#NaPoWriMo2020 #6 – Bosch’s Garden, an ekphrastic poem

(take the tour here: https://archief.ntr.nl/tuinderlusten/en.html)

My body is missing that uphill walk
Each day from the Metro to the Mecca.
Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights
affords me reprieve as I start the week.

The dragon tree – a plant that heals and dyes
A crimson red – is my first stop. I drink
Her blood and feel at once her curing power.
Reptiles seek terra firm where they can.

The owl is a nighttime bird of prey
Always watching, eyes wide open, spirit
Beast of the gods. A lion devours
A deer without compunction. His nature

Dictates relieving hunger pangs. So what?
A serpent wraps himself around a tree
That bears sweet fruit – tree of good and evil.
The pink fountain no doubt is feminine:

Her dotted eggs await incoming seed.
The darkened Moors below also await.

Lockdown sonnet #12

I just listened to the new Bob Dylan drop.
Some kind of weird incantation –
A forced repetition, for a hypnotic effect,
a magic ritual in an ancient oral tradition.

Also, a shout out to the musical ancestors,
Invoking each of the gods by name.
An African conceptualization is what Toledo
would call it. Oh, you don’t know Toledo?

How could you? He was Ma Rainey’s piano player.
Ain’t never been the same fool twice. Don’t worry,
You’ll see it on Netflix when it comes out.
A piano lesson disguises the real drama.

Old Bob gives the devil his due. Play that funky
music white boy. Spell it with a K in B flat.

Lockdown sonnet #9

There is a sort of spiritual healing
taking place in government today,
thanks to Rona. Forced into party strait
jackets to support various sides
of the impeachment hoax, many
Unwillingly, members can finally seek
the unity of purpose and collegiality
that heals their souls. All our souls.

The black ladies are making a quilt
with large, oversized white hands.
And there is a peeping Tom in the window,
maybe the artist himself. Maybe some other.
A black cat creeps across the floor,
and a new world is forming outside.

a quilt is a collage is a poem

The black ladies are making a quilt
with large, oversized white hands.
And there is a peeping Tom in the window,
maybe the artist himself. Maybe some other.
A black cat creeps across the floor,
and a new world is forming outside.
Romare Bearden was such a poet!

https://butlerart.com/art/hometime/

Sonnet for Ankh

This morning I got up, put on a pot of coffee, and re-read Auden’s Musee des Beaux Arts (Hank’s mention), followed by William Carlos Williams’ Landscape with the Fall of Icarus. The pumps all primed, I wrote this sonnet and posted it to my blog to commemorate our time together at the Beaux Arts Library of Congress.

 

Now I have all the fountain pens I need:
one stores empyrean blue – I save it
for ceremonies; two for writing poems
use my private mixture of navy blue
and forest green – I call it navy green;
and one to highlight when and where I read –
its name is firefly (but truth be told,
I add a drop of navy green for depth
and taste). There are complaints each time I mix
my inks or fill my pens – imagine if
I were a painter? But that logic
gets me no consolation. Horace wrote
about a link between the two. Again,
no sympathy inside this loving house.

#NaPoWriMo2017

#NaPoWriMo is right around the corner! I can’t just let it past. I must try to do my part!

We’ll be here, and on Facebook, and on Twitter under #napowrimo, #glopowrimo and #intpowrimo.

Let the good times roll!

From the archives – Still Life

my ideal still life painting would contain
a non-microwave-safe cup and saucer,
a piece of ripened fruit, a wind up watch
with a leather band, and a book, hardbound,

with several bookmarks and tabs. On a desk.
And maybe reading glasses, depending
on the reader’s (and the painter’s) needs.
I’d stare at that canvas, and wonder

if my subject drank tea or coffee, hot
or lukewarm like I like it. I’d wonder
does the book have poetry inside it,
the bookmarks and tabs for his (her) favorite

passages. I’d hang it beside my wife’s
painting of the river ferry crossing.