From somewhere in the depths of my memory, I recalled watching a black and white movie of Picasso painting on a piece of glass, the camera filming his every assured stroke and wink and grin. I couldn’t tell you whether I first saw this on PBS, or in a darkened classroom at some out-of-pocket moment in my childhood. The repeated flashing of this memory, in some (day)dreams and at the end of my pen, led me to finding “Visite à Picasso” [“A Visit with Picasso”] by Paul Haesaerts, a Belgian filmmaker, artist, and historian. Here’s the poem that memory and film inspired, and then after, the actual documentary for your consideration.
Filming Picasso Paint Backwards on a Sheet of Glass
But does he really? It only seems so
as we gaze through the looking glass
the assured movements of the man
whose brush dips into paint and knows
exactly where to begin, a single
stroke zipping up one side of the
plexi, then languidly down the
other. thin lines of acrylic or oil
quickly form a bird, then
another--an owl? a falcon? a swallow?
see the camera jump and the glass is
clear again, blank as canvas
and now vase, and flowers--chrysanthemums? lilies?--
feels like home. see the pastoral scene
the goat and the shepherd, fluting and idling
beneath the tree, a nymph floating
and dancing
in the glassy spring air, bright
and so crisp. we see him
peck and wink, that giveaway grin
giving himself away
in what might be hide-and-
seek studio peek-
a-boo
and now see how there
are bulls, and next
a windexed doorway or full-length
mirror. long lingering strokes pattern
a nude, tall and leggy before us,
churns and whirls of breasts, tresses freshly brushed/fleshed
out, a paint-stroke smile, and finally
a tulip substitution that plants
everything in the imagination,
the blossom and bloom
of a flickering black-and-white
movie magic
It seems a lifetime ago that we discussed how 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 installed several works 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 joins the other 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 painting. Photos of the piece are the author’s own.
***
The Mosque 1964 Ibrahim El-Salahi, Sudanese, born 1930 Oil on canvas
somewhere just off-canvas
or so it seems
the muezzin begins the adhan
and it calls out from the minaret
stretching far beyond frame
and gallery, far
beyond wall and window
and from the west
a figurey shadow looms
menaces in manic paranoia
the mosque suddenly marked & monitored
no longer sanctuary
to the east, a figure
masked,
perhaps Munchian in style, no
El-Salahian
perhaps he the muezzin
is it a look of dread
eyes wide mouth agape
is it a look of reverence
the call pouring from outspoken lips
is it a look of caution
a warning warbled of the wicked
wizard of
the west
the shadow rising from
& the call continues
and the mask reveals nothing
as if frozen in oil on canvas
& the call continues
through soundless swirls and silhouettes
& the call continues
the muezzin is muzzled/is the muezzin muzzled
the perilous penumbra poised in the west
poisonous in its prevarications
dangerous in its discharge of belligerent jingoism
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 !
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 !
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
Crane, 1951-52
Woman Reading, 1951-53
Bird, 1958
Little Owl, 1951-52
The Figure in question is on the right.
Woman with Child, 1961
Woman with Hat, 1961
The Bathers, incl. Woman Diver, Man with Folded Hands, Fountain Man, Child, Woman with Outstretched Arms, Young Man
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.
Two events of late seemed to converge in my mind, making this big, blue marble seem more like a little, blue marble in my hand.
The first is the passing of a literary giant, Chinua Achebe, whose “Things Fall Apart” you should have already read already. If not, get thee to your local bookery, um, bookstall, er, bookmonger, or big-box book shop. (Let me interject to say that I’m very disappointed we don’t have more synonyms for bookstore, nothing with a ring to it like bouquiniste in French. But I digress, though I vow to use bookmonger more often.)
With the loss of this man, often called the “Father of African Literature,” I’ve given much thought to my own invitation to African letters. I must admit, I came to Achebe much later in my literary addiction. My gateway was the French-speaking countries of North and West Africa and the Caribbean; my hosts included Léopold Senghor, Camara Laye and, even earlier, Aimé Césaire. Since then, I’ve read the likes of Tchicaya U Tam’si, Kateb Yacine, Ahmadou Kourouma, Mariama Bâ, Patrick Chamoiseau,Werewere Liking, Assia Djebar—the list goes on. I’ve used Césaire in poetry workshops, I’ve heard Wole Soyinka speak, I’ve shared margaritas with Alain Mabanckou.
