The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Mum! They're changing me treatment, me hot flushes have gone! With side-effects missing, it all feels quite wrong. Mum! There...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
Monday, 23 July 2012
the mystifying mark
Sometimes an artist makes a mark - undoubtedly
his own, but one to baffle him.
He wonders what it means,
ponders its likeness to the bird
he saw desert the V-formation and then veer away
to do its own thing in its own way in some
other sky. What drove the mark and what
does it intend? It made a break for freedom,
that much is crystal clear, but yet the where of it
contains no resonance of what was in its mind.
And saying which... there is the mark in question...
Do you not see it clearly in my painting?
Can you not see how it is troubling me?
Is it the burnt remains of long ago experience
that does not fit the brand new image that I have of me?
It stares at me, defying me to do whatever it might be
it had in mind for me to do - remove it with
the palette knife, include it as a figure, bird or sign...
whatever it may be, I will not do, I will not do! It shall
not interrupt the smooth unrolling of my vision... except,
perhaps, it is the essence of that vision stealing up on me.
Do I make myself a fool in trying to divine
the meaning of the mark, this mark which came from me?
Ah yes, but from which part of me? And which part now
has set it free? These are the questions I must answer -
or I'll never look it squarely in the eyes again!
Perhaps it's mathematical... perhaps there is
a function to apply, perhaps the application
of that function will turn the whole caboodle
into flights of birds - or might it not transmogrify
into a fractal from my brush, a graph perhaps
to map the coefficient of man's inequality?
I am linking this poem to The Poetry Pantry #107 at Poets United