At INPYARG
Between these two snapshots I feel a world of difference. It is etched in my heart.
A blind man. A man blind by.
I want to make a tshirt that could sum up, even if by a little, my feelings of some artists and what their songs do to the heart. But what colors would the heart accept, in enactment?
For those who have yet to stumble on Crying.
In the middle of the week that just passed, I went to sit in the park. The week was too packed with shop matters and my head was running herself. The set of ink pencils eyed me sadly every time I sat at the table, but as if there was a spell of routine drought and rain and more drought and rain, I could not draw and had no images awake or asleep.
Weight
Structures
I hope this means something, or does not mean something. Do I make sense?
When the orange around me shone to a pallor I recognised, I have been at the park for over four hours. My pencils are blunt and I felt like everyone in the park.
Another morning song, boys and girls. I say
Passion makes a difference don’t you forget you unhappy artist struggling clothes-maker dirtied by the fumes of market and numbers on books bills passion makes a difference or music would always be the same and not like this morning when music informs it is better to die a bittersweet death than the sweet forgetfulness of life in exchange for sanity so let’s dance dance dance the better in our heads
Quick one before I go off!
It occurred to me this morning that should an accident befall someone, his/her piercings would be the only thing that takes him/her through the transition!
And another song tonight when I get back!
In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet’s early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it’s not love’s later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer’s — boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.
Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.
Poetry, Don Paterson
Creating and Desiring are two different matters.
Magazine spreads and ads and online photos and in my dreams and nightmares, I see them. I see nothing and there is the urge but I have not even begun to scratch. I am not itching!
Oh well. Oh not well!
Once
I knew what to expect
Like I knew the feelings stirred from mud,
Mud that belonged together with the great tree
On the hill where the old (haunted) school sat.
That mud was rain. Excitement. Thrill. Joy.
These weren’t the same to me even if the mud
Came from the same place,
And the reason was simple:
They came from different places in my heart
Like I knew the feelings stirred from mud,
I knew what to expect
Once.
Dream home? A picture of a house in Mountain View, California.
Do you think the person or persons living in this house are still in love?
I look at the picture and refer to it on and off for an answer.
I know they are not rich. I know he or she tries to keep some plants alive.
Are those pots in the foreground at the base of the house?
I think the house has been rented out, or is being rented now.
People who stay long at one place do not live with blinds.
Yet I know someone once hung chymes to catch the winds of the house.
The question becomes then, where is the love I’m looking for? Is it in things?
How can it not be in things?
I have not been using you much apart from touching, taking and giving.
I tried to avoid meeting your tired lines and instead clipped your nails
thinking that is something I’m doing in advance of necessity or to-dos.
But as you type (as that is all I seem to be doing) I know
our distance is growing and time at both our worlds will not slow down
or change its demands on us just because we are artists sharing the world of
bankers, teachers, pilots, postmen, lawyers and their P.A.s, technologists, riggers,
door bitches, engineers, doctors and their drivers, economists, the lecturers
in charge of Honors students, spa and boutique owners, deejays and runway
people, and always, poetry after the poets.
Against so many wishes I wish to move you across the splinters along
two pieces of wood, not adrift in the sea between you and I,
carve both a slender frame… I shall guide you along folds
and we will cut or trim depending on how much paper we have (I tend to forget bleeds);
then we’ll glide our rough estimations to glue, bind, tie or dye
to bring to life this ethereal being
who will soar because of your touch
and would not know how to refuse
the dangle of existence against all promises of solid ground.
Fly, fly -
fly higher than you and I
as that is all we would have seen
when our creation gets caught in a crown
or flaps into the foam;
the flight this being has seen, more than we ever will
to peak as many times as time can ever let fall
and perhaps more, than you know
I can be responsible for.
Leading a life as if living one is a strange one because every moment you are reminded you are not.
In place of music you hear the taps. In place of cicadas, you hear the fan.
Places you walked by often are now talking to you in a language you know you understand
even if you pretend you do not. So places you are reminded you are not leading a life
develop a silence that plays the beats of your heart on the drums of your ears. And the ears,
the ears keep hearing others’ converse,
or the taps, or the fan. You wonder why all this is happening
if you’ve always wondered
about the power of love
and believed the declining ability to
as you grow older and old with heartbreaks
but with each occasion you forget
you beat yourself up smaller
and smaller until you start again without the knowledge of love.
You then begin to remember all the things you did on this day for so many years
when you were little and so small and intent on walking and stopping
and walking and stopping whenever the wind felt serious in its awful way
of blowing the light in your lantern down. Then,
then the lantern was your life and its flame your time
but what fun it was to know what to expect
on a day that should be life’s so good.
Store Location
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14 Scotts Road
#04-133
Email
bruceATgoblin-market.net
bishopATi-never-promised-you.com
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