Saturday, October 15, 2016

Two Doves

The song of two doves
Cooing amid the pale light
On a power line above the street,
They drove away my morning fear.

It was that dry silence of the long afternoon,
The cooling-copper sun
The empty, parking lot sky:
Tension ate like a slow acid
Cut with a deliberate reptilian precision
Trickled sawdust in the mind.
Evening came
A heavy cart, creaking down the
silent street
Dragging a sickly moon.

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Soul of an Afternoon

Soul of an afternoon
Sunlight on an empty couch
White wall that glows
Gentle fan, stirring overhead.
The carpet is a wide plain
Clean savanna inhabited only
By a silent pair of kicked off shoes.
Face against soft fabric
Warmed by the bright light,
The end of my quiet nap
Evening coming on.
Soul of an afternoon.


Sunday, July 17, 2016

Crossing

Triumphs in love and pain
Wandering forever, home again.
History of a river flowing
Stratas of lost emotion
Across primeval waters,
Passage of Angels go.
The land at sunset gleams
Desert rocks on glowing cliffs 
River ancient, eternal flow
Portfolio of petroglyph dreams
Forgotten tribes and fossil trees
Green Gingko Biloba leaves.
Triumphs in love and pain
Wandering forever, home again.


Edge of Glory

Sky path
River road
Whale cotton pods
Sky dome drifting on the rain.
Shining chorus, 
Silent plateaus
Cities afloat, ocean of blue
Slow migration
Morphology of clouds
White buffalo on a cobalt plain. 


There Were Dinosaurs Here Once

There were dinosaurs here once, 
When earth was young & green  
Jungle ferns along Triassic seas;
Now just a roaming wind
Tilted fence post fields 
Empty sky with several clouds;
Deep ocean mountains loom 
Tidalwave wall, white foam cap horizon.
This is lonely place 
A long story without breath yet lacking punctuation.
Orange cones guard late model trucks
Tired work crews fix broken roads
A brutal sun beats on tired hills
A skinny deer eats faded grass
Mute witness to highway marker 59.
These are vanishing points of history
Forgotten woodbore termite tracks through time 
Insignia of nature's nonsyllabic passage 
Petrified eternity, frozen centuries domino stacked in line.


Wyoming

Thru whistling windshield
Panorama? Monotone yield.
Wide grass plain
Bumpy two lane
Powder dust skies 
Rising wind sighs
Old West stills
Gentle rolling hills
Black dot trees.
Before modern gleam
Lost primeval dream:
Beneath ancient seas
Slumber many dinosaur
Trex, duckbill, brachiosaur.
Under land the government owns
Lie fallen, silent & mighty bones.





Thursday, July 14, 2016

Montana

Wealth of Montana hills
Grey-ribbon roads stray-dog chase winding grass-snake streams.
Ranch hands with copper skin
Old men in cowboy shirts,
Worn boots, denim jeans.
Houses and barns
Tiny in valley vistas
Cows and horses
Plastic toys that move.
Evergreen mountains
Trees upon trees
Roadside bright,
Far horizon, faded black;
Then,
Deep ocean, white studded,
Pacific BLUE.


Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Culmination of Soul

Tblisi.
A distant city I've studied 
But never been.
There are so many things
I simply do not know.
The isle of Malta is carved from stone
On a beach in Crete, 
Evening waves come in.
As I walk beneath these trees
There is a cool breeze 
Hint of thunderstorm.
In Hawaii, a sponge centuries old,
Cincinnati,
A gorilla falls so a boy may live.
Despite complexity of world,
I sense a culmination of soul,
Rhythm of tides, ebb and flow
At the Port of Baku 
Big ships come, then they go.
My daughter lies on the couch
Her sigh from a darkened room,
She watches television.
Been wandering forever
Texas and Virginia, Washington
Kansas and Qatar, 
Washington again.
Show me that open road
Turtleshell thoughts in a Uhaul truck
Big Sur ocean for my Kerouac soul.



Rooftop Summer

There was a 9 day isolation
Inconstancy of a Francesca soul.
Across the morning valley 
Parthenon glowed.
Small room in a tired flat,
Wandered the balcony 
Wine bottle grip
Statue of liberty disrobed,
Hot nights in Italy.
Half read books
Fresh bread, hunks of cheese.
There was a small bird who sang outside the window.


