December 13th

12.13.11

I see a boy on the train

From my childhood.

The commute becomes

Ghostly.

He’s too far to reach

But I wouldn’t anyway.

Though I’ve spoke his name

Countless times

I don’t know him.

Today is that date

Long thought about

And planned

Now emptied and plain.

No anxious scurry to the airport

No kisses goodbye.

Just an appointment

A computer

A commitment made

Countless times.

What if I reached out?

Could I utter the essence

Of lazy days in trees?

How could I express

That Christmas party

Where I chased him

And grabbing

His father scolded me?

Such shame I possess.

And imagine what he keeps...

The shy, quiet boy around the bend

With his interrogative mother

And cat-eyed sister

A mere dark, softened shadow

Of his father.

A deep well of grief

Lies behind his shiny, black pupils

Concealed by his cold, obedient

Statue of a face. 

Fearful of masks

A boy

Who now ought to be

A man

Trades one mould for the next

And in rapidly re-disguising

Acts as though

He is alive.

Speeding the shedding of skins

So he never once knows them

Nor does he know his loved ones

Nor do they know him.

A fierce man

Determined

Full of absolutes

Awaits his love with certainty.

But only at the final moment

Does he lift his head

Erect

Distracted and weighted

Bedridden

Doubting his regiments

Still too narrow to split

Then “pop” goes his hip.

Every injury is fleeting

If you will it to be. 

But it’s easy to stay a coward.

It’s natural

To preserve

What you think you need.

So, go. 

No one knows you. 

For Molly (My Soul Mate)

11/4/11

Water and spit and piss

Pour down the blue well.

The act of washing away and cleaning

Is sinful and profane.

Shameful.

My human hand runs

A bar of lavender mint

Long down my caving chest’s descent.

And your story rises with the steam,

Condenses on my brow

And sings to me.

You wrote him

But kept Love for yourself.

Some say the lonely lover

Calling out patiently,

But waiting, restlessly

Breaking and expanding,

Scattering and sparkling

Is the purest.

But we’ve been told:

This is not a poem.

This is a war.

A game!

Your soft wanting eyes

Are too great to hide.

Lead him around a circle

But you must never look behind.

Sight is your enemy

Armed with truths and lies.

You wrote him

And wept for his knees

Broken like wings

Shattered by their knocking

Weak from never kneeling.

Isn’t it always pure to love

Such a lively corpse

Always intricate and spinning

Then quiet after the gushing floods

Leave your dammed up throat

Flushing out feathers

From your caged nest?

Does it matter just when he will drift past you?

No, knowing
would not slow his skin from turning grey.

Below, the city looks timid.

The rivers seem grand

The highways thin like ribbon.

For a moment the world is still

And misty blue, preserved

As we dreamed it to be.

The farm fields form neat patterns

Like a museum diorama.

It is so quiet and perfect.

But no one is there.  

Neutral Milk Hotel

Album Cover, In The Aeroplane Over The Sea

So, this blog is supposed to be about my art but I want to talk about someone else's art and explain how it is connected to my own.

I saw Jeff Magnum this weekend play at Town Hall in NYC.  It was amazing.  If you have never locked yourself in your room and listened to In the Aeroplane Over the Sea through and though, do it.  The album is largely inspired by The Diary of Anne Frank.  It is so beautiful, nostalgic, poetic, emotive and just intimately human.  He opened abruptly with Two Headed Boy Pt. 2 and I couldn't help but tear up during the last few lines when he sings:

"Two headed boy, she is all you could need.  
She will feed you tomatoes and radio wires.  
And retire to sheets safe and clean.  
But don't hate her when she gets up to leave."

So basically, during the next three weeks I am going to be listening to this on repeat which means my art will be affected by these songs.  And it's not the first time.  Not only is Naomi featured on my "artsy fartsy" mix, but I've been listening to this band since I was 15 and that year, when I was a sophomore in high school, I had an art class assignment.  The assignment was to pick lyrics/poetry and incorporate them with a painting/drawing.  I picked the final lyrics from "Holland, 1945":

"And here's where your mother sleeps
And here is the room where your brothers were born
Indentions in the sheets
Where their bodies once moved but don't move anymore
And it's so sad to see the world agree
That they'd rather see their faces fill with flies
All when I'd want to keep white roses in their eyes"


Jeff Magnum writes some really beautiful lyrics that similarly to Gainsbourg or Dylan could be, and is by many, considered to be great poetry.  I know that artists such as Magnum and Joanna Newsom have not only influenced my paintings but have also influenced the poetry that I write.  


