For today’s poem, I simply include the note from the poet herself:
The story behind this poem is two fold: First, it was in response to artist Jackson Pollock’s work ‘Untitled. C.1950.’ This poem is also in response to the recent ban on immigrants and refugees, and a growing increase of intolerance in the United States. According to Carl Jung, everyone has parts of themselves that they suppress and ignore. These parts make up what Jung referred to as our shadow. Jungian scholars pose that just as an individual has a shadow, so do societies and nations. According to Japanese author Haruki Murakami, ‘At times, we tend to avert our eyes from the shadow, those negative parts, or else, try to forcibly eliminate those aspects. No matter how high a wall we build to keep intruders out, no matter how strictly we exclude outsiders, no matter how much we rewrite history to suit us, we just end up damaging and hurting ourselves.’
we are a land of shadows
sometimes they break throughthe veildark, dense and outsidethe lightblack winged thingsswishing saurian tailsdancingencirclingcontainingwhat we cannot reconcilethought and memoryblurincite the primitiveto rise a fevered frenzyof feathery trailsengulfs uslifts and carries usnot above our own woundsbut the world’s
Mary Katherine Creel lives in the foothills of North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains with her husband and their animal collective. Her poem ‘we are a land of shadows’ first appeared in What Rough Beast. She has worked as a journalist, freelance writer and counselor, and currently serves as communications manager at an art museum. Her poems have been published in Paper Rabbit, Tar River Poetry, Pittsburgh Poetry Review and Avocet. Her first poetry chapbook, Exit Wound, is forthcoming.
.
*****
For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.
Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !
As we mentioned yesterday, the Museum of Modern Art has joined in the voices against the Trumpet nonsense. With each plaque accompanying the art you read
“This work is by an artist from a nation whose citizens are being denied entry into the United States, according to a presidential executive order issued on January 27, 2017. This is one of several such artworks from the Museum’s collection installed throughout the fifth-floor galleries to affirm the ideals of welcome and freedom as vital to this Museum, as they are to the United States.”
Today’s poetic response is to [Composition-40-2011] by Shirana Shahbazi, a German artist born in Iran in 1974. It is a chromogenic color print from 2011.
Standing on a Ridge on Callisto, Gazing toward the Sun
“Of course, it’s easy to seethe Red Planet, Mars,God of War, guardian of agriculture--and next to him the terrible Deimos,as if war needed an escalation,and just beyond is Luna,that bright white moon doingall it can to hide the blue dot behind.”And what is that, exactly?Nothing worth the trouble--separated by puddlesthey still fight over myths &borders & trinkets &colors.So wrapped up in themselveswe are able to remain here,unknownunbothereduninvaded
and the sun a kilomètre zéro, blazing bright center,lighting our way to more, far beyond the blue, wet contentious stone.
For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.
Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !
Even the nation’s most important cultural institutions are in the struggle against the cacophony of crazy from Trumpet and his minions. The Museum of Modern Art recently installed work to add voice to the chorus of those of us protesting and fighting. With each plaque accompanying the pieces you read
“This work is by an artist from a nation whose citizens are being denied entry into the United States, according to a presidential executive order issued on January 27, 2017. This is one of several such artworks from the Museum’s collection installed throughout the fifth-floor galleries to affirm the ideals of welcome and freedom as vital to this Museum, as they are to the United States.”
Inspired by this, today’s poem will be the first of eventually several ekphrastic pieces responding to some of the works in the MoMA’s collection. The poem, untitled at the moment, simply bears the name of the artist and sculpture. Photos of the piece are the author’s own.
The Prophet 1964Parviz Tanavoli, Iranian and Canadian, born 1937Bronze on wood baseI. The ProfitEyes downcast
this blockhead leaning or falling back
hands worse than tied: stopped locked and boxed such constraints only propel the reverse this is the devolution, where capitalism trumps democracy, where regression brings a high ROI, at least to the top (lean back enough, you’ll see up there) hands worse than tied: unable to reach the ballot box
from this prison of our own (though not the majority of us)
makingthe stench in the air comes from the refilled swamp a reminder that money does(n’t?) buy democracy The Prophet II. Eyes high & wide arms folded & strong we lean into the future lean into the struggle our queer straight immigrant
citizen shoulder to the wheel
you see hollowed stomach,hungry holes this is how we feed ourselves,
that pit yearning for freedom this pit to be filled with justice,
that with equality, this with light,
those with shared bread, shared love,
shared dream this is the revolution,
where, like comic book heroes, we stand firm, we plant ourselves like a
“tree beside the river of truth,
and tell the whole world, No, you move
because for the struggle forward is the only way
through walls & bans & backroom bargainsthrough bought pols & bought polls &
bought nominations & bought abominationsthe power of a prophet always mightier than that of the profit
For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author. VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.
Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !
The Guggenheim Museum here in New York City recently closed a wonderful retrospective of the Swiss artist duo of Peter Fischli and David Weiss. For those unfamiliar with their work (as I was), I suggest reading this from one of the Gallery Guides who posted on the Guggenheim Museum’s blog. Explore the site further to learn more about the exhibit.