I know it is a cliché to say that reading opens up the world to you, but there is truth in it. And the world must be opened. If we are ever to get along, or help each other, we must understand each other. As Ferlinghetti declared, the world is a beautiful place to be born into. But it’s so much more, it’s big and its beauty is never-ending, we simply need to look for it.
Chinua Achebe captured this succinctly when he said:
“I believe in the complexity of the human story and that there’s no way you can tell that story in one way and say, This is it. Always there will be someone who can tell it differently depending on where they are standing; the same person telling the story will tell it differently. I think of that masquerade in Igbo festivals that dances in the public arena. The Igbo people say, If you want to see it well, you must not stand in one place. The masquerade is moving through this big arena. Dancing. If you’re rooted to a spot, you miss a lot of the grace. So you keep moving, and this is the way I think the world’s stories should be told—from many different perspectives.”
I am grateful for the perspective of Chinua Achebe.
*****
The second was my latest trip to the Menil Collection in Houston, Texas to view the recently-closed exhibition “The Progress of Love.” Rather than try to sum it up, here’s a summary from the official site:
“The Progress of Love is an unprecedented, transatlantic collaboration between the Menil Collection in Houston; the Centre for Contemporary Art in Lagos, Nigeria; and the Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts in St. Louis that explores the universal emotion of love. The three concurrent but unique exhibitions that make up The Progress of Love constitute a narrative arc, addressing love as an ideal, love as a lived experience, and love as something lost.
The Progress of Love at the Menil presents works by more than 20 artists from Africa, Europe, and America and examines the ways in which language, mass media, cultural traditions, and socioeconomic forces foster images and expectations about love. The exhibition pays particular attention to the effects of the digital era, asking whether our ideas about love are now coming into closer alignment across the Atlantic.”
Saddened though I am that I am unable to head to St. Louis and Lagos to experience all three exhibitions, I was enthralled by the offering at the Menil. Rich, moving, smart, my only disappointment was that I couldn’t stay longer.
Much of my time was eaten up by the installation piece of Romuald Hazoumè, from which I had much difficulty in pulling myself away. So enamored was I that I wrote an ekphrastic poem inspired by the work; it is a tribute to the NGO SBOP—Solidarité Béninoise pour Occidentaux en Péril (Beninese Solidarity with Endangered Westerners)—featured in the piece. According to the pamphlet available in the installation, “SBOP wants to reverse the trend: the citizens of under-developed countries could also help those of developed countries…and also help themselves.”
As you can see in the photo, the installation is quite complex: at the back, a wall; on the left, a TV showing documentary footage of the fundraising efforts by various Beninese celebrities; on the right, a TV showing still images of all the community agencies offering aid to people in Cotonou, Benin. In the center, a “closet” entered through a “bead” curtain (made from folded beer bottle caps) in which copies of clippings from articles about the NGO in French and African newspapers are mounted. In front of the wall, chairs, a table, and a desk made from used five-gallon oil/gas containers (a common theme in the work of Hazoumè).
The film follows Zeynab, Eléphant Mouillé, Danialou Sagbohan, John Arcadius, and Angélique Kidjo (the aforementioned celebrities) as they stroll through market and street, asking for contributions to the NGO. The residents of Cotonou are dubious, the plight of the white westerner difficult to fathom. But SBOP is convincing, and slowly but surely under-developed countries help the developed. The gesture is unmistakable, the assistance real.
The poem (which you can find here) comes from this footage as well as the comment that has appeared of late in American social media, in which people complain about first-world problems (my cell/wi-fi doesn’t work, the bus was late, my A/C is out, etc). These complaints contrast sharply with the willful ignorance of the problems we do have. It is an early draft, far from complete, but its timing seems appropriate.
*****
I write this because my perspective on the world has been influenced by the work of Chinua Achebe. I write this because, through literature, I have found a voice in which I may offer my own perspective. I write this because, through the stories and histories of Africa, my shelves and mind are ever-expanding and continually understanding. I write this because of the travels, real and imagined, inspired by the writings of Achebe and Senghor and others; because of the friends to whom their art has guided me.
Pick up a copy of “Things Fall Apart.” Spend some time reading about “The Progress of Love.” Take a journey that is no more out of reach than your bookshelf and your internet browser.
Waxy & Poetic 