Monday, October 5, 2015

October 5

Mondrian's Work:


  1. On Mondrian

    I can’t attend to all the blocks
    My brain is just too small.
    So I must choose
    Which one is real
    Which one will guide my map
    To which block do I give my gold
    Which one can hold my soul.

    I’ll go with red
    Commanding strong
    Splashed in sacred blood
    I tip toe in and find
    Refugee camp in red
    Bursting at the edges
    Held firm by border black
    So noisy I can’t hear
    So lucky; I escape.

    There’s work I must still do
    I’ve got a second chance
    This time I’ll choose with patience
    I’ll watch. I’ll pray
    I’ll listen to the languages
    I’ll muddle in the maze.
    Now eternity slips by
    As I notice
    Tucked in a corner
    An understated blank
    The smallest block
    Is quiet
    This one I enter, alone.

    1. I love the surreality of this piece. Really beautiful!

    2. "To which block do I give my gold
      Which one can hold my soul"


    3. "To which block do I give my gold
      Which one can hold my soul"


  2. Mondrian

    Lines, of virtue
    Squares to protect
    The color of your
    Eyes shows
    The pictures upon
    A mercy projects
    and holds a sacred
    Like a natures calm
    And the playful
    Sounds we hear
    when sitting still

    1. That's great man. In these poems you're moving into a much simpler style. I love them!

  3. The Gray Tree

    In a collection of colorful cubes
    hidden behind geometric precision
    I stumbled upon the gray tree

    Its oval canopy expanded
    blocking out a smoky blue sky
    I didn't trust the gray tree

    With outstretched branches
    dark, extending fingers of wood
    I admired the gray tree

    Faded suedo-leaves dancing
    like cobwebs luring a spider's meal
    I feared the gray tree

    The broadness of its sturdy trunk
    the beauty that lingers inside sorrow
    I renowned the gray tree

    Its presence looming and large
    yet fragile like a stained glass window
    I am the gray tree

    1. I love that last line! It TOTALLY makes a good poem amazing!

    2. I love that last line! It TOTALLY makes a good poem amazing!

    3. I actually had the last line 3 lines in. I literally wrote the whole poem around the last line

  4. Mondrian explains existence

    It’s about the rectangle
    The square.
    What is life? It’s all boxes
    Sharp edges
    There can be no mistakes with
    Boxes and so it must be with justice
    Child care, emergency assistance and even and
    Especially the art of seeing.
    There’s no room for gray or green well perhaps
    Just a little of the latter but it’s all most red and black and
    A bit of blue and yellow but there’s no
    Room for purple or pink so in order to live life fully
    Or indeed at all, you’ll have to learn to perceive geometrically.
    Try it now.
    You see the circle? Great. Now pull on it, give it corners.
    Now you’ve got it.
    Sharpen sharpen.
    Now add the next one. And the next.

  5. Composition and tableau
    Where does this all go
    I’ve not identified this lozenge
    The dying yellow flower
    Or the grey tree that will not grow
    I feel the loneliness in the setting sun
    regret and fullness of times past
    intense sadness yearning for home
    studied reflections of a method
    if only I could capture forever the
    very best technique for a whole still life

  6. When unexpectedly confronted with Nature Died With Sunflower, Piet Mondrian, and the subversion of expectation of his work this painting engendered

    Yes I too see it the raw
    beauty of the track homes

    in both the vertical and the horizontal planes-people
    their forks dangling from
    the cruciform phone lines

    and those of power
    in the natural extension of the red
    wood and the pines

    into the spines upright
    lances of business
    men and the dwellings where they stand or

    sleep it takes courage
    to see this continuous

    not the demarcation of human
    and nature between which no line of distinction
    can be drawn but between the non-gold

    of the sunflower and the bold color of the sky
    that entombs her
    in these rigid fields that you thought straight-

    jacketed her until the cracks appeared
    in the paint of the wood plank
    fences sparked with superficial

    erosion showed you no
    such regularities
    split our dimensions or beings

    but that the field declares itself open and full
    by itself queer
    and each snared irregularity is a better signifier

    for decay
    like water
    in the bottom of the glass

    where the once milk is suspended by its own nippled levity
    caked into milk-white clay
    and unthinkably undrinkable

    as the cuneiform sky
    or the low slung

    from which hangs the man
    who dares not believe
    he has a tail

    no matter how small
    between his legs.

  7. rose drinking its last
    draught of life - bathed within
    severe orange fire