One of the things that struck me about the retrospective was the infectious sense of play that clung to the works and also influenced museum goers of all ages. You could hear laughter and sighs of contentment, bursts of Aha! as jokes or visual puns sunk in; the entire space was filled with the buzz of people not just talking and reacting to the art, but feeding off its energy and fun. I’m currently working on a poem that more directly deals with the themes of Suddenly This Overview and some of the popular opposites that emerge there. But this present blog post comes inspired by a completely different piece in the exhibit, the Large Question Pot (1984), an enormous painted polyurethane and cloth vessel, filled with dozens upon dozens of questions on the inner wall, written in German in various colors.
In keeping with the theme of play (and, in some cases, the juxtapositions found in popular opposites), I wrote answers to some selected questions that the curators translated for the exhibit. These answers, at times short poems, or even poetic bits, or simply sharp responses, were written in quick bursts, as the muse struck, with no rhyme or reason necessarily to unite them, other than the poetic exercise itself. At some point I’d like to find translations of all the queries inside Large Question Pot (my German being, well, non-existent), to continue exploring what Fischli and Weiss bring out of me with their work. Until then, you’ll need to be content with these selections.
In an effort to switch things up a bit, the poem for this post,
“Picasso the Sculptor Sculpting Sculptures Scrupulously and Scrappily in his Workshop”
will simply be presented as audio, with a gallery of photos showing some of the works mentioned in the poem. A post at a later date may include the text of the poem.
Bull, 1958
The Bathers, 1956
Woman with Hat, 1961
Woman with Child, 1961
Little Owl, 1951-52
Crane, 1951-52
The Figure in question is on the right.
Woman Reading, 1951-53
The Bathers, incl. Woman Diver, Man with Folded Hands, Fountain Man, Child, Woman with Outstretched Arms, Young Man
With “O, Africa!,” Andrew Lewis Conn has given us a hilarious, surprising, touching novel set in the late Twenties, during the transition from silent films to talkies. The story follows a pair of film makers, twin brothers, Micah and Isidor (Izzy) Grand. Micah, the brash, bold, and risky one, is the director; Izzy, the cinematographer and editor, is more reserved and unassuming, preferring to see the world behind the lens and in the editing room. The novel opens with the duo finishing a film shoot in Coney Island, teaming up their star comedian, Henry Till, with the legendary, even in his time, Babe Ruth.
From there the curtains rise, revealing a cast of characters that will intrigue and delight you until the final page, including Arthur Marblestone, the founder and president of Imperial Pictures, thus employer of Micah and Izzy, who finds himself over his head in debt; Micah’s mistress, Rose, a light-skinned woman from Harlem, and her younger brother, Early; and a collection of unsavory criminal types with whom Micah’s gambling habit creates his own set of economic problems.
In due course, Marblestone devises a sure-fire scheme to end the financial woes of Imperial Pictures, and enlists the help of the Grand brothers. Micah, clever and resourceful as ever, warms to the idea as he sees the potential for improving his own situation. The company president sends the filmmakers, along with a tiny cast-and-crew combo, including Henry Till, to Africa, where they will film a new comedy and collect as much stock footage as possible, which Marblestone hopes to sell to other production outfits, putting Imperial Pictures back in the black. Through this unlikely journey, we are witness to several grand and glorious love stories: of two brothers for each other, for cinema as art and as work, for those closest to them, and those they meet along the way. All the while, they come to terms with the racial attitudes of their times, the changing and growing Hollywood industry, and their own strengths and weaknesses.
Mr. Conn has not simply delivered to us an engrossing narrative, but he’s done so with vibrant, pulsating, read-it-out-loud language. There is humor coursing through the pages; your laughter will be so audible the other passengers on the train will likely glance at you sideways with concern. There is also much tragedy, and your gasps will gain you the unsolicited offers of an inhaler from compassionate asthmatics.
One of Conn’s most effective tools for drawing us into his language is his manner of listing, giving a catalog of images or descriptions to fill the reader’s imagination with the world he’s created. Early in the novel, while trolling for a place to use the restroom,
Micah takes in the passing parade of women with parasols and men in derbies, brownies, and bowler hats; brilliantined barkers and sailors on shore leave; cigarette girls and cotton-candy kids; the entire ready-made collage of movement, light, and faces.
The list, short and sharp like a good bark, asks to be read aloud as the plosive bs and the hard k sounds pulse the reader along. Such techniques also serve Conn well as a source of humor, as when Sidney Bloat, an associate of Marblestone’s, explains the history of the red carpet.
“Well, you see, the red carpet was originally implemented as a weapon; rolling out the red carpet was a battle cry, the red-carpet treatment a signal for certain death from above…because bundled inside said carpet, trundled inside said tapestry, rolled inside said rug, was a coterie of mercenaries, marksmen, private armies, jubilant assassins, soldiers of fortune, anarchist bomb throwers, a band of evil angels, and a collection of the worst, most rotten scoundrels the eighteenth century had on offer. The carpet was bad, bad, bad. And it was red….Hence the sanguine coloration.”
