Cast a cold eye
On life, on death,
Horseman, pass by!
Irish poet William Butler Yeats
June 13, 1865 – January 28, 1939
Horseman, pass by!
Horseman, pass by!
abstracted painting blended
with arcane images
of ancient Egypt
suggesting influences
of the esoteric
and modernism
upon
Yeats
public domain Egyptology image: Internet Archive
painting 2003 S. McCabe
Poetic testimony a’shifting
mother barely
threadbare stirring
peas & porridge nine days old in the pot
shadows
a’shifting
golden vibrations overflow
cauldrons
circling
three places
the oak the stag
a’shifting
Black and white images influenced by readings of Ferdinand the Bull as a child
Ferdinand’s delight inhaling perfumed flowers beneath a gnarly tree
papery Spanish ink ascribing metamorphosis to performance
in emanations of the ancient, kinetically flowing spine
in rainfall of visionary code addressing wounds
strenuous chalking of shamanic timelines
body politic of dreamtime silence
battery pack wire testimony
pale butcher’s twine
binding frayed
poetics
June 10, 1974
Edinburgh, Scotland
Joseph Beuys:
Blackboards and drawings of pots from
Three Pots for the Poorhouse Action
Photo credit: Richard Demarco
Physics again standing on its head
Physicists discovering an upside – down world
The elementary particles comprising stars can leap
It seems
Across time (if there really is time) reappearing
And appearing in numerous locations at once
The simultaneous stars stretching across infinity
Are one and the same
Projections of one star
One star only we see here and there
As if altering as if shadowing our days and years
With a spectacularly aloof performance
Like the lover
You just can’t forget
Previously published in my fourth book of poetry Hierarchy of Loss (Ekstasis Editions 2007)
Digital art based on an ink sketch in my moleskin sketchbook.
Speculation into the investigation:
An inked manuscript penned by sure hand,
billowing dark Satanic mills,
a winged and weightless choir,
shadow of a blooming oak
across the bowling alley,
7 – Eleven coffee to go,
shoes with blinking lights.
Bukowski’s Bluebird and Blake’s Tyger
in performance.
We could say the ice arrives leaping like a cat.
And the cat silently contemplates windows and branches
before moving on.
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
One question I would ask Carl Sandburg, whose answer would intrigue me greatly: Baudelaire or Scarborough Fair?
You lie down in whatever bed
you lie down in, the pillow accepting
the weight of your head, the mattress
receiving your body like a longed-for guest.
You move in your sleep and the sheets
react to your turnings, the blankets adjust,
shaping themselves to your outline. The air
in the room keeps time with your breathing,
accepts being displaced while I circle the walls
of the city you dream. My papers
are worn, frayed at the edges; that picture
I have of myself, clouding-over and spotted
with rain: my face is dissolving before me. The night
holds you in sleep, you are stilled by its comforts;
by the fabrics absorbing the sweat you expel.
My cries go unheeded as I stand at the gate
pleading admittance. There is no one to turn to
as you shed a layer of your skin while you lie there,
dead to the world; my one reliable witness.
I am the moon
round
distant
cold light
reflecting the sun’s warmth
back to a blue planet
a lover’s smile
forever light years away
black space
gravity pulling
tidal waves of emotion
forever love
on shores of childhood dreams.
I am the moon
pale maiden in the morning sky
large orange crone at dusk.
Alone
I ignite the dark
for moonlight kisses.
Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews has two collections of poetry: “The Whispers of Stones” and “Sea Glass”. Nature and one’s place in it, is her muse. In 2013, she was shortlisted for Descant’s Winston Collins Best Canadian Poem Prize. She lives, teaches and writes in Oakville, Ontario, Canada.
You have done well In the contest of madness.
You were brave in that holy war.
You have all the honorable wounds Of one who has tried to find love Where the Beautiful Bird Does not drink.
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;
It came to think I was five mothers On one hand.
Wayfarer, Why not rest your tired body? Lean back and close your eyes.
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.
Surely There is something wrong With your ideas of God
O, surely there is something wrong With your ideas of God
If you think Our Beloved would not be so Tender.
– The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the great Sufi Master
translated by Daniel Ladinsky
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
The same film with subtitles:
In 2009 I created My Story Is Not My Own, a metaphysical & surreal film poem concerning the Kennedy assassination. My statement concerning this project is beneath the video on the YouTube page.
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.
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 —
poemimage 