Monday, May 30, 2016

Tulsa

https://vimeo.com/155309476

Once I thought, 
Tulsa is an ugly word: 
A chrome-plate, ugly-brick city,
Cadillac cattlemen who sat in offices
Diamond ring Oilmen who still wore polyester suits.
But I was wrong.
I have seen its heart
Made known by loyal citizens
They testify,
Unorthodox charisma
Unique parades
Midnight coffee
Tacos in the afternoon.
Urban magic 
Colors Midwest uncharacteristic
Grassroot graffiti of original hue,
Glittering art in a variety of forms.
It's signature skyline is not pretty 
Yet, speaks character in a defiant brand of pride,
Rivals pretentious slugger cities New York and Chicago.
Like magical Macondo from Gabriel Garcia Marquez,
She has survived trials 
Withstood tornados of tribulation.
This new generation has vision,
They defy convention.
Amid the silence of an empty plain
There are windows of light
Subtle music drifts in alleys
There is a rhythm and a current,
Her streets shine after rain.


Photo credit to Rosemary Daughtery

Saturday, May 28, 2016

I was born, 1978

I love Vimeo... I often find the coolest stuff. 


To clarify, this is 'moderate cool', but there are always gems in the feed... Random stories from life that are small but unexpectedly sweet. Just like an arbitrary knock on the door when your neighbor unexpectedly delivers a slice of homemade cherry pie. 

Moments in time. Here, then gone...

We all have journeys. Even the most conventional humans with all their domesticated propriety acquiesce to the occasional walkabout. 

The night rider, lost in thought on a desert highway, muscling thru early hours on a Harley under a million stars. 

The Soldier holding onto a strap, looking at the ground below from a helo, a wide museum diorama of soft blinking lights of small villages spread out below, thinking about home. 

The waitress, leaned against a pole out back by the dumpster, smoking a cigarette and staring at the moon. The moon glows like a luminescent Cave fish deep underground, and in her tired mind and aching feet, she feels a connection. 

Even her several steps to the dark alley, she feels miles away. She is liberated a moment from impatient looks and fingers snapping.

I've heard that deep below the heavy earth, rivers flow, carve a path through dark dampness and granite rock. A mile down, rushing water polishes stones, even though no one is there to see it. A hidden river runs just as well as those beneath the sky and trees. Water is water. It just flows.

So. Journeys, rivers, wanderers, and trees.

Let's end this reverie with forest.

Somehow, it's comforting for me to consider that for every tree that falls in the forest without a witness, 10,000 more stand to greet the morning sun. And perhaps, that one and daring hiker's eyes who dared to climb the mountain through the night.

We all have journeys. But I think the most important part of a journey is the coming home, just like Thomas Wolfe wrote,

". . . of wandering for ever and the earth again . . . of seed-time, bloom, and the mellow-dropping harvest. And of the big flowers, the rich flowers, the strange unknown flowers. Where shall the weary rest? When shall the lonely of heart come home? What doors are open for the wanderer? And which of us shall find his father, know his face, and in what place, and in what time, and in what land?"

In those long nights and tired feet, the hot winds and cold rain, we find our meaning by our final coming home.

I still dream, but I'm not restless anymore.

Cheers everyone, goodnight!




Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Multiplicity of forms

The universe is infinitely creative and will generate a multiplicity of forms that render a singular paradox inherently universal in content.

We do not know if this is the only universe, but it appears likely there is plentitude.

Since we only know our perspective from this dimension in this universe, there may be some form of distortion or altered perception when we interact or are aware of some being or landscapes from other universes or dimensions.

I don't mean truth is relative. 

I am saying is our  perception is relative, and limited by our level of reality.

What is interesting about the human species is that we are a unique hybrid. 

We mirror our Creator. 

The universe has a multiplicity of forms yet all are connected and at the end are one. 

Within the singularity of a human being, there are a multiplicity of forms yet they're somehow joined to one and another, and in this reality or dimension, seen as one person. Every part, despite its level of vibrational being, possesses a certain level of awareness. However, these parts are not always aware of one another. Must especially, the human body particularly does not always recognize its more subtle counterparts. 

