***
How often does it happen, by Jane Draycott
(From Wordstrokes : the poetry of art. Edited by Deborah Gaye. Avalanche Books, 2015.)
after 'Lunar Eclipse' by Scott Kahn, 2010
[Scott Kahn (född 1946 i Springfield , Massachusetts) är en amerikansk målare.]
that every silver thing is turned gold
that reservoirs and railways burn like copper
in the dark of winter's infra-red
that frost is fire, and forests
are a nerve-machine of birch and blood,
that for a few hours all falls quiet
as wind drops like a child in sudden sleep
and earth's hair stands on end,
that in the amnesty of moon's blind eye
the world confesses to the stars
those secrets it would rather hidden
in the deep red ocean of electric dark?
***
(From Wordstrokes : the poetry of art. Edited by Deborah Gaye. Avalanche Books, 2015.)
(After Odilon Redon)
[Odilon Redon, född 22 april 1840 i Bordeaux, död 6 juli 1916 i Paris, var en fransk målare och tecknare. Han var medgrundare av Société des artistes indépendants.]
 |
| The Cyclops (1914) |
He looks at her as he loves her,
with the tenderness of the wounded.
As if she were treasure he'd found
in a cave - sapphires, emeralds, amber,
the jewels of her flesh, sleeping.
All looking and no touching,
he's sated with the taste of desire;
but saved from the sadness of having.
His single eye drifts over her
like a moon, its amethyst shadow
bruising the horizon. His one eye.
A single tear. His left hand steadies
the hillside, a door he'll never open.
One kiss would kindle an earthquake.
Stroking her breasts, he'd crush her
like a grape. The love in his look
belongs to a child. One lost in another room.
Locked in his enormous eye. Howling.
***
Sur la terrasse, by Neil Powell
(From Wordstrokes : the poetry of art. Edited by Deborah Gaye. Avalanche Books, 2015.)
a painting by David Hockney
[David Hockney, född 9 juli 1937 i Bradford, West Yorkshire, är en brittisk konstnär som bor och verkar i Kalifornien. Hans verk är mestadels personliga och självbiografiska, av vilka målningarna av swimmingpooler i Los Angeles tillhör hans mest kända verk.]
 |
| Sur la terrasse (1971) |
Limits: distance and near edge;
here you are contained, and yet
hills and trees delineate
a further world. The curtains
know their place and hesitate,
held back, restrained: open doors
are the best we can hope for.
But listen. Don't turn. There is
another distance within
where the eye shapes, translating
image into imagery:
beyond the curtains, casting
a separate glance and now
a shadow within shadow.
Being and seeing are more
than the best we could hope for:
now all the generous light
is yours. On the terrace you
keep distance and edge in sight
and are them, contained: see how
the shadows bend towards you.
Inga kommentarer:
Skicka en kommentar