze

More reclined on golden lion sipping absinthe

More Byzantium, more obsidian telephone

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

More grasshoppers in her wondrous hair

More snow sharp as thumbnail, more invisible typhoon

more evidence of blossom, more tree root-rotting

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

O’ robe covered in black tar, O’ shadow like a cloak

O’ she spoke in truth, O’ I died in truth

O’ ironing board made of Noah’s ark

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

O’ heartbeat long for Jupiter, O’ broken thermometer

O’ heel on Beatle boots, O’ whispering, O’ dirty dishes

O’ blood on envelope, O’ cat staying out all night

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

Ceremonial aspirin, ceremonial clock-radio, ceremonial feet on floor

Ceremonial Dharmachakra, ceremonial embroidery

Ceremonial right from wrong

Six days on the road and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight.

Image: Wheel of Sun temple of Konarak World Heritage monument: Orissa, India

Almost!

A bit more, a bit more, soon finished.

A 33′ X 5′ painting on Fabriano mixed-media paper, a soft yet substantial texture.

Inks, water-soluble graphite, gouache, watercolour, watercolour pencil.

Mostly materials used for smaller works and yet here we are.

Blues. Druidic blue. Pictish Blue.

It came to me – how to complete this work. Soon the final section.

In progress:

A medieval hedgehog decides my painting shall become an illuminated manuscript
The original plan was to use hundreds of sketches (such as the ink drawings above) but it didn’t work out that way.
Soon I will deal with the final 36.”
How quickly everything looks like the scene of an earthquake!
Many hours crawling on the floor since April, 2021.
In perpetuity chanting of the visual image
It shall be done
It shall be done

Heavy Paper, Deep Blacks, White Whites

Recent work I’d forgotten.

Heavy paper, deep blacks, white whites.

Came out more sepia-cream in the photographs.

Heavy watercolour paper.

India ink, white ink,

white gouache, black gouache.

Full-size works I folded then tore by hand.

Smaller now than a single newspaper page.

I don’t remember why.

Older phone camera can’t capture the

texture, depth & edge.

I like the mistaken sepia-cream.

Deep-sea psyche-diving during first lockdown.

Abstractions, realism, touch of symbolism,

the tactile.

Via disorientation:

Seeing as fins

fins as perception

perception as touch

touch as seeing.

Some daylight photos showing more detail:

GIF Experiments: 31 (Crack in the narrative)

Once I shattered my ankle. An ocean of cracks.

The shattered ankle followed two impossible years.

Everything started up again like a beginning.

Like some sort of symbolic ritual.

that’s how the light gets in.

A crack, a wound, a shiver, a doubt, recalibration.

Crack in the narrative.

In Neruda’s Ode to Broken Things: cups cracked by the cold.

Leonard Cohen: There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

Lennon-McCartney: I’m fixing a hole where the rain gets in… and stops my mind from wandering.

I knew a video editor who referred to ‘artifacts’ when discussing glitches.

Artifacts… of subversion… create… a new version.

Versions... of subversion… create… a new artifact.

Pop goes the weasel! Crack goes the narrative!

Pop Goes the Weasel

A penny for a spool of thread

A penny for a needle

That’s the way the money goes

Pop goes the weasel ~

Johnny’s got the whooping cough

Jenny’s got the measles

That’s the way the money goes

Pop goes the weasel ~

All around the cobbler’s bench

The monkey chased the weasel

The monkey thought twas all in fun

Pop goes the weasel ~

I’ve no time to wait or sigh

No time to wheedle

Only time to say goodbye

Pop goes the weasel ~

All around the chicken coop

Ran the little weasel

The monkey thought he had him when

Pop goes the weasel ~

Round and round the monkey ran

Till he began to wheedle

Come and catch me if you can

Pop goes the weasel ~

And then the cow jumped over the moon

The cat played the fiddle

They all began to sing the tune

Pop goes the weasel ~

No time to sing have I

No time to wheedle

Kiss me quick and then I’m off

Pop goes the weasel ~

The Innocent Colours: Innocent!

The colour yellow: Innocent! Colours are colours like nectar is nectar. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The nectar of obsidian messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

The colour red: Innocent! Colours are colours like obsidian is obsidian. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The obsidian of divination messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

The colour blue: Innocent! Colours are colours like divination is divination. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The divination of antlers messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

The colour purple: Innocent! Colours are colour like antlers are antlers. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The antlers of evaporation messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours..

The colour orange: Innocent! Colours are colours like evaporation is evaporation. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The evaporation of visions messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

The colour green: Innocent! Colours are colours like visions are visions. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The visions of breath messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

The primary colours: Innocent! Colours are colours like breath is breath. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The breath of birchbark messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours..

The secondary colours: Innocent! Colours are colours like birchbark is birchbark. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The birchbark of infinity messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

The innocent colours: Innocent! Colours are colours like infinity is infinity. Where are the mothers of the guilty. The infinity of nectar messaging: Forgive us we cannot do more. We are only colours.

Triskelion

A rainy day in almost morning

morning in almost winter 

winter in a ruined monument raining 

upon, stained.

S.McCabe

I’m young again she’s making tea

with orange rinds and sweet spices

washing her brushes in the sink

I yawn, breathing triskelion-shaped air.

prehistorical

She wonders have you seen her Franz Marc book

I’m sure it will appear like magic.

S.M.

