Original art + digital art

Category: Original art + digital art

Did Not the Fisherman

Did not the fisherman go to the end,

as one fantasizes one might,

in dignity & sacrifice.

Did not the fisherman go to the end

resisting stone pillars transported by iron wheels

echoing a terrible power.

Did not the fisherman steer the vessel,

loaded with mysteriously shaped cargo,

away from the whale & her calf.

Did not the fisherman blow into a prehistoric

shell, architectural & coagulated,

born of the turbulent ocean.

Born of hunger & loss.

& Did not the fisherman go to the end.

As invisible frequencies ricochet

invading the bones of the innocent.

& Diving into hunger and loss.

& Targeting the spiritual password at the

root & crown of human imagination.

Incandescent golden ink

& iridescent golden ink

become

a lion,

a madwoman,

a forest.

Or a chiaroscuro art film,

as the fisherman kneels, in ashes,

summoning the mystery power.

& Did not the fisherman go to the end.

The muscles in his fearless gold-tinted heart

heave & conceive & receive coded messages.

& The talk show host coughing up a string of unknown words

twisting himself into contortions of vinegary laughter.

& A vintage typewriter blown into the air lands upside down,

in rubble on the hillside, beside a spoon & a shoe.

Did not the fisherman comfort a starving horse buried in rubble & fleas.

Rolling & dragging away the debris.

Did not the fisherman push a ladder to the gardener balancing a bag of seeds.

Obsidian air streaming out a jutting chasm beneath an olive tree.

Pressurized eons blasting out chakras curving the spine of time.

Sunglasses reflect the point of no return.

A jury of citizens request the legal definition of genocide.

A tree, thought lost forever, sending forth green twigs.

& The conception of a child on a starry night beneath ancient lamplight.

& The beginning begins again.

Did not the fisherman go to the end

with a rope between his teeth.

A rope erupting rose thorns.

Did not the fisherman’s gold-tinted heart transmit rays of the rose

with a promise to return.

& The beginning begins again.

When his family opens a heavy door to greet him.

When their eyes meet.

When an atom, silvery-pale as a dandelion puffball,

& embedded with a sacred language,

navigates the round towers of a vanished people,

& the nests of the vanished birds,

& The Great Library of Alexandria.

& A scribe’s brush dipped in golden ink

becomes a divining pure eagle of fire.

& The talk show host coughing up a string of unknown words

twisting himself into contortions of vinegary laughter.

& The engraved markings on a wooden stick

blink a coded message, undulating

a serpentine prophecy.

Curvilinear as a triple spiral

engraved in stone.

Did not the fisherman conjure power by dint of his scent, sweat & blood.

Telegraph poles in formation move in a holographic vapour.

Read the telegram.

Pressurized eons blasting out chakras curving the spine of time.

Read the telegram again.

Did not the fisherman go to the end,

as one fantasizes one might,

in dignity & sacrifice.

9 Comments

Two Symmetrical Suns Illumine the Animal Mask

In memory of twin suns.

In memory of bone & wood.

In memory of transformation.

In memory of antlers.

In magic.

In ecstatic chaos completely forgotten

two symmetrical suns illumine the animal mask.

In memory of stone.

In memory of starlight.

In shape-shifting completely forgotten

two symmetrical suns illumine the animal mask.

Intermediaries of the Otherworld

mediate touch in your fingertips

& mediate muscle

rising the mounts of your palm,

& mediate the joints flexible in your thumbs.

1 Comment

Night Falls (when you least expect it) 1 & 2

Night Falls (when you least expect it) 2

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I Found My Round Boat Hidden in the Rushes

Images tumble into each other like loaves of bread or stones or clouds.

Shrouded with fragrance and translucent vibrations, drawing birds near.

We reimagine memories splashing in the dark.

As the days shorten we create stories to explain reasons and purposes.

I borrowed some images from my ‘long blue painting’ to reconfigure in Photoshop.

