poemimage

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

Tag: Transformation

Here Comes the Monk With His Begging Bowl

  

All I did was dump coffee in the sink

And he appeared. He must have wanted to go on a trip, a journey or a jaunt, I doubt he wanted to be washed down the drain.

Which wasn’t the plan anyway. Not when there is so much to see everywhere, day or night, here or there.

And kindred spirits to discover.

With golden suns disguised as room-temperature metal beginning the process of your transformation. No matter how you begin.

Transformation of a Document

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The document exists within a moment. Perhaps a sweet moment.

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And the moment exists within the skin of a document. Perhaps bitter.

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Perhaps not. Yet you begin the undoing.

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You unwrap this moment, and every moment you see. You can’t help yourself. This moment tastes like nothing you’ve tasted before.

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 You’ve been out there working in the dark too long. You can’t see a thing.

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You say the darkness is naked and for the darkness you must undo all of the moments.

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You document everything.

zoon

And now look at you, at the very beginning of your moments.

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In my very early twenties I drew two ink drawings titled ‘Fragmentary Moments of Momentary Fragments’ and ‘Momentary Fragments of Fragmentary Moments.’ As you might imagine the drawings were very similar.

composition

One of the images used in this digital composition is Ancient Household, a 1945 sculpture by David Smith. I find David Smith’s line (particularly in his early work) strangely comforting. He seems to suggests a reality we once knew.

Smith

 & Also the Cathach of St. Columba, a 6th century Irish manuscript: https://www.ria.ie/library/catalogues/special-collections/medieval-and-early-modern-manuscripts/cathach-psalter-st

(detail)

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The moments continue

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A Golden Compass by Hafiz

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Forget every idea of right and wrong
any classroom ever taught you

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Because
an empty heart, a tormented mind,
Unkindness, jealousy and fear are always the testimony
you have been completely fooled!

mountedbecause 2a face

Turn your back on those
who would imprison your wondrous spirit
with deceit and lies.

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Come, join the honest company
of the King’s beggars –
those gamblers, scoundrels and divine clowns
and those astonishing fair courtesans
who need Divine Love every night.

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Come, join the courageous
who have no choice
but to bet their entire world
that indeed,
indeed, God is Real.

discsa windowin contemplation

I will lead you into the circle
of the Beloved’s cunning thieves,
those playful royal rogues–
the ones you can trust for true guidance–
who can aid you
In this blessed calamity of life.

blue montagetwin sketcha face

Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

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Creative Literacy in the 21st Century

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Sandra Dee & Bobby Darin at the Oscars, 1964, with ice cream and a Camus quote.

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Sandra Dee & Bobby Darin at the Oscars, 1964.

Insanity

American warplanes spray the jungles of Vietnam with chemicals, 1960s.

A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
– Albert Camus

camus

Albert Camus was awarded the 1957 Nobel Prize for Literature “for his important literary production, which with clear-sighted earnestness illuminates the problems of the human conscience in our time.” Source: Wikipedia.

Bobby Darin performing his hit song ‘Dream Lover’ in 1959.

Bobby Darin singing his antiwar song ‘Simple Song of Freedom’ in 1969.

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Read the rest of this entry »

A Visual Poem by Steven McCabe

visual poem 1 Read the rest of this entry »

Beulah Hill: Slideshow. by Michael Gallagher

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Crescent Moon hangs loose from sparkling Venus,

Blinking satellite hobbles through cobalt sky,

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City silhouettes haunt low horizon,

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On a garden bench, frozen crystals

Reflect the hidden stars,

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Robin song greets nascent dawn,

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Chimney crow steals dregs

Of last night’s heat.

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Sudden gust stirs the stillness,

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Threads the willows dangling tresses,

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Scrapes the bones of a dying oak

And drives snow-clouds over

Croydon Town.

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Mike Gallagher’s collection ‘Stick on Stone’ is published by Revival Press. His poetry has been published worldwide and translated into Croatian, Japanese, Dutch, German and Chinese.

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Before deciding to address Beulah Hill: Slideshow. I had been creating images of an eBook Reader in the future, discovered as temperatures shifted, revealing a poem covered with soil and frost & still mysteriously visible. I decided to adapt those visuals and, befitting the poem, layer earth-tones with space images from the NASA Goddard Photo and Video files @ Wikipedia Commons.

« Goutte À Goutte », Plein verre, 1940 (May) by Pierre Reverdy, Translated by Pierre L’Abbé, 2011.

quartet

Drop by drop

drama

The habit of loving
The sap of fatigue

intersection

tritone

The torrents of sleep
In the pit of nefarious plans

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If I had to give over the secret of the past
I would no longer fear the heaviness of blood

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Being alone
Sharpens revelations on the edges of the wind

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Weak and ugly
I sleep in gutters

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Doubled, exposed to the weather
To the barbs of fate
To the blows of fortune

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The bubbles of dark days burst in my hands
Life trembles irresolute on the edge of each sheet

mirrored

wash
Along the borders of the morning

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I no longer take a turn

wash

queen

The forms of hatred
Cheeks bulging with fire
These starving ovens

glassed

her wall

When love enlightened breathes on bitterness

a garish village
And dances on the dream-rope of nothingness

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face subtle

Pierre L’Abbé is a translator, a publisher, and the author of poetry and short story collections. He lives in Toronto.

final one

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When I began generating images for this Reverdy poem my focus was ‘self’ seeing ‘self.’ I wondered also if the poem was historical. I pictured incidents from World War Two. Or maybe psychological? The poem seemed to present an existentialism assuaged with the balm of cathartic love. And then because, coincidentally, I assembled this page on Easter Sunday, I considered (perhaps outlandishly) this being a dialogue between Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. In two voices. An end to their metaphysical, sexual, emotional love. Hmm…perhaps too literal. I wasn’t sure where metaphor began and personal voice ended. This began a chain of associations concerning language, representation, authenticity, double-identity, etc… and I was back at the idea of ‘self’ (whatever that is) seeing ‘self.’ You know that feeling you have when you look in a mirror? You know it’s you but you’re not quite sure who ‘you’ is. You see yourself experiencing an image of your self. So, as you can see, the poem presented a host of interpretive challenges. Pierre L’Abbe would know far more than me about this poem’s purpose. As always, I went with my intuitive response in creating images. In this case a face and a figure interact while constantly transforming.