All art is inspired by other people's artwork in someway.  I love this chain of passing down visions, ideas, words, sentiments, impressions.  Somewhere in my paintings a trace of Anne Frank will settle down and stay.  

Grains

9.15.11

Oh, material of love

sand, pigment, dirt

you carry and contain

flecks of our souls

encased and preserved

carefully and tenderly

in your grains

in your structure

Let us be one!

Why is it only us

who does any holding?

Why don’t you cling?

Falling, rolling, blowing

Away the wind carries you

in a way we only desire

Your cradle, we mimic

but our clumsy hands

reproduce a crude craft

and all dismantles itself

swinging, throwing, flinging

all that was precious

into the dark

empty womb of the unknown

And then we grieve

until a new pearl is found

again

or else give our lives

to death

and lie

Night Writing

Of course poetry enters my mind while trying to fall asleep...decided against turning on the light......

8.5.11

8.5.11

The longing of Spring has sunk away

Now

I dream of Winter’s sweet, quiet solace

The cycle, though known, seems unjust

In its movements

As if it could stagnate

And I expected nothing

But I need her changing expressions

To make sense of my body

To compare my mind with Nature

What a joyous difficulty we have

To keep growing without question

To reflect the changing leaves

Like lakes and ponds and seas

To remain

Rising, reaching

Shaping like a tree

Poem 8.7.11

8.7.11

One,

You remind me

Not all verses

Are so dark.

Some lie gently

On the red tips

Of your sun-kissed

Black hair. 

Not all spirit

Is indistinguishable.

Beauty can be bold.

Trust can be new.
Anger can be quiet.

Love can be proud.

Creation exhibits joy

Coming forth from

The shadows.

Another figure in this world.

Another actor.

A battle

Won.  

Some July Poetry

7.11.11

Breath

The ultimate drug

Each desperate inhale

Is relieved by an exhale

Length and lethargy

Steep each sigh stronger

Coloring its agony and ecstasy

Cracking between bones

Lifting up layers

Waves of emotion

Crash down memories

Building sandcastles with Dad

Washing over

Sleeping

7.31.11

There are nights

When the sky looks round

And we seem to know it.

We recognize its shape

And see the shell of our globe

Enclosing us.

Tomorrow, last year

Is so far.

A full revolution’s passed.

All has changed.

We’ve lost our King to another.

We’ve died and been born again.

The lagging, sober winter months

Are forgotten in the shadows

Of Summer’s hurried indolence.

The heat drains our chest

So we can love again.

Humidity fills our lungs

So we can laugh again.

We rejoice that tomorrow is not

The same day it was last year.

We respect all that has since been

For bringing us here.

We expect anything between

Nothing and everything.

Only then there may be sweet nectar 

Flowing from our tree.

There may be enough harvested

To bear the cold, coming months.

That will be enough. 

Anya's Song

I cut my hand....actually stabbed it.  Watch out for those avocados!  As a result I have not painted in a while but that will all change this coming week now that it has healed and I am going to Cape Cod with blank canvases for a week!  In the meantime here is a poem that I wrote this morning about my night last night.

She sang a Russian song.

Her fingers danced on strings

Of a guitar already strummed to me

By a lost man we shared unknowingly.

Our conversation died alone

Glasses now empty once were full

Summer’s heat fell at her feet

And we all slept into a dream.

Why don’t you carry on? She gleamed.

But her smile knew the answer.

Our shared secret thawed in the snow.

Oh, was it fate that I would know?

The details float among the sea

Containing anger in their seeds.

We could together wade and sift

Turn accusations into fists.

We know no English songs tonight

As we are sleeping in this breeze.

So mend these wounds as we unite

And find the words within our ease.

Poem

I am reading Duino Elegies finally.  Here's another heavily inspired Rilke poem.

On soft nights

When my own scent

Rises to my senses

I want to know:

Who can fulfill such longing?

Is this tender tug in my core

Somehow true love?

Pure and objectless,

Is it the only love I can bear?

They say He does not exist.

If he did, could I bear it?

Could I love him like a color

Soon to be sacrificed for another;

Drawn over and erased

For the whole good of beauty,

Nothing precious?