Essentially, we must first help ourselves by being merciful and kind to ourselves... Offer and receive self-acceptance... yet without interacting with others, we can never really learn to do it for ourselves.



She speaks with kindness

She speaks kindness
Talks with open hands
Her mind is an open window,
Cobalt square
Broad brush painted,
Finesse of touch.
Her profile,
Framed by Mediterranean air
Bold, nude statuette
Botticelli's Venus in silhouette
Late luminescence of an afternoon.
Crown her with random fire
Ignite a nova from the sun
Struck wide against matchbox sky.
Over her shoulder a wanton stare 
Rushing river of lens flare hair
Iconic halo, gold and fair
Light of election,
Floating like a molten dust
Veil of monarchs fluttering there.


Monday, May 16, 2016

The Human Crisis: By Albert Camus

Original text of the lecture by Albert Camus in McMillin Theater Columbia University (New York) March 28, 1946 (Google Translated) 

The human crisis: The crisis of man.

The men of my age in France and Europe were born just before or during the first great war. They arrived in adolescence for the first global economic crisis, and then lived another 20 years before the takeover by Hitler. This was built on a foundational education from the Spanish war, Munich, War of 1939, defeat and four years of occupation and clandestine struggle. 

So I guess it's called an interesting generation. And precisely, it will be interesting for you as I speak, rather than my own behalf, on behalf a number of French who are now 30 years old and who have formed their intelligence and Heart during the terrible years when, with their countries, they fed on shame and lived in revolt. Yes, it's an interesting first generation because in front of the absurd world than their elders manufactured, we believed in nothing and lived in revolt. 

The literature of his time, surrealism in particular, was in revolt against clarity, narrative and sentence itself. The painting was abstract, that is to say, it was in revolt against the subject and reality. 

Music melody refused. 

As for philosophy, it taught that there was no truth but merely "phenomena" that there could be Mr. Smith, Mr. Durand, Herr Vogel, but nothing in common between these three particular phenomena. 

As for the moral attitude of this generation, it was even more adamant nationalism seemed a truth exceeded, religion exile, twenty-five years of international politics had taught him to doubt all purities, and think that no one had ever right or wrong. As for morals traditional society, it seemed to us that it has not ceased to be, that is to say, a monstrous hypocrisy. 

 And so we were in denial. 

Of course, it was not new. 

Other generations, other countries have experienced other periods of history that experience. But what again, is that these same men, strangers to all values, have had to adjust their position. Personal compared to war first and then compared to murder and terror. 

It is on this occasion they had to think that there might be a crisis of man, because they had to live in the most heartbreaking contradictions.

As they entered, indeed, in war, as one enters Hell, if it is true that hell is the denial. 

He loved neither war nor violence ; they had to accept war and exert violence. 

They had hatred for the hatred. 

It took them yet to learn this difficult science. After that, they had to take care of terror or terror rather took care of them. And they were faced with a situation; rather than characterize in general, I would like to illustrate four short stories about a time that the world began to forget but that burns us even the heart:

 1) In the building of the Gestapo of a European capital, after a night of interrogation, two indictees still bloody are bound and the building superintendent [done carefully household] the heart at peace since it took probably his breakfast. The charge of one of tortured, she replied indignantly a phrase translated into French, would go something like this: "I never take care of what my tenants." 

 2) Lyon, one of my friends is taken from his cell to a third interrogation. As they tore his ears, in a previous interview he wears a bandage around his head. The German officer who led the interrogation is the same who has already attended the first sessions. Yet he who asks with a hint of affection and concern in his voice, "So, how are these ears?"

3) In Greece, following an operation by Maquis, a German officer prepares to shoot three brothers he took as hostages. The old mother fell at his feet and he agrees to spare one, provided it refers itself. As she can not decide, we put them plays. She chose the elder, because he was in charge of family, but at the same time, she sentenced the other two to death, as was the German officer's intention. 

 4) A group of women deported among which is one of our comrades, is repatriated France by Switzerland. Having newly arrived in Switzerland, they perceive a civil funeral. And at the sight of this show are thrown into hysterical laughter: "That is how they treat the dead here!" they say. 