The oil paintings of Giorgio Morandi on canvas

remind you of winter or rain

somebody tearing a hole in paper begins by folding

tears dampen her cheekbone

G.Morandi

inanimate centipedes in rust skitter-slide down the cave wall

triskelion-shaped jewelry ceremonially worn adorning collarbones

slides beneath half-shadow on the bumpy ledge

S.McCabe

warmed by the deafening sun aiming into, yes

well-aimed, as eagles soar hunting, 

the solstice passageway,

beneath watery golden rays

G.Morandi

the young man touching thumb to index finger

inhales glorious lungfuls of the older air 

unfolding arms and legs within the invisible rays 

of a triskelion sun

the carnyx sounded deep in memory

S.McCabe

the young man conceptually dimensional

observes cascading swirls

spinning like the arms of a forest

prehistorical

weird-wind. winding along. line-of-sight. exposed pattern.

disassembled. reassembled.

knotted. unknotted. sacred formula. column of fountains.

S.McCabe

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art

o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art

o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art

S.McCabe

A blue horse gallops into the hollow

turning round and round

blue shadow envelops blue shadow

foreshadowing the fate of the animals.

I drink tea with orange rinds and sweet spices

I said the Franz Marc book appeared like magic

but my phone disconnected

the carnyx overwhelming the air.

S.M.
S.M.

The young man eating bread

younger than darkness

how darkness might have felt

how quickly one is young, then as now 

how quickly one is younger than darkness jauntily

wearing the scarf lightly 

forgetting how darkness felt.

.

Listen to the arrangements of roughly-cut spirals

made of paper or thin mimeograph metal

humming

OM

framing the passageway he lingers beside within

as the young lightly follow a spiral into the spiral heart 

pulsing before columns aligned as a proposal

a monument to the deafening triskelion.

prehistorical

The young man wearing a scarf

replaces the ink ribbon in his typewriter

determining pathos comparative to bathos

bathos comparative to pathos

I look up the meaning of both words

peer between sheer curtains

patterned with triskelions falling like snowflakes

prehistorical

outside my window frosted with feathery ships

lightning strikes in a series of strikes

the snowman falls like a banished patriarch turned to salt

or a birchbark canoe floating in white foam

the children of prophecy barely visible in candlelight

continue in silent procession

S.McCabe

I taste clove oil on my fingertip – over the telephone we make a plan

the operator interrupts – I look out the window

somebody sitting on top of the telephone pole raises an Iron Age carnyx

animals listen at the edge of the city

twelve angels in a diagonal pattern 4 4 4 fly overhead in a grid

I said to the operator confirmed

she said have they apprehended you-know-who

I said yet to be determined

G.Morandi
G.Morandi

The paintings of Giorgio Morandi remind you of pathos or bathos

I said you left the water running in the bath

you looked at me like Bathsheba startled

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art

folding the letter written in shy cursive

the small-time & sly dealer, off to incarceration

said goodbye

cautioning you meeting with me.

S.McCabe

The train pulls away from the empty station 

embers spark, quieting, burn out on the clay-bed

& carved upon the locomotive’s obsidian gleaming surface

incised triskelions sparkle like stars.

I’m young again she’s making tea

with orange rinds and sweet spices

I said I mean the sink

but my phone disconnected

the carnyx overwhelming the air.

manuscript illumination
G.Morandi
G.Morandi

The paintings of Giorgio Morandi remind you of bathos or pathos

I said invisible ink is made visible using heat

you looked at me like Bathsheba covering herself

o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art

folding the letter delivered by courier 

the director of the museum of phenomena

summons you

communicating secretly

only you immediately might save the mystery.

S.McCabe

The train pulls away from the empty station 

embers spark, quieting, burn out on the clay-bed

& carved upon the locomotive’s obsidian gleaming surface

incised triskelions sparkle like stars.

I’m young again she’s making tea

with orange rinds and sweet spices

I said plug in the iron to read the words

but my phone disconnected

the carnyx overwhelming the air.

I determine to read

The Power of the Powerless by Vaclav Havel

supposedly soon

But something sooner may appear:

an almanac of magic numbers within a weathered spine

or a mist above the bog appearing out of nowhere

as if in a thought 

or your long-lost triskelion pendent

reminding the telephone operator to

attend night school.

prehistorical

Perhaps The Power of the Powerless is written in the power of iron 

an iron sun lost in the bog

or simply an iron moon.

S.M.

Something occurred ~ this morning as I yawned

listening to the bird ~ egg and nest 

serenade curvilinear branches ~ of the triskelion tree

overhanging the ancient ~ enchanted landscape

prehistorical

A dozen points converge instantly 

a dozen arrows reach the target

emotions, subjective and objective realities, & art forms converge 

without convergence there is no memory. 

S.McCabe collage manuscript illumination and vintage photograph
S.M.

Here & now we see & feel the flying grid of twelve angels

blissfully wed to bone-like shapes 

their nature triskelion-like

prehistorical

washing in the wind ~ sounding the carnyx

washing in the river ~ washing in salt

warning of the psychological dislocation of a society without convergence

verily, verily I warn thee.

S.M.

The messenger drinking water from the canteen

treasures the distance between buried clay hills 

racing the wind he throws down his arms

kneeling to press one ear beside clover blooming

voices darting through viridian-green weeds 

ivy-like spiral at the base of round towers

echo inside the curving walls

spinning like the green & brown arms of a forest.

Wind

prehistorical

rising to soften the contours of mounds (blurred)

sustaining the triskelion river-sound (preserved)

dividing above carved log-boats on the river afloat

fishermen cast lightly into the gloaming

the great kerbstone looming

a fountain of clay polishes the worn stone axe

I telephone you.

S.M.

You are born as promised in the embroidery of magicians

Steven McCabe

down around the roots of hollow reeds

you divine

dig wet sediment bare-handed

dedicate yourself to ancient law

Down around the roots of hollow reeds 

each innocent assigned twelve avenging angels

down around the roots of hollow reeds, the

sediment coughing up stones for shelter .

prehistorical

In the beginning was the word

buried in the manuscript of river-clay

spinning three-sided.

S.M.
S.M.