Maybe He is all of us. 

The burden must be learned

Or abandoned for distraction.

Distraction like this pen

Pressing against the paper

And the lavender

And the whiskey

And blankets

And buses

And song.

They say He does not exist.

But they are wrong.

If they stayed with this knot,

Felt inside of it

And quietly exhaled,

They would slightly sense

His ghost escaping their lungs

And love such a pain

As a woman bears a child. 

Another Poem

5.18.11

Tinted philosophically,

Dreams have been challenged

They are still fighting

Hearts beating

Pinned to the ground

Five, four, three, two….

Mute everything.

Don’t listen.

Paint the sunset.

Do it again.

Don’t trust men;

Let them in.

Shut the blinds.

Don’t look up.

Write a poem.

Do it again.

Kill yourself;

Let them live. 

In the springtime

You can pick the daffodils

Enjoy them inside

For a day or two

Until they die.

First thing in the morning

4.19.2011

I slept like a mountain

My friends asked me to stay

But there are greater

Needs to tend to

Thoughts and old delays

She looks cold in her caverns

Eyes lost and grey

Though we will never hold her

Our fight breathes hard

Hot and loud

Down ‘til dawn

Filling up like a bottle

Slipping wet through hands

You came to follow

In my darkened experience

Airborne and dismissive

Like a grain of sand

In the massive place

Where we landed

Fallen off the map

Walking through an Indian

Haunted house attraction

One by one

There they relaxed

Talking to strange men

With no interaction

And it felt like

You won

Walking in the Rain Today

It could be my life’s solution

It could be my last attempt

Washing over love’s regret

The daffodils, they are blooming,

Laughing; it’s not over yet.

A Poem for a Poet

4.12.2011

I wonder whose single hair this could be

Left behind as a vestige preserved and forgotten.

Not yet able, far from ready, I was the bad guy

Of character I would later despise.

But now forgiving, I want to be forgiven.

I want to be given a new page for you.

You are far away

And maybe have forgotten.

Can you remember more than unanswered calls?

Can you remember kisses on train tracks?

Climbing down your starry roof like a cat?

Madame’s L'Étrange Noël de Monsieur Jack ?

Across the street from you at Saint Michel

I want to skip over the years and traverse it

And meet you brave with sweat at Copley Square,

To say,

“I’m not weak anymore.

I can love again;

I can be a friend.”

Those words so far north from Marigny

May never thaw and trickle down fluidly.

Though, my sentiment will be received

By you, you vulnerable and courageous

Singing to the sun.

Recent Poetry and Paintings

3/24/11

Dreams are too tiring

To live two lives

One must die

Only to be reborn

Day and night

There is no rest

For the dreamer

Awakening

Disdain, love and fear

Blinking eyes

3/24/11

I first saw you sitting in the Square at the newsstand by the pit. Your blue eyes pierced through the gentle darkness of evening like two parallel flashlights. You studied my expression, still and quiet in your haste. How tall and tentative was your stature when you rose up, nervous and wavering like a wind-blown birch? Now nothing but an icon remains. Never will there be one so remote, strange and detached like a dimming star alone on the cusp of night’s shade. Soon, between the broad strokes of morning’s light will anyone stand to recall your shape?

3/24/11

I wanted to get closer to the wood of the table. To see more its dainty strokes, signs of life and feel a belonging and sameness. I leaned in to get a finer look, expecting to be transported down to the feathery grains and melt into them and my vision blurred. For the first time I fully experienced the truth; my eyes are but lenses. There was a limit to the distance between us before I could no longer see. It is real. There is no way to become one with another. When that fragile moment to merge arises falsity and confusion reign free. 

March Poetry

3/15/11

I want to reflect upon your story

But the light shines too harshly.

All that white pierces my eyes.

Chopin’s Nocturnes hang overhead

Humming what cannot be said.

Your glare is muddled with fear.

Like so many others you draw

A conclusion wet and hanging

Unable to dry

In your dark, corner room.

The most beautiful magic of life

Has escaped your broken body

But there it lies in the clear water

Of your deep, blue pools.

When will you grow brave and restless

And go into the woods and stay there?

This skin must dry up and shed

Or stay limp and moist,

Cover up and hold hostage

Your rotting, internal love.

3/16/11

Woe is the artist who cannot sleep.