 I chose these stories, not because of their sensational nature, but because I know that we have tend to spare the sensitivity of the world and prefer usually close my eyes to keep our tranquility. 

But that's because these examples force me to respond other than a conventional "yes" to the question: " Is there a crisis of Man? "

They allow me to answer, as answered all the men I mentioned, "Yes, there is a crisis of man, since the death or torture of a being in our world can be addressed with a sense of indifference or friendly experimental interest or mere passivity. " 

Yes, there is a crisis of man, since the death of a prisoner may be considered differently with horror and outrage that should lead, instead of human pain seen as a somewhat boring reality or logistical problem such as the refueling trucks or the obligation to queuing for any gram of butter. 

It is too easy on this point to blame Hitler and say that the beast is dead, thus the venom has disappeared. For we know that the venom has not disappeared, we carry it in our hearts and nations, parties and individuals share the feeling, still look on with the rest in quiet anger.

I have always thought that a nation bears solidarity with its traitors just as to its heroes. So does a civilization also. And the white Western civilization, in particular, is responsible for its perversions as well as its successes. 

From this point of view, we all stand responsible for Hitlerism and we must seek the most general causes that have made ​​possible this terrible evil that mauled the face of Europe. Of this general crisis, greater spirits than I could possibly could make the subject of an edifying speech. But the generation of which I speak knows that this crisis is neither here nor there: it is only the rise the subsequent terror to a perversion of values. Abman or a historical force were no longer judged on their dignity, but according to their success, their power. The modern crisis consists entirely in the fact that no Western is assured of his immediate future and that all live with more or less precisely fear of being crushed one way or the other by history. Yes, if we want that this miserable man, Job Temps Modernes, shall not perish from his wounds in the middle of his pile of shit, we must first lift the mortgage of fear and anxiety so that he finds freedom of spirit without which it will not solve any of the problems that face the modern consciousness. 

This is what the men of my generation understood, and that the crisis before which they are found and where they are. And we should resolve it with the values we have, that is to say, with nothing but the consciousness of our absurd lives. 

Thus we had to enter the war without consolation and without certainty. We knew only that we could not surrender to the beasts that rose across Europe. 

 But we did not know justify this requirement other than to simply oppose them. Moreover, even those most self aware found they still had no thought in principle that could them allow to oppose terror and to disavow the murder. For if one believes in nothing, because if nothing makes sense and if we can not say no value, then everything is permitted and nothing matters. 

So if there is no good or evil, then what Hitler did was not wrong, nor unreasonable. You can spend the lives of millions of innocent people in the crematorium as surely as one can devote oneself to care for lepers. One can rip the ears with one hand, and heal with the other. We can perform housework before the tortured bound in chairs. And we might as well honor the dead thrown in trash cans. 

All this is equivalent. 

And since we thought that nothing has meaning, it must be concluded that right means success, power and success make right. And it's so true that even today a lot of smart, skeptical people say that if Hitler had won the war, history would have honored him as right and the atrocious pedestal on which he was perched. We cannot doubt the truth that History as we understand it, Mr. Hitler justified in his terror and murder as we the dedicated majority justified, we dare to think that nothing else than that makes sense. 

Some among us, it is true, believed that in the absence of any higher value, at least believe History had meaning. In all cases, they often acted as if this is what they thought. 

They said that this war was necessary because it would liquidate the era of nationalism and end the time of empires. That after conflicts would come Universal Society and Paradise on earth. 

But thinking about it, they came to the same result as if they had thought nothing at all had meaning. 

For if history means anything, it must make sense or it is nothing. Those men thought and acted as if history obeyed a sovereign dialectic and as if we were heading together towards a final goal. 
They thought and acted according to the detestable principle of Hegel: "Man is made ​​to history and not the history for man. "

In truth, all political realism and moral guidance of this last war pointed towards a World Destined obeyed, often without knowledge, a philosophy of history in German, that humanity is heading by rational ways towards a definitive Universe. Nihilism was replaced by absolute rationalism and in both cases the results are the same. 

