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& Walk

fish oils copy

Walk into this land of echoes, rising, from long disappeared passages &

old road

Pounding with the resonance of a single, surging heartbeat.

grey scale2

& Step lightly into, like a fox beneath the moon,

zeusian two

Or the hunting bird, balanced, upon a branch pulsing,

with bowl

& Heavy clouds damping electrical skies.

skyward 2

& Shaking berries into a bowl,

dusk bowl

Sharing handfuls bed to bed,

A nurse tending to the wound.

bowlbowl

The rhythm of & clapping hands,

hello again

Two Palms, pressing deeply & into a lover.

her again

& Feet upon a curving world, arcing night into day,

fish oils copy

Timelessly vanished into a pulsing desire & always

old road

Echoes dress the wound.

grey scale2

A heartbeat washing the sky &

zeusian two

A vanishing moon, poured into bowls & delivered bed to bed.

with bowl

& Walk pulsing,

skyward 2

& Walk always,

dusk bowl

& Walk into.

Source material for digital collage:

Etching No 2. Soft ground etching by German landscape painter and etcher Franz Joseph Manskirsch (1768-1830).

Ancient Egyptian tomb art. Unknown artist. est. 2000 B.C.

Michelangelo, Sistine Chapel, 1508-1512

Mesopotamian Incantation Bowl, 8th Century, photo Christies.

I do not claim copyright ownership of original images. I have created new images for non-commercial purposes of commentary or parody under fair use provisions of the copyright law.

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The God Who Only Knows Four Words by Hafiz

dance dance wherever

Every

Child

z13

Has known God,

z28-1 (dragged)

Not the God of names,

dance book 7 1

Not the God of don’ts,

Not the God who ever does

Anything weird,

dance book12

But the God who only knows four words

And keeps repeating them, saying:

new yellow

“Come dance with Me.”

Come

wearable blue copy

Dance.

ancient egyptian

Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

collage 5

One summer a few years ago (maybe more than a few – the time seems to fly) I created wearable paintings (acrylic paint on light canvas) with young dancers. I marvelled at how they adapted to the not-so-pliable fabric enclosing their movements. Like watching a pack of playing or Tarot Cards in motion. Swirling angles and flashes of colour. Only found a few photographs – hence the repetition in design.

softly 60s style z10

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September 8, 2014

I Know The Way You Can Get by Hafiz

coffee face on lid

I know the way you can get

When you have not had a drink of Love:

Evidence B coffee stain 1

Your face hardens,

Your sweet muscles cramp.

Children become concerned

About a strange look that appears in your eyes

Which even begins to worry your own mirror

And nose.

orig

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness

And call an important conference in a tall tree.

They decide which secret code to chant

To help your mind and soul.

touch of blue coffee overlaid on black and white

Even angels fear that brand of madness

That arrays itself against the world

And throws sharp stones and spears into

The innocent

And into one’s self.

duotone deluxe two types of ecstacy

O I know the way you can get

If you have not been drinking Love:

coffee face on lid

You might rip apart

Every sentence your friends and teachers say,

Looking for hidden clauses.

coffee mountain

You might weigh every word on a scale

Like a dead fish.

coffeeism

You might pull out a ruler to measure

From every angle in your darkness

The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once

Trusted.

I know the way you can get

If you have not had a drink from Love’s

Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of

The vital need

To keep remembering God,

So you will come to know and see Him

As being so Playful

And Wanting,

Just Wanting to help.

blimp and lid in the desert morphed

That is why Hafiz says:

Bring your cup near me.

For all I care about

Is quenching your thirst for freedom!

cinematic shadow the tomorrow

All a Sane man can ever care about

Is giving Love!

coffee face on lid

From: I Heard God Laughing – Renderings of Hafiz

Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

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November 22, 2013

You Were Brave in that Holy War by Hafiz

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

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November 3, 2013

 Adamant on the Edge of Dreams by Lisa Marguerite Mora

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.

Why is it I can see your face so clearly?

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.

Please.

But there is just light split

over water

that spills

and your face

adamant on the edge of dreams.

And I wake

as if you were really here.

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.

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.

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