The alliteration, the enthusiasm of the speaker, the culmination of the repetitions, all draw the reader to laughter as one envisions a wildly gesticulating salesman delivering his little history lesson in the middle of a theatre. And the diatribe only serves as an introduction to Bloat’s even more enthusiastic description of the red carpet on which he, Izzy and Marblestone are currently standing. Laughter comes loud and often through the descriptions of Henry Till’s action on camera, or the description of Micah’s first experience with a now-legal-in-some-states herbal cigarette.
Though thoroughly littered with humor, Mr. Conn has also infused his novel with heartbreak and longing, life and death. At the risk of saying too much, giving away even more of the story, or the risk of saying too little, overly relying on some meager quotes and my own enthusiasm’s ability to seep through cyberspace, get yourself a copy of “O, Africa!” It will speak to your inner movie buff, adventurer, voracious reader, or prose interpretation performer. Your shelf, and the investigating eyes of houseguests will be much pleased with this addition.
Ekphrasis, in Greek, means “description.” I’m a big fan of ekphrastic poetry, that genre that, on the most basic level, is writing something descriptive about a visual representation (a painting, a photo, a sculpture). As the Poetry Foundation defines it, “An ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the ‘action’ of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.” The Academy of American Poets offers some fine-tuning that syncs nicely with my own work, saying “[M]odern ekphrastic poems have generally shrugged off antiquity’s obsession with elaborate description, and instead have tried to interpret, inhabit, confront, and speak to their subjects.”
Since my first encounters with the poetry of Ferlinghetti, and my first attempts with the flaming giraffes of Dalì, I have grown quite fond of art as inspiration. Thus is born the first poem inspired by the art of David Sweeney. His work, if you’ll forgive the brief, Cliff Notes-style, non-poetic ekphrasis, reminds me of the dream-like canvases of the Surrealists; his paintings make use of collage, of mixed media, which always summon my attention, reminiscent of the way I gravitate to some of the works of Picasso, Ernst or Braque. I am especially drawn to the appearance of text–newspaper clippings, stenciled quotes, scribbled phrases–in his art; the intersection of image and word begging for the poet’s ekphrasis. Lest I ramble on too much, I leave you to look at his œuvre at your leisure. If you find something you like, snatch it up, it’s hard to find good original art these days.
And now, to the poem.
It was first inspired by David Sweeney’s painting #517.
It can also be found at here, the second painting from the top.
The italics (except for the French), including the title, are taken from some articles in the NYTimes regarding air travel. The thrust of the poem, in language and subject, has changed repeatedly, and the last line was a surprise, unexpected in its return to a minor detail in the painting, as I finished this, draft version 1.5.
Whatever Happened to First Class?
First, let’s get things straight. The euphemism for first caste has got to go, cleared for takeoff–always a misnomer misnaming for misdirection. Even before da Vinci’s device and the Wrights’ winged wonder, the ocean-gliding, wave-riding masted masterpieces kept the dividing line pretty clear, offering free passage to free labor for the not-so-free folks packed in the hold, barely holding on to their humanity, barely holding on to their little-scrap lunch.
So what happened to first caste? Classy became the label rather than the behavior, fancy china replacing fine company, fancy curtain replacing fine linen. And in first caste, room to stretch and kick, lie flat as capital’s whore, 300 channels to choose as you charge IMac and IPad and IPod and IPhone and IBeeper and ISnob, sip champagne, the warm wet sandpaper towel wiping from your face the grime of those in the back of the bus, the tail of the plane, the bottom of the boat. High above, the 1 percent fly first class; the .1 percent fly Netjets; the .01 percent fly their own planes.
Meanwhile, tail-side, knees to chest, elbows tucked with three-pretzel packs and chocolate-chip puck, the chosen few of the 99% lucky to escape the surface, grouped into herds by booking for boarding, one movie on one screen, one position for your one-inch seat, unsettle in for takeoff and turbulence.
And on the ground, far below, the (un)lucky 99%, stick in traffic, hostage to the toll road trolls, opt for one of the 300 $ burgers at the 300 fast food joints for the 300 lbs, the only bubbles from the soda machine–bottom caste transport never felt good.
“You go into first class because it’s less horrible than coach.” No cash to pay outright, CapitalOne card hassled to the max? Then it is perhaps with the free upgrade, high miles in your frequent flier club, without mile high club fornicating to give the bumpy flight some purpose. Which seat do you book? Which level are you?
Platinum Premium or Bronze Business, Elite Economy or Cushy Coach Poached Ivory or Plated Silver, Gaudy Gold or Dazzling Diamond these are the new Fabulous First, Satisfying Second, Thirsty Third, Struggling Steerage which were Captain and mates and crew and slaves from King and Court and Lords and Serfs. Plus ça change, the more it stays the same.
And somewhere in the middle, betwixt the heaven and the hell, the poet, drifting in his dirigible, observes them all.
Waxy & Poetic 