For if it is true that history follows a logic sovereign and fatal, if it is true according to the same philosophy as the German feudal state must inevitably succeed the anarchic state and nation to feudalism and empires to nations to finally arrive at the Universal Company, then all that is good is that fatal march and achievements in history are the definitive truths. And as these achievements can not be served by ordinary means, but through wars, intrigues and individual and collective murders, not all acts are justified in that they are good or bad, but whether they are effective or not. 

And so it was that in the world today men of my generation were delivered during years to the double temptation to think that nothing is real or think that power alone is true, abandoning all historical inevitability. Thus, many succumbed to either of these temptations. 

And this is how the world comes to the will to power, and that is to say Finally, to terror. For if nothing is true or false, if nothing is good or bad, and the only value is efficiency, while the rule should be: power belongs to the most effective, to the strongest. 

The world is no longer shared by just men or unrighteous men, but made of masters and slaves. Whoever is right are those in power, those that enslave. 

The housemaid was right about the tortured. The German officers who torture and the SS turned into gravediggers became the reasonable men of this new world. 

Look at the things around you and see if even now it's not true. We are caught in the nodes of violence and we stifle it. Whether inside nations or the world, distrust, resentment, greed, and the race for power are busy making a dark and desperate world where every man is forced to live in the present, the only word of "future" in him means anguish, comes to abstract powers that emaciate and brutalize his hurried life; his existence is separated from natural truths, wise and simple recreation and happiness. 

Perhaps after all, in this still happy America, you would not do this or allow this wrong. But the men I speak of, they saw this for years, still feel a sickness in their flesh, read it still on the faces of those they love. From the depth of their hearts still afflicted rises now a terrible revolt that eventually sweeps everything away. The monstrous memories still haunt them, but they too deeply experienced the horror of those years to agree to continue it. 

It's here that begins for them this real problem. It is not enough to know the disease. We must heal. How then do we heal, what immediate remedies could we apply to our hurt? 

 If our analysis [is] just, what are the characteristics of this crisis? 
They are: 

1) the will to power

2) terror 

3) the replacement of the real man by political and historical man

4) the reign of abstractions and fatality
(despite Anatole France who had a short philosophy) it is ideas that so industrially kill men today. 

5) The loneliness without a future.

If we want to resolve this crisis, it is these characteristics that we must change, and our generation is faced with this immense problem with all its negatives. It is these same denials that we drewthe strength to fight. 

It was perfectly useless to say: we must believe in God or Plato or Marx, precisely because we did not have that kind of faith. The only question was whether we would accept a world where it was not possible to be victim or executioner. And since we accepted neither, we fought. That is why we sought this reason even in our rebellion. Yet, wet were fighting not only for us but for something that was common to all men. We understood that in a meaningless world, men and women at least could agree that human beings should not be tortured, ears torn, and sons killed before their mothers eyes. We understood that since some of us were willing to die for this human community that valued human life and decency, that we had found at least one higher value than our personal lives and, therefore, at least one universal truth, one unity of solidarity. 

Yes, it was a shared belief that we had to oppose the world of murder. And that is why we had defended against murder, why we had to fight against injustice, against slavery and terror, because these three things impose a reign of silence between men, raise barriers between them, obscure one from finding the other and prevents them from finding the only value that can save this hopeless world. This became the binding brotherhood of men in struggle against their fate. 

We knew then what we had get in front of this world torn by its crisis. 

We must: 

 1) call things by their names and well realize that we kill millions men every time we agree to think certain thoughts. We do not think badly because that we are a murderer. We are murderers because we think wrong. Thus we can be a murderer without ever apparently killed. 
Thus, more or less, when our minds think wrong thoughts, we become murderers. 
The first thing we must do is outright reject by thought and action any form of realistic and fatalistic thinking. It is the job of each of us. 

 2) The second thing to do is to decongest the world of terror that prevails and prevents us from thinking well. I am told that the United Nations held in this city an important first session, we might suggest that the first narrative of this world organization should be to solemnly proclaim the abolition of the penalty death over the whole of the Universe. It is the job of governments. 

 3) The third thing to do is relegate politics back to its proper purpose, a secondary place. Politics does not exist to give the world a gospel or political / moral catechism. The great evil of our time is precisely that policy claims to bring us together, delivers a catechism, a complete philosophy and even sometimes an art of love to the world to follow. Yet, the role of politics is to run society, not settle our domestic problems and universal issues. 

