Friday, June 4, 2010

evening by the lake.

It's but three years
since we sat 'round
those yellow desks, mosaic’d
in Pollock’s genius.
All precise, that tangle
of moment and fire
split and spilt—
memory sent
to its burrows
as staple-guns war.

(When will he rise
on the white-primed sea?)

Hand guides mine, with the brush
in mine. As I paint lately,
my hand is that hand.
Children of aether, or children of earth...
There is developer
all through my clothes.

We have witnessed Memory.

Autobiographical persistence
wanes away.
Understand these hundreds of layers
of worthier strokes,

lost in someone else’s worlds;
images dart in and out
of these feast-hall windows,


  1. are you insinuating i have a messy classroom?

  2. "It is only when I lose contact with the painting that the result is a mess." :)

  3. P.S. And that's only to mention the tables... But who says neatness is anything aesthetic.

    Either way, yours isn't the only classroom in the pretty poesy, and is probably the tidier of the two :) We've recently been having Education classes in the art room at uni, which is tidier still, and I am "Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?" Alas :P