Saturday, October 25, 2014

Lock-tight doors and paint-over windows

© Cy Twombly

Cy Twombly, Untitled, 1970. Pencil, plywood, color pencil, oil paint, wax crayon and Scotch Tape

Most mornings-- in the deep pre-dawn-- I drift through landscapes of my mind's devising, listening to my own voice filtered through rock and cloud, reciting poetry in an obscure tongue.

Today, so early it might almost have been last night, I wandered through long corridors, hallways bathed in sepia tones and wisps of palest ruby.  Cryptic scribbles covered the walls-- I kept trying to read what was written, walked on unenlightened.  

Doors everywhere along the roofed avenue, none open, taunting me with their resistance to my efforts.  Windows too, all inked over-- I could hear winds and bird-calls beyond, but the panes remained opaque.

So hard to convey...this Twombly comes closest.

[As always, all images copyrighted to the artist or his/her legal representative, used here solely for non-commercial purposes of commentary].

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Ominous Radiance

Sometimes words wrack me with their power-- I could fall down and drown in them.

This week I collided with Melville's poem "The Berg; A Dream" and have re-read it multiple times, giddy with it, while fearing its danger.

Above all, this ominous radiance:

"Along the spurs of ridges pale,
Not any slenderest shaft and frail,
A prism over glass-green gorges lone,
Toppled; or lace of traceries fine,
Nor pendant drops in grot or mine
Were jarred, when the stunned ship went down."