poemimage

The visual & the poetic.

Category: Digital art

Ice Storm in Toronto (with Carl Sandburg)

bluebell the ice cat copy

We could say the ice arrives leaping like a cat.

icy cave

And the cat silently contemplates windows and branches

before moving on.

cat head copyicy emission copycrystal white cat copy

My simple paraphrase reworking the short poem Fog. To address recent weather: silver & luminous with shattered trees & a million people without power. Upon us like a thief in the night.

Fog by Carl Sandburg: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174299

icy beard and hornsparkle eyes and a ball of snowicy wind cat 2 copyswirling cat ice copy

One question I would ask Carl Sandburg, whose answer would intrigue me greatly: Baudelaire or Scarborough Fair? 

Shadowing 2new icy beard and horn  copy

 

Laundromat: July 10, 9:47 AM

laundromat 1

laundromat final

I’m in the

laundromat

because my dryer broke

and this radio is too loud

and every song sounds insincere –

finally Annie Lennox and

the Eurythmics are singing

Talk to Me.

laundromat 2

laundromat 8

I wonder when I’ll ever

get around to reading

Ulysses.

laundromat z

The radiator is painted

an almost indescribable

shade of turquoise.

Lively but dead serious –

mechanical.

laundromat 26

The top of each rib protrudes

thin, flat and sharp.

I can imagine these edges

pressing into my face

after they arrest me in the

grand sweep.

laundromat rinse

laundromat horizon

Harnesses and 19th century

contraptions hoisting the radiator

above prisoners strapped to beds.

Thirty full seconds for each

inmate.

What if they decide to heat them?

laundromat y

Loud sirens nearby.

A city wind blowing

through the open door.

laundromat new alchemy

A guy reading a

book asks me

if I smell

cigarette smoke.

laundromat 8

“No.”

laundromat final Read the rest of this entry »

Images of a Red Bird Traveling Indirectly to the Rivers of Babylon and the Irish Easter Rising

a little idea

horizon

brueghel's bird

bird shaman2

french cardinal girl

brueghel's bird

cardinal feather 3

A friend of mine once told me, cheerfully, about a cardinal outside her window. I created an ambiguous image for her of a woman wearing a bird in flight & recently revisited this image, creating altered versions.

Surfing the web I discovered a poem published in a Georgia newspaper in 1873, a few short years after the American civil war, about a red bird:  http://wildbirdsbroadcasting.blogspot.ca/2013/07/lines-to-red-bird-poem-from-1873.html  The words …While at heart I wear the willow jumped out at me.

Investigating this phrase I discovered Scottish Celtic singer Karen Matheson’s haunting recording of  ‘I Will Not Wear the Willow.’ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-jm2P9UWLA

 @ http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Grieving we read Wear the willow: To mourn the death of a mate; to suffer from unrequited love. The willow, especially the weeping willow, has long been a symbol of sorrow or grief. Psalm 137:1-2 is said to explain why the branches of the willow tree droop: By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.

Wear the willow appeared in print by the 16th century but is rarely, if ever, heard today. There’s Marie wearing the willow because Engemann is away courting Madam Carouge. (Katharine S. Macquoid, At the Red Glove, 1885)

——–

Steeleye Span had a hit song in 1975 with lyrics about wearing willow in a hat. http://www.last.fm/music/Steeleye+Span/_/All+Around+My+Hat  The song “All Around my Hat” (Round 567, Laws P31) is of nineteenth century English origin. In an early version, dating from the 1820s, a Cockney costermonger vowed to be true to his fiancee, who had been sentenced to seven years transportation to Australia for theft and to mourn his loss by wearing green willow sprigs in his hatband for “a twelve-month and a day,” in a traditional symbol of mourning.

In Ireland, Peadar Kearney adapted the song to make it relate to an Republican lass whose lover has died in the Easter Rising, and who swears to wear the Irish tricolour in her hat in remembrance.

—–

Willow \Wil”low\, n. [OE. wilowe, wilwe, AS. wilig, welig; akin to OD. wilge, D. wilg, LG. wilge. Cf. Willy.] [1913 Webster](Bot.) Any tree or shrub of the genus Salix, including many species, most of which are characterized often used as an emblem of sorrow, desolation, or desertion. “A wreath of willow to show my forsaken plight.” –Sir W. Scott. Hence, a lover forsaken by, or having lost, the person beloved, is said to wear the willow. [1913 Webster] And I must wear the willow garland For him that’s dead or false to me. –Campbell. [1913 Webster]

You Were Brave in that Holy War by Hafiz

too

You have done well In the contest of madness.

bath

You were brave in that holy war.

blue on blue

You have all the honorable wounds Of one who has tried to find love Where the Beautiful Bird Does not drink.

