poemimage

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

Category: Ink drawings

Night Falls

You paint your eyes with infinity

I am becoming a tree

The age difference visible for all to see.

Finite wood struggles in the human heart

Radiating rings enclose the wooden heart

Flowers of infinity bloom

Night falls as it must.

You paint your eyes with springtime at midnight beneath the radiating moon

Flowers of infinity bloom.

I aim for the centre of the human heart

For I am now a tree

For now I am a tree

The age difference visible for all to see.

We also the same

Contemplating the Fate of the Druids While Thinking of Something Else

Mirror Mirrors

In perpetuity chanting of the visual image
It shall be done
It shall be done

Conversation With a Tree

I was walking down the street on my way to the club,

though it was a bit early,

to see if my connection in the underworld

could score me a certain device

when I heard my name.

I looked up and saw a big face.

Tree said, ‘Where are you going?’

I said, ‘Canterbury.’

Tree said, ‘Wrong way. And you’re not Chaucer.’

I said, ‘Blake lives down that laneway. Maybe I’m William Blake.’

Tree took a step back and said, ‘William Blake!

Imagine I told you I was a reindeer or a shaman wearing

an enchanted curvilinear headdress.’

I said, ‘You could easily be

and still be Tree.’

Tree stepped back once more and said,

‘Imagine enchanted space all-round, horizontal & vertical.

Me pumping air, enough, for the two of us –

both of us, Blake & reindeer & shaman too

day & night.

So tell me what you really need.’

I considered the question and said,

‘ More so than a certain device

I need the light of one star

flooding my plum, smoke-swirled heart.’

Tree said,In this you are not alone.’

Tree huffed & came up close again curvilinear & vertical

Pointing away, far, to distant golden sand,

horizontal beneath vast night, black as smoke, arcing.

Tree said, ‘Over there. Those three figures

on camel on foot

swirled up & fishing about

aimed into a brilliance

& trudging below,

sloughing into the vast night…’

Tree said, ‘Go.

And while you’re at it, stay away from the underworld.

I know about your connection.’

I said, ‘Okay Tree.’

Tree said, ‘Okay,’ also

in a voice rough as bark

familiar with the underworld.

Two Images in Combination, a Quote From Krishnamurti, the Missing Word Recovered + Yin Yang

One empty space binding two sounds

Two words bind silent-space sound

Three words missing in the empty field

Four words found in neighbouring silence.

It is no measure of ______ to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly ____ society.

Combination _____.

___________ image.

Perfume

Over the last four days I put long hours into my (mostly done in blues) Druidica painting on the 33′ X 5′ roll of Fabriano mixed-media paper.

Too much dark coffee and not enough water. I unrolled and rolled the paper like a scroll on the floor – mostly in silence.

A fellow down the street wheels his wheelchair into an alcove to stay out of the wind. Today he was playing music from a French composer. It sounded like a film score from the sort of movie that no longer exists.

I found the following drawing & short poem as a draft and moved a few words around.

I follow the star

to a newborn

oak tree.

Sunlight arrives

beaming through

deep space

perfuming the grove.

 

No Wonder My Hand Looks Old

I took photos this summer of flowers. They looked like flying bees. Or bee-like entities.

Sitting outside in a cafe patio this past weekend with my Hypnogogia Book 1 & Book 2 drawing collective buddies Charles and Marc I touched a tickle on my knuckle. Then a yellow jacket bit me. I think he bit me and stung me. Didn’t feel bad at first. At three in the morning I woke up with a swollen hand filled with pulsing needle-like pain.

Made a paste with baking soda. Soothing. The paste was dried in the morning on the plastic lid like terrain on a fragile planet. The powdery planet or maybe the paste planet.

My hand puffed-up like a blow fish. From one little bite! Or sting! Or both. What shocked me the most was how old my hand looked. How both hands looked old. The bigger and the lesser. In other news Bob Dylan is 80.

Last night I watched one of those ‘reaction’ videos. Younger people react to older songs. One guy loved Dylan singing One More Cup of Coffee (Valley Below) in Rolling Thunder Revue.

Dylan brought his Rolling Thunder Revue to Toronto Dec. 1 & 2, 1975. One More Cup of Coffee (Valley Below) is on the playlist both nights. I don’t remember which of the two nights I went. It was a long time ago. No wonder my hand looks old.

Watch here

When I was a boy in the Missouri Ozarks I disturbed a yellow jackets’ mansion down some secret hole in the dirt. They attacked. At that moment the mailman walked up and said, ‘You’re not going to let those little things bother you are you?’

Well, yes.

I remember amber-coloured sorghum syrup in a tin gallon can. Maybe aluminum. I remember tapping down the lid. We spread sorghum on bread and poured it over pancakes. Sorghum likes to grow in thin clay soil. Missouri has a lot of thin clay soil. When they boil down the grain for syrup it’s called ‘the long sweetening.’

I said this to myself right now in the cadence of the voices I heard as a boy. The long sweetening. Sounds like a phrase from long, long ago. No wonder my hand looks old.

A Memory from July 10, 2013

I am working on a new GIF to accompany 5 lines from Lyon by Pierre L’Abbe. The stanza he sent me is so evocative I keep creating new images. So a few more days until I post that.

In the meantime, in a file folder, I found a poem & drawing from July 10, 2013. Close to eight years ago. My dryer was broken, though not the washing machine, so I went to the laundromat with bags of wet clothing. I brought a pen and paper.

The memory of writing a poem in the laundromat impacts me more than re-reading the poem. The poem touches on loss. It was a big deal at the time. As big as the universe. The drawing seems to be about the future. And loss as well.

He examines something, a memory, maybe it belonged to somebody, while his body transforms. He’s growing wings made of fossils or maybe a spiked spinal column has departed. Disappearing. His tears fall channeled into ancient patterns. Or maybe those channels teach him new patterns. Giving him fuel. Leaves, or flames, grow from his eyes. A drawing about vision.

A quickly sketched ink drawing might express many secrets. Something unknown always at work.