My 2022 35′ X 5′ long blue painting (on a roll of Italian mid-weight paper) shown & described in a previous posting: https://poemimage.com/category/x-steven-mccabe-mostly-working-in-silence/

I photographed this work titled Druidica Blue: Deja Vu (Cave Art for the New Psyche) in sections on the floor. Below is the final section (of eleven).

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A series of digital images reimagining the Celtic deer who appears near the end of my long painting ‘Druidica Blue: Deja Vu (Cave Art For the New Psyche).’ Here she is reimagined as a ‘double-deer on the river with a blue slash.’

Reimagining the imagined. The Celtic deer discovers herself in a geometric composition with a goddess manipulating a moon symbol, also from the original painting.

Reimagining the imagined. She is reimagined in two-dimensional profile where ‘dry sand is covering reeds and half-buried, disintegrated reed boats.’

Reimagining the imagined. She is reimagined in the centre (space) of the roll of paper where she began. I have previously posted the original painting, on a roll of mid-weight Italian paper (35’W X 5’H), with images and rationale: @ https://poemimage.com/2023/05/01/druidica-blue-deja-vu-cave-art-for-the-new-psyche/

Reimagining the imagined. I reimagine her being of the sun. In this composition two diagonal rods exit or enter a window in a dome. Diagonal lines connect her to the window.

Reimagining the imagined. She is reimagined here within a defined space. Perhaps an open air temple. I include a section of the original painting.

Reimagining the imagined. I remember painting the curvilinear antlers and feeling the texture of the paper on the floor. In Photoshop I (somehow) created a ‘brass brooch in refracted sunlight.’

Reimagining the imagined. The Celtic deer experiences a sudden buoyant springtime: surging youth & chlorophyll. Excuse the double watermarks. In doing so much layering and relayering I lose track of it.

Reimagining the imagined. Three primary influences (Matisse, Cubism, cartoons) create the sensation of a distant seashore I will only visit in my imagination.

Reimagining the imagined. In this Cubistic image the Celtic deer seems to enter the edges of a reverberaton.

I have previously posted the original painting (35’W X 5’H) with images and rationale: @ https://poemimage.com/2023/05/01/druidica-blue-deja-vu-cave-art-for-the-new-psyche/

1 Comment

July 28, 2023

That Old Song

Remember that old song about a tomato,

You say: toe-MAH-toe

I say: toe-MAY-toe…

Except I didn’t say tomato at all.

I said frequencies come into view roaring like a whip-poor-will.

To within hearing range.

Within broadcasting range.

Within a marvelous & manifesting zone.

Except I didn’t say tone. I said zone.

Investigate the marvelous:

Track back to

a pulsing frequency

imagined as gossamer,

like that clear syrup you poured on pancakes,

in the air & not even sticky.

Except I didn’t say ode. I said code.

Remember that old song about a tomato,

You say: toe-MAH-toe

I say: toe-MAY-toe…

Except I didn’t say tomato at all.

I said alchemical frequencies.

Dialing landlines into clay.

Calibrate a fine-tuning.

I heard the eyelid open.

How does one hear from such a distance

if there is such a distance.

Track vibrations to their source

to evolving devolution

to devolving evolution.

Morphing into law or code.

Law or code tracked to a source

follow a firefly spiraling.

The source of the code fomenting sound.

A whip-poor-will swooping in a gyre, invisible to the bird of prey.

Remember that old song about a tomato,

You say: toe-MAH-toe

I say: toe-MAY-toe...

Except I didn’t say tomato at all.

I said thrum:

Amber-golden honeybees

pollinate the sun.

I said hum:

Rapid eye-movement beep.

Divining rod-flicker beep.

Levitating hypnopompic sun-stone beep.

Translucent wing-sheath

humming.

I bought a boomerang.

Silence! Hush!

Let you and me (one of us the fool) embroider a spoon large as a tapestry.