dancer

May I speak to you Like we are close And locked away together? Once I found a stray kitten And I used to soak my fingers In warm milk;

f2

It came to think I was five mothers On one hand.

garden

Wayfarer, Why not rest your tired body? Lean back and close your eyes.

shadow

Come morning I will kneel by your side and feed you. I will so gently Spread open your mouth And let you taste something of my Sacred mind and life.

feather

Surely There is something wrong With your ideas of God

new

O, surely there is something wrong With your ideas of God

shadow

If you think Our Beloved would not be so Tender.

scratched

– The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the great Sufi Master

translated by Daniel Ladinsky

trial and error

The smiling image of Jacqueline Kennedy in Dallas contrasting with the shock and horror she soon experienced has haunted me since my youth. Is it enough to say this Hafiz poem is about coming to terms with grief in a metaphysical context? I do not claim to be an expert on such things but with this project I attempt to address grief. I created digital variations of a coloured – pencil drawing of Mrs. Kennedy in Dallas, November 22, 1963. I used seven of these drawings for a collage series, including drawing & painting, on handmade Japanese paper for a 2003 exhibition commemorating the 40th anniversary of JFK’s death. The poetry video My Story Is Not My Own (below) continues the theme:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17LZ1XqubyU

1pg

Doing the trick by Chris Pannell

totemic one

There’s a breach

in the line, where the soldiers have fallen back

and my mother has fallen back on her bed too

her face out of sight, she can no longer speak.

ono

valiant

This opening might do the trick if anyone could muster

the steps to walk through, but

we’re so exhausted, it would be a mercy

to die here and now, be done with palliative care —

vase Read the rest of this entry »


Adamant on the Edge of Dreams by Lisa Marguerite Mora

One pearl

beneath all

I don’t know what God is doing.

He sears me with the palm of his hand,

hollows me out with light

so that I can’t feel my bones anymore.

And my grief—

not that gut wrenching stuff,

is just water that flows and flows, flows unimpeded now—

I am open,

undammed and not drowning,

not fighting for my life.

duo two

Why is it I can see your face so clearly?

shining artifact2

wire light

I am floating (90% water, they say),

my ribcage, fluid, caging and releasing.

I have become amphibian.

I do not know whether to walk or swim.

I miss the bones

of the earth, dark stones, polished pain hard beneath my feet.

Gravel and grit I need.  Dust. Dirt.

Black and pungent.

river pebble light

muted

Please.

klee love

But there is just light split

over water

that spills

and your face

adamant on the edge of dreams.

receding

beneath all

And I wake

as if you were really  here.

night moon

Lisa Marguerite Mora is a prize winning poet and a freelance editor. She conducts creative writing workshops, and this year has completed a poetry manuscript and a first novel.

She lives in Los Angeles, California.

awake

I was influenced by the idea of an edge while depicting the figure – who fluctuates between pictorial and pictographic. The waking in the poem seems to be another edge, or a disappearing edge, delineating realms of  water & light, idea & memory, as well as the all encompassing natural, visceral world.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Chosen Ones by William Michaelian

Royal Song 1

Bluebell

If we cannot love everything and everyone,

can we, truly, love anything or anyone?

Flickering

 In choosing whom or what we love (if such choice were possible),

do we not proclaim that our judgment is larger than life itself?

New Royal Song

Is not that choice an illusion?

Curling Smoke

Lucky

 If we love only what we think we love, are we not, then,

defining love and placing on it certain limitations?

megalith

 Would it not be better to be defined by love,

than to try to define it?

pottery

triplicate

Are we so small in our uncertainty and fear that we must love

only that which pleases us, or which we think reflects well on us,

or which loves us in return? If so, how can we call that love?

new royal song f

It is a grave error we make in thinking that anything exists

outside of love.

Oval

Scroll

Can you, in your deepest thought and contemplation,

say which part of you loves and which does not?

Tinted Overlay

Royal Song framed

If you say the mind loves, or the heart loves,

or that love is harbored in various glands and organs,

what, then, of the rest of you? Are parts of you worthy

or unworthy of love? Is love necessary to one part,

but not to another?

splash

spotted new royal song

Is love a condition that changes with history,

time, and weather?

roseland2

 luscious also

And what of the insane?

Are we love’s orphans, love’s abandoned step-children?

streaking

William Michaelian is an American writer, artist, and poet. His newest book is the Tenth Anniversary Authorized Print Edition of his first novel, A Listening Thing. His Author’s Press Series now contains three volumes: The Painting of You, No Time to Cut My Hair, and One Hand Clapping. Two poetry collections, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, were published in 2007 by Cosmopsis Books. He lives in Salem, Oregon.

http://recently-banned-literature.blogspot.com/

luscious-also-pale

Royal Song 1

 I thought my most recent painting, Royal Song (the first image), might work with the pulsing ebb and flow of William Michaelian’s poem. Love and gold work together on some mysterious level. There is a lot of air (and thought) in this poem and the painting depicts a scroll and throne (in the open air) beneath a sun. The idea of light informing the conscious mind influenced my variations on the original image.

