dearest dearest edward darley boit, dearest dearest edward darley boit and all your daughters and john singer sargent. i am not in love with you, daughters of edward darley boit. I am not in love with you.
whistler nocturne in black and gold, art for arts sake
whistler arrangement in balck and grey, WHISTLER, YOUR MOTHER!
moulin de la galete, moulin de la galet, le dejeuner sur l'herbe manet
the temptation of saint anthony, cezanne, seven apples, great bathers, great bathers
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
beside me is beside me is:
Beside me is beside me is:
An oblong canoe and beside it
a walking man’s trousers, bright blue.
On the diamond of a toad’s back
is it sizzling in a pan of oil—
but smoother torn slightly at the edge;
my parents first house in Hanover,
Massachusetts.
A pigeon sheds its feathers,
brown as dirt is brown;
it lives on a cigarette burn,
a porcelain cow for pouring creamer,
& jumping back— it is not fur.
Covered with small holes & filled with hair,
(a white line through the center of me)
I am Drums, The James Library & Up the Staircase;
a shoe made for the left foot,
I have worn on the right.
A pilgrimage of ants crossing the gravel walkway,
empties itself into a snail shell:
And here is the shag rug, smelling of mold,
the brim of a gentleman’s hat as it curtsies,
& spoons at her ice cream
alone on the stone of a fountain, a penny drop, dropping:
Here is myself as a child or a once-was.
A man who was once, Once-Was
My Great Great Great Grandfather
riding by me on a motorcycle.
Who is bigger than this house?
He is smoking his pipe.
He is bigger than this house smoking
a cigar outside the pastry shop.
(& drunk around noon)
(& wrinkling the newspaper)
He cannot understand, (his now being a horse)
How business day floats
down the sheets
(not made of bricks, not made of anything)
more than this old blue cow
in the middle of my plains, chewing silent
straight through
the white cud, a feather cap
line center.
An oblong canoe and beside it
a walking man’s trousers, bright blue.
On the diamond of a toad’s back
is it sizzling in a pan of oil—
but smoother torn slightly at the edge;
my parents first house in Hanover,
Massachusetts.
A pigeon sheds its feathers,
brown as dirt is brown;
it lives on a cigarette burn,
a porcelain cow for pouring creamer,
& jumping back— it is not fur.
Covered with small holes & filled with hair,
(a white line through the center of me)
I am Drums, The James Library & Up the Staircase;
a shoe made for the left foot,
I have worn on the right.
A pilgrimage of ants crossing the gravel walkway,
empties itself into a snail shell:
And here is the shag rug, smelling of mold,
the brim of a gentleman’s hat as it curtsies,
& spoons at her ice cream
alone on the stone of a fountain, a penny drop, dropping:
Here is myself as a child or a once-was.
A man who was once, Once-Was
My Great Great Great Grandfather
riding by me on a motorcycle.
Who is bigger than this house?
He is smoking his pipe.
He is bigger than this house smoking
a cigar outside the pastry shop.
(& drunk around noon)
(& wrinkling the newspaper)
He cannot understand, (his now being a horse)
How business day floats
down the sheets
(not made of bricks, not made of anything)
more than this old blue cow
in the middle of my plains, chewing silent
straight through
the white cud, a feather cap
line center.
Roberto Forieri, TI AMO (final?)
Roberto Forieri, TI AMO
Roberto Forieri, TI AMO is written over
a grey patch of paint, washed over
the ochre stone of a Spoleto apartment,
as if to rub away what’s underneath.
Here some lover of Roberto Forieri
has dated him 09-10-2009,
a new born scrawled into an ancient city.
Around the corner above the iron-gated archway
of a small brick church; the fresco
--a term meaning freshly and quickly
painted— rubs the sleep from its eyes.
Nightly is the nun there, coming quickly.
She climbs her ladder up to face it, sponge in hand.
She returns each night to scrub the faces;
her hands circling slowly across the stone forever.
Until one day the Virgin Mary appears without a nostril,
then only one eye, then none at all.
She recedes into the instinct of a thin black line,
the four men who stand on either side; their faces too
rubbed thoroughly.
The one who stands nearest her, holding his brow still, a vague trace
of earlobe in his old age. He turns to abstraction for meaning,
while the smallest remains on the wall, freshly painted—
a child whose household, a painted stone,
is disappearing or elsewhere returning.
It leaves you here. It leaves you,
a fixed stare,
a blue iris.
Roberto Forieri, TI AMO is written over
a grey patch of paint, washed over
the ochre stone of a Spoleto apartment,
as if to rub away what’s underneath.
Here some lover of Roberto Forieri
has dated him 09-10-2009,
a new born scrawled into an ancient city.
Around the corner above the iron-gated archway
of a small brick church; the fresco
--a term meaning freshly and quickly
painted— rubs the sleep from its eyes.
Nightly is the nun there, coming quickly.
She climbs her ladder up to face it, sponge in hand.
She returns each night to scrub the faces;
her hands circling slowly across the stone forever.
Until one day the Virgin Mary appears without a nostril,
then only one eye, then none at all.
She recedes into the instinct of a thin black line,
the four men who stand on either side; their faces too
rubbed thoroughly.
The one who stands nearest her, holding his brow still, a vague trace
of earlobe in his old age. He turns to abstraction for meaning,
while the smallest remains on the wall, freshly painted—
a child whose household, a painted stone,
is disappearing or elsewhere returning.
It leaves you here. It leaves you,
a fixed stare,
a blue iris.
John Ashberry: Paradoxes and Oxymorons
Paradoxes and Oxymoronsby John Ashbery
John Ashbery
This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What’s a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.
John Ashbery
This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What’s a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.
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