I do not know for me if there is an absolute. I know that growth of corn should not drive the political order. The absolute should be the concern of all, not just the few: it is everyone's business. All must adjust their relations to each other so that everyone has the domestic leisure to question the absolute. Our life belongs  to others, we are linked, and it is fair to give it when needed. 

But our death belongs only to us. 

And that's my definition of liberty. It's the work of the legislators and constitution makers to run society so that we may accomplish these things before we die.

4) The fourth step is to research and create and promote positive values that will reconcile pessimistic thinking and an establish upbeat action. This is the work philosophers. 

5) The fifth step is to understand that this attitude comes creating a universalism in which all men of good will can meet. It's the work of all, not just the few. That's where we are at right now on our side. Was it worth going thru all this to achieve this simple realization? But after all, human history is often the history of our mistakes and what not what is good and true. The truth is probably like happiness, it is simple and it does not follow an ideal script. 

 Does this realization mean all problems are solved? No, of course not. 

This world is neither better nor more reasonable; we're still not out of the absurdity, but we at least a reason to strive to change the world, a worthwhile reason that hitherto we were missing. The world would still be despairing if there were no men, but since there are men and his passions, his dreams and his community, there is hope. We few in Europe hold a realistic and critically pessimistic view of the world yet still preserve a deep optimism in man. 

We do not claim to escape History, as we are in history. We claim only to fight for preservation of a history that part of man does not belong. I think I may well say,  We always refuse to worship the évémement the fact, wealth, power, history as it is and the world as it is. We want to see the human condition as it ideally is and could be, better. 

And what it is, we already know. It is this awful condition that requires barrels of blood and centuries of history to achieve a perceptible change in the destiny of men. This is the law. For years in the eighteenth century, the heads fell in France like hail, the French Revolution burned in hearts full of excitement and terror.

 Finally, at the beginning of the next century, this led to the replacement of the monarchy by a legitimate constitutional monarchy. We French of the twentieth century know too well the terrible law. There was the war, the occupation, the killings, the terrible prison walls, a Europe disheveled pain and all for a few of them finally acquire two or three positive inches of forward progress that would help lessen the despair. It is optimism here that would be a scandal. 

We know that those of them who are now dead were the best for their sacrifice. We who are still alive, we are alive only because we gave less than others. That is why we continue to live in contradiction. 

The only difference is, this generation can now join this contradiction with an immense hope in the man. 

This generation thinks, in short, one who hopes in the human condition is a crazy and he who despairs of events is a coward. We refuse absolute explanations and the reign of political philosophies, but we want to affirm man in his flesh and in his effort to achieve freedom. We do not believe it is possible to achieve universal happiness and satisfaction, but we believe it is possible to reduce the pain of men. This is because the world is unhappy in its essence, and we must do something to bring happiness.  It is because of injustice that we must work for justice. Finally, because all life is absurd, we must give it meaning and reason to continue. 

What does all this mean? This means being humble in our thoughts, take action, do our job. It means we all have to create, outside of parties and governments, reflections of communities. Communities that begin dialogue across nations; people who argue with their lives and speech that the world must stop being that of police, soldiers and money to become one of the man and woman of fruitful work and thoughtful leisure. 

I think we should direct our efforts, our thinking, and if necessary, our sacrifice to these ends. 

The decadence of the Greek world began with the murder of Socrates. They have killed madly Socrates' in Europe recently. This indicates only the Socratic spirit of indulgence towards others and discipline towards oneself is dangerous to murderous civilizations. 

It is the only indication that this spirit can regenerate the world. Other efforts, admirable as they are, applying power and domination to direct power and domination, can only mutilate man more seriously. In any case, this is the revolution we French and Europeans are living right now. Perhaps you have been surprised that unlike other French writers officially came to America and felt obliged to present a rosy picture of their country, I have not made ​​efforts in the direction of what is called propaganda. But maybe reflecting on the problem we posed in front of you made it appear more natural. The purpose of propaganda, I guess, is to provoke feelings that people do not have. But the French who have shared our experience seek to show reality or complain. The only national problem that they are not asked about does not depend on the opinion of the world. 

