The Painted Self
Have you ever stared at a painting,
unconsciously realizing that to walk through
art is to see a self-reflection of particular
times? Looking for some way to know
self without knowing? Or maybe it is a
desire to live another life in another time.
Begin at the end with Van Gogh’s Wheatfield
with Crows. That one is a rubber lined room
for any loss, the dog that no one loved, the
final fitful snores of a grandfather, the chatter
of machine gun fire near the end in Berlin, the
rejected whore’s love.
Maybe a Picasso, Girl Before a Mirror, perhaps
fragmented reflections reflecting the fragments to
Too harsh? Choose something light and breezy
like an impressionist landscape that makes you
want to wear a white dress and run barelegged
through a field of flowers.
Or a longing for home, Norman Rockwell and
golden browned turkeys, a smiling mother, a
pipe smoking sweatered father, children who
never grow old, doors never locked.
But enough of this, some greater distraction is
needed—a romp through a German cabaret,
dark and smoky, steins of Austrian beer,
willing women before the guns began.
And you, pinned to the pages of a book
waiting for something to put hooks in and
tell you that it’s all ok.
poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:035
She said that Rilke wrote of a moment when
recognition blooms that individual death lies
waiting somewhere within the body.
Is it scripted, directed, by some unknown force living
beyond the stars?
But you must understand, she said, that is only one
kind of death. There are many others whose
cruelty afflicts the living.
A man and a woman as above so below, skies
mirroring mood whether sleeping or awake,
classical elements that philosophers said could
change us, make of through time
four winds at the four corners of the earth
living the death that we would become living
whether tree and rock become the mother
and father’s voice, or our own, a wish of
the earth that makes us sharpen knives in
moments of insomnia,
to watch swarms of new wasps as
reminders of bruised waves unbalanced.
This is why the woman wears attractive
dress, red lipstick smeared across a
bloody past, the man to think only of
swords and an unknown rapture,
to stare at strangers just beyond periphery’s
vision lost in songs of their youth,
know that the grave-grass, the gray
ghosts of burnt out desire
is what moves our moods as moon phases
crescent and full
emit no light but reflect
light released by another, and
in those moments of attempting to
walk a bridge between worlds of reconciliation
realize it is better to live with warm beasts
in their circled dance,
soft eyes mirroring bloodied forgiveness
that does not last.
poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:035
The girl lounged beside me
is not you, no Lucy to my
Charlie Brown. Not even the
surrogate I have stitched together for
decades like stretch marks elongated
over an eternal pregnancy.
You may as well be dead but still
wound round like an engine’s copper coil.
I cannot jolt you out of the carpet,
your name still tangled in every thread.
Somewhere atoms seep still from your
molecules, the way that electricity streamed
from you like cream, and those wavelengths,
purple truths, illuminates a language that I cannot
Somewhere, worn down by earth’s fingers, sky’s
ardor, you must still intuit a strange version of the person
you thought you knew, the way that I look for a
shop still selling records, or a lost
child yearns for a way home.
You do not know the way I am now, nor I
you. If I could speak to you I would ask,
what is your night? Do you know the deep
dusk there where you kneel on smooth stones
I expect that you might say,
in those strange god-tongues—I have been this way
before, will be again, for it is rain-heavy bushes,
the moon like a broken light bulb that is fractured,
that cannot bite off a star.
And you, you must know that this is a false-
borne day, a dishonest December moment that
can only beguile.
thank you for reading poetryrepairs|
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v17/035.html
All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading
Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT
No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, DO NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.
I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian
REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people
at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary
read more poetry
RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
The Painted Self