The Sorrow of a Brown Hat by Steven McCabe

zanzibar

Crumpled fading newsprint

As yesterday’s armies march

Into tomorrow

Sorrow

A future we predicted

fly by

Sorrow

We accepted sleep standing upright

Sleep never understood;

dusk

Sorrow

A chapter of blank pages: my darling, your wrist hanging

Over the bed

extreme sorrow

Your blood a confusion

Your heartbeat the black window

Swallowing my hands

s

Fingers forming a circle

simple sunset

Bottom of a fleet casting shadows across the seabed

blur

I toss my hat overboard

h

pod

new pearl

from my book Hierarchy of Loss (2007) Ekstasis Editions

An erasure poem created from ‘The Last of the Knights Templar. A Poem, With historical notes.’ by Thomas Billington (1866)

a.1.

Memory scorns the hand

In sweet response to heaven

19. city

6.Amber Curtains

Fame outlives

Mighty hearts

Earth and sea obey

8. y

The blood of many a son

Tarnished in liberty

Fade 1

12. Moon Over Knight2

An offended sky

Hoarsely sung,

Shadows wear the crowns

15. Taken Aback

The conquering sons of

Neptune’s vaunted eye,

His dinted blade

5. Johnny Appleseed25 linenFade 2

The echoes sing,

Your faith of obedience

Like snow flakes

11. Moon Over Knight9 Pale Grey

Comets of heaven

March on to glory,

No tongue shall number

A calm blue ocean

10. Now This

The glorious dead

Came upon the sea

Omen’d

2. a.13. Swirl

The tide of that deep abyss

Struck by the Templars’ sword

Fade 2

Each vaunted knight

An inspiring heaven

cobra18. See?

One vast clay sun

Now morning emerald

Detail 8f15. Taken Aback25 linen

Enchantment’s radiant form

In desolation’s train –

Her last revenge

7. Turquoise Wall

The cherished isle of steel

A soldier’s bed –

 Paradise

Goes terribly forth

17. Your Arrival Changes Everything

25 Blurred Reality

The black herald of sorrow

Reeking in dying cadence

16. Statement

Linger on the carnival

16. Statement7. Turquoise Wall

Look on the headless brothers

Your work of hate

Maddening

Detail 2f

A whirlwind’s Autumn on helmets clashing

Deaden the pangs of a soldier’s doom

19. city15. Taken Aback

Onward Templars press

A frenzied rite

On condor’s wing a cold embrace

Fade 1

ribbon

Thunder blackening the lament

A winding sheet

Like seafroth

6.Amber Curtains

His swollen veins darkening

Hail our Queen!

6.Amber Curtains

The edge upon our lips

Mockeries

Wading in a fiery grave

20 Blue Knight

Each convent bell

Joy

No seabird to warn the boatman

5. Johnny Appleseed

A fairy thing –

The whiteness of her sail

Raptures your lonely shore

new branch

Detail 1f

Whispery the void

 Nature a weary scene

Not a sigh escaped

25 Blurred Reality

20 Blue Knight

Laugh of vacancy

Babylon’s lustful day

Detail 5f

The night grown weary

All was still

Fade 9

The chains savage

24 Gleam

The (original) 56 page poem is a retelling of history & loaded with glorification of battle & cultural/religious point of view, details of woe and foe, and the ecstasy of triumphs. It’s really quite the technicolour blockbuster epic. Followed by almost 30 pages of historical text. I found it when I was looking for a connection between the Knights Templar and limestone (believe it or not). Two things happened simultaneously: I was skimming an old Canadian educational book called ‘Pioneer Arts and Crafts’ written by Edwin G. Guillet, M.A. (dedicated to Marguerite Guillet Brooks – Designer, Thread Workers Guild of America) and reading a fascinating section about ‘Lime – Burning.’  At the same time I had a digital image, rather ‘knight-ish,’ which I wanted to use with a poem. I began to imagine Marguerite sewing silk tassels for a knight’s helmet. And somehow, well, it all came together. My ‘erasing’ was done fairly quickly, like snapshots, grabbing a few impressions.

Winter by Linda Woolven

winter one lw

Bruises

smudge the countryside

in winter blue and purple.

winter two lw

winter ten lwwinter ten lw

As shadows steal

the winter white.

winter six lw Read the rest of this entry »