It came to us for five years whether we could save our honor, that is to say retain the right to speak for us the day after the war. And this law, we did not need to recognize. This was not easy, but eventually, if we recognized this right, it is because we know and are known only to the true extent of our sacrifices. 

But this right does not give us the right to give lessons. It is only right to escape humiliating silence of those who were beaten and beaten for too long despised the man. Beyond that, I beg you to believe that we will keep our place. There is some chance for this story of France will impact other nations in the next fifty years. And from this point of view, this nation that has lost 1 million and 620 thousand men twenty-five years ago in WWI, and lost hundreds of thousands of volunteers in WWII, must recognize it perhaps abused its own forces. This is a fact. The opinion of the world, its consideration or  disdain cannot change this. This is why it seems ludicrous to solicit or to convince the public otherwise. 

But it does not seem ridiculous or futile to point to this view how the crisis of the world depends precisely on these quarrels of precedence and power. 

To summarize the debate tonight and speaking for the first time on my own behalf, I would like to say only this:

whenever it is judged from France or other countries, or any other matter in terms of power, we remind the world again of this conception of man which led to its dismemberment, and that this will always strengthen the thirst for domination. Ultimately, it brings about murder. Everything enters into the world as ideas. Those who say or write that the end justifies the means, and the one who says and writes that greatness is judged by strength, the same is liable for absolutely hideous piles of crimes that mar contemporary Europe. Essentially, that is the whole meaning of what we have thought to say. And it was, indeed, a duty for all of us, I suppose, to stay true to the voice and experience of our European comrades so that you will not be tempted to judge too quickly.

We should never take the deadly ideas of just one man, but should look to all nations with the hope and certainty of finding human truth that each of them contains. With particular regard to American youth who are listening tonight,  the men we talked about respect humanity in you and taste freedom and happiness which I  read on the faces of great Americans. Yes, they expect of you what they expect of all men of good will, a fair contribution to the spirit of dialogue they want to establish in the world. We only have one word to say about it: do not reject the hand that extends to you. Our struggles, hopes and claims seen from a distance, look perhaps confused or futile. And it is true that there is one path of wisdom and truth, these men dI'd not chose the right path and the simplest. In the world of history they offered nothing of law and simplicity. The secret they could not find in their condition, they tried to forge with their own hands. And they will fail, perhaps, but my belief is that their failure will be shared in the world. In a Europe still poisoned by violence and deaf hatred in this world torn by terror, they attempt to preserve the man that can still be. And this is their only ambition. Of our latest effort in France and it's bexpression, we give you this evening a faint idea:  the passion and justice that animates all the French, our only consolation and my simple pride.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aaFZJ_ymueA

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Slender Tragedies

Away!
The voice of Baltazar 
Storm clouds speak
Love fails but friends are loyal
There is but a slender coil,
A tightly twisted brain.
Be there blessing of disparate unity,
Or so be war again.
Then wishes of war,
Promise of ready exile,
A distant tower,
Sad and quiet hour.
On a rugged plain
In evening hour
With rusted heaps, tired frames
Sunset breathes, stakes a claim.
Mantua is far away
There shall be no peace.
Doves cannot be purchased.
They lie stiffly, dead at dawn.
War speaks, it will not be silent.
Wherefore art thou, Romeo?
Unrecompensed, 
That sudden day of joy,
When girl departs, boy is strong
We are married to our graves
There is no wrong,
Only a slender tragedy.


Saturday, May 14, 2016

Education of an Artist

Here is advice from artist Ben Shahn to anyone who wants to be an artist:

“Attend a university if you possibly can.  There is no content of knowledge that is not pertinent to the work you will want to do.  But before you attend a university work at something for a while.  Do anything.  Get a job in a potato field; or work as a grease-monkey in an auto repair shop.  But if you do work in a field do not fail to observe the look and the feel of earth and of all things that you handle — yes, even potatoes!  Or, in the auto shop, the smell of oil and grease and burning rubber.  Paint of course, but if you have to lay aside painting for a time, continue to draw.  Listen well to all conversations and be instructed by them and take all seriousness seriously.  Never look down upon anything or anyone as not worthy of notice.  In college or out of college, read.  And form opinions!  Read Sophocles and Euripides and Dante and Proust.  