To spoof high officials with mock Greek Tragedy: How to Spoonfeed Honey.

To perform the pagaentry with sardonic flourish and redeeming severity.

Except I didn’t say money. I said honey.

I practice hooking my wrist.

At the market, behind seven hanging skins, I bought a boomerang inscribed with carving.

Expect

OM.

Beep

OM.

Amber-golden sun-stream OM

beeping hum, beeping thrum...

I purchase drops of oil annointing the boomerang.

A tacked up handbill publicizes theatrical spectacle of the highest form.

To sound

spanning divinity to infinity.

Eyelid ascending…

A whip-poor-will descending

glides into the window light,

scratches at the stone of night.

OM sounding gyres, OM sounding omphalos

infinitely divine.

Infinity sounding

OM,

One eyelid open,

fingertip

shiatsu beneath the soil.

A silence of soil

in divine science, divine omen

infinitely OM.

A thrumming bluebird, thrumming gnat, thrumming comet,

(infinitely divine)

thrumming the speed of sound tearing a hole in shrouded time.

I conceal the boomerang within the folds of my Turin robe: echo of the divine.

Echo of the divine – tear a hole in time,

hurling, aimed into the mission,

sailing to omniscient vision

& to return

& to return.

In Turin return to shrouded silence,

raise the eyelid,

visualize OM.

In absent space, in disintegration

visualize OM.

OM onward OM in hallucinations of the heart.

Investigate the manifesting:

Track back to

a pulsing frequency

imagined as gossamer,

like that clear syrup you poured on pancakes,

in the air & not even sticky.

Remember that old song about a tomato,

You say: toe-MAH-toe

I say: toe-MAY-toe…

Except I didn’t say tomato at all.

Beneath the eyelid all is silent.

Silent night.

Photograph in Wikipedia I digitally rendered for purposes of non-commercial commentary.

Philip S. Callahan, Ph.D, influenced this poem, if I may call it a poem, with his unique research, discoveries, and ideas about sound & transmission related to the Irish round towers.

6 Comments

July 20, 2023

Safe Passage

A danger you rightly fear, shall obey laws beyond itself,

Granting you safe passage &

Whomsover shall enchant these words –

Caveskin Cloak of the Rounded Shadow.

Your flashlight a white moth.

Your ballpoint pen a white cane.

Don’t say anything else.

Tarot Baby brought you a silver platter.

Don’t say anything else.

Tarot Baby & her grapes gone a long long time.

A pen drawing in a small notebook ‘translated’ into a different look via digital manipulation.

July 13, 2023

A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Forever, Before the Beginning & Nevermore: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Murmured Droplets in Rhythmic Murmuration: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Fountains of Fertility: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Liquidy Sunshowers Warming Fountains: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing the Monstrous Eternal, Encapsulated Within Minute Ephemera: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Pleasures of Being Gazed Upon: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Wizardry, Alchemical Muse-Magic & Psychedelic Music: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Cloudy Thickets Un-surrounding Inner Fountain Eye: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

A Whale Fountain-ing Heart to Fountain Heart: A Whale of Eachtra. A Whale of Imbas Forusnai.

The whale from my long painting in my previous posting. The whale is about halfway through, or across, the painting. I reimagine the whale performing a new role, in new scenarios, but deep down we know it’s the same fountaining whale: https://poemimage.com/2023/05/01/druidica-blue-deja-vu-cave-art-for-the-new-psyche/

A linocut moon from my ‘wordless poem’ Nevermore Together (2014, The Porcupine Quill’s press – 120 linocut prints). A Spiral Monk digital drawing from a series I did a few years ago. The Irish terminology discovered in the John Moriarty book Dreamtime.

Eachtra: An adventure to or from the Otherworld of mythic, or of near-mythic, strangeness. Imbas Forusnai: Method of divination practiced by seer-poets of ancient Ireland.