Epiblog

A dear friend was expressing her thoughts about my poetry blog and she asked a wonderful yet seemingly simple question, "Do you feel exposed?" At that moment, I responded that I did not feel this so much, attributing this to having been previously published. But later, I thought about posting some very recent poems and I realized that if I shared them now, I would indeed feel exposed. A fellow poet with whom I confessed my apprehension, reviewed these recent works. My question was this, "Do you think these poems are too personal?" Her response to me was the following:

"Unless you are in your poems, they will not have the life you intend for them…[the poems would be] like motherless children."

"Humm…" I thought, "So true."

I decided not to make these works public just yet. One day, they may find a place in the outside world, but for now they remain as "conversations between close friends".

And so this helps to conclude the section on Colors and the blog with a previously published poem from "Missives" (Codhill Press, 2009). It is still very personal.

Grey

Worried that the light will fade 

without an eye to see its passing.

And the last utterance

will be inaudible.

Worried that we will not notice 

the fade from green to grey.

Worried that we will not recognize 

that She is gone

and that we are alone—

wondering who we are.

White

One day
gazing up into the bluest of blues
I saw a something
small and white,
    drifting…
It was
so far, so small in size
a glimmer to my eyes
just a speck of bright white,
          drifting…
No form
could be distinguished
Just a movement,
twinkling, star-like,
               drifting…
Is it governed by will
    or current’s whim?
It spiraled,
circled,
                    drifting…
Then another
joined in jest
and put my query
to the test
“It is will and whim”,
    I guessed.

They
spiraled,
circled,
                         drifting…

Black

Black is fluid
    with movement full and wide
Etching dryness with its dampness
Impregnating the open.

As tears well in eye’s lowered lid
Concealing the revealing
    of the open.

Black flows

A thick, dark stream
    carrying suffering seed.
Implanted in the heart—
    in the open.

Colors

As a painter, I have learned to see color with more precision and confronted the many ways in which color is used to convey form, light, weight, and movement. I have explored color as symbol and science and yet it evades me. Color, like sound, is vibration. Each exists in relation to all the other colors. Each hue is part of a whole—the spectrum of light. How much of this spectrum are we able to see? Science says that we only see a fraction.

There is more to explore. But, for now, I will let the poems and images do their work.

Blue

Blue is empty
Endless
Light

I absorb it through my pores, my nerves.

All my tendrils extend
to meet its coming arrival.

I drink it in rhythm
through the core at the center

Expanding and contracting
with its far-ness and near-ness.

The Verge

On the brink.

I wait.

For a shimmer,
a glimmer,
a sound.

I wait.

Poised
to receive
that which
is yet to be.

I wait.

Without despair
or hope.

I wait.

On the verge.

Drops

The drops descend
one by one
markedly,
deliberately,
with benevolence.

And trust to be received
wholeheartedly,
by one who dares to love.

The drops descend
one by one
easing the way open
markedly,
deliberately.

To prepare the one
for the torrent
of grace yet to come.

The drops descend
one by one
to compose
one’s tears
of love
in kind.

 

Link

A ramshackle life I lead.
Minced away by time’s indifference.
Caring only for that single thread.
A line of hope.
Linking.

 

Direction

I sat here
all day
facing in the wrong direction—
Looking outside.
Wondering why it’s dark in here.
Who reminded me to turn around?

Inbetweens

The next series of poems and images speak to the place of being in between.

The image below was meant to serve as a representative of this place and the poem begins this series.

In-between

The heart has no location
except when there are two.

And in-between it comes to rest
for a moment.

Ghost Flesh

Underneath that fleshy crust
lies a ghost who weeps
for a touch of sunlight
and a word that feels
or a sip of mother’s milk.

Starved
    from life,
        for life,
            a life.

The fleshy ghost surfaces
covered in raw nerves and dark red blood.

A new born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spineless

Amicable smile minus warmth.

Regulating, calculating, insinuating,

Control.

Pre-registered response.

Fixed and fixed again.

Advance knowledge prevents

    the pain of waking.

Fragile fake—

or is it fake fragile?

Don’t know, don’t care.

Don’t lie.

Intimacy reveals a small, soft mollusk,

No shell.

No protection.

No spine.

Poison is the chosen defense—

The lie, the cheat, the game.

Held at arms length—

All is fair play.

Volume

Words lead one into another and another and another.
Muzak-like where cheap talk glides upon the surface
    with smiles and lies.
Endless repetition of the
    same song, same sound, same word.
Saying nothing really, really nothing.
With volume.

A counterfeit caring.
Where exchanges overlap.
Words crossing this way and that.
Saying nothing.
With no hesitation or regret.

Manacles around my vocal folds.
Guard the true and soft down deep.
Wit or tale gloss the glib.
Managing the dead zones with a meaningless drone.

Saying nothing, really.

Really nothing.

With volume.

 

Margins

The margins of memory
hold encapsulated moments.

Freeze dried morsels
to be digested when
the time is ripe.

In the clasp of two hands
a message is encoded
in the palm
in the blood
in the nerves
in the heart.

Messages set in the margins
connected by a

thin

blood-red

line.

Callous

Skin abraded
by ceaseless friction
forms a barrier.

Shielding the touch
from nerve.

Blotting out contact
with the living.

A residue created
by ignorance.

Our soft vulnerable skin
turned to stone
by heartless repetition.

Callous.

Introduction

Originally, I composed the contents of this blog as a book, thinking that I would publish a follow-up to my first book of images and poems entitled Missives published by Codhill Press. However, after having designed the follow-up book as well as receiving reviews from a few friends, I felt the need for a fresh approach. I played with ideas of publishing this material in other digital forms, but then I wondered if making the contents available in a blog might invite interaction with an audience, albeit virtual. This appealed to me as a worthy experiment, allowing the readers to comment and respond to the works if they felt moved—even to invite a conversation if that should develop. Don't know what is possible, but we will see how this evolves…

Poetry for me has always been a private matter—a way of digesting. Over the years, painting too has become a more clandestine practice, but as a painting mentor wisely explained to me, "If the work is not seen by others, it has not really become a work of art." A life takes place in the piece as it touches others, and others are infused with the life in the piece.

Most of the book's content was read and viewed at the Orchard House Cafe in 2011 where I began to form the idea for the second book. Each work corresponds to one of the three headings: Colors, Inbetweens, or Hard Stuff.

So, if you are interested please subscribe to take part in reading and responding. I plan to post the blogs on a daily basis for about 2 weeks, and will finish with a closing blog to conclude the process. I conceive of most blogs as virtually endless; this one will complete itself perhaps to live in the "digital" world until it is no longer needed. Or perhaps it will give me the impetus to publish this as a printed book where those who wish can own a paper version as opposed to one composed of code.

I hope that you can take part either silently or as conversationalists.

 and to begin…

 We will start with the Hard Stuff…because one has to start somewhere….

Hard Stuff

I speak of the surface and the words
have no weight.

They drop
as dead flies do
while falling in flight
having lost what once
tethered them to the air.

That life in their buzzing,
in their zig zag meander,
steered by desires
for raw, dead meat
and dung
left on the side
of the path.

Their tiny lives living
on what is left behind.

And rejuvenated
in the underworld of Earth.