Dead is the sleeper who never dreams.

Like mossy vines my tendrils creep.

Jealous, they cling

But they can’t strangle concrete.

My body screams and weeps.

The sound of sex falls at my knees.

Still, tall and firm, I snap easily

Like a twig, surrendering,

Yielding my sap to admirers of Nature

Who cradle and rock my broken bones

Then drop me like a cat.

Thus, I write, I paint, I sing,

And I dream,

But simply as a means.

de la poésie

I have not posted any poetry in a long time. I am not sure why. I guess I thought that it was all too dark or not any good. Here are two from the past few weeks. Routine experience has been interrupted for the time being, causing fruitful days.

2/7/11

You're just a painting now

A song humming in my head

Effervescent

I feel less alone now

Than when I felt you in your bed

Lying still

The magic that I sense

Flies past your lids

Unnoticed

My eyes look out

They are a light house

Waiting

2/22/11

Now it's an ordinary day

of ordinary energy

with all the excitement and quiet

that one normally contains

I don't know other worlds

Not today

Can this be the slow building

of something beautiful?

Is it a serious, monastic

devotion to glazing?

Will this whole result,

one day, gracefully bloom?

When will it snap?

Must it not bend like a river

in order to be living?

August Poetry

8/20/10

Your beauty is so great.

I want only to paint

and embrace you.

I am lost wondering

how to honestly face, truly,

and forward into your gaze,

simply and naturally,

free of hesitation,

free of wandering,

and questioning what's under me.

8/24/10

Free me, blue room,

filled with the blinking ghosts

of family heir looms,

crowding the dead empty space.

It is the great day

of phone calls and cake,

of feeling not enough,

of wanting more

yet receiving nothing necessary,

of lacking and looked forward to.

Oh, blue room,

ring the bells

of true freedom.

Open the casket for me.

These walls are simply here.

The torch is simply burning

and it is my hand that is holding.

Recent Poetry

Here are three poems from July starting with the most recent and working backwards. The first poem is a tribute to Rilke's Book of Hours which I recently bought. The book is considered to be one of his greatest works and it consists of love poems written to God inspired by his experience in Russia. So I wrote my own love poem to God including a "Le Petit Prince" reference of the abandoned rose which I painted a few months ago. The second poem is simply a description of the sun rising. And the last poem I will leave open to interpretation.

7/30/10

I am not an abandoned rose.

No,

Not only do I grow,

I walk.

And when I lay

I am still living,

Tingling with life,

Shimmering with love,

Not by that of a man,

But of yours,

Your love that I can own

Only by giving.

Deep within these circles

Spinning becomes stillness

And the graceful harmony

Between us fills every void.

No,

I have not been abandoned.

I have been found.

(detail of the abandoned rose "Tache d'Etre Heureux" painting)

7/29/10

Seven suns are seen

Blue, violet, and white alike

Not all at once

None of them stationary

They carry asymmetry

Consistently

They show expected shape

Yet surprise the eyes

A momentary beauty

Evolving quickly

Growing and burning

We yearn to touch

Their arms who touch us

Both softly and fiercely

7/14/10

Strangeness enters

As quickly as dark clouds descend

Softly and swiftly

Reminding me of the end

That endless bend

which arcs under my skin

Raw emotion is never dead

A memory may be past

But the quality is vivid

He is living

Our somber hours remain still

Real as they ever were

Not moving or silent

Simply blinking

On and off

In and out

Up and down

Fading like a distant dream

And then it's bright again.

Poem 6/19/10

Waking at dawn each morning

Re-dreaming and still screaming

I sink into a bed of lavender

And its lightness confuses my senses

Fatigue becomes elusive

Floating above the surface

My heavy heart anchors me there

The senselessness opens the well

It all trickles down

I ask the oil, "why?"

A need to be necessary?

An affliction for affection?

Their frozen words circle

In the caverns echoing

Perhaps only we know how

You were more to me

And now

Remain a memory

Nothing

So the stand-off continues

But I won't stop it

If you don't haunt me

Spiders will

Negativity will manifest

Its ill will

In you or the next thing

Time will kill the fury

But until then I won't rest

Searching for answers

Which must be made

And making is the one

Action that may save

A soul from loneliness

For creation is the warmest feeling

The created are my closest friends

They are my tender children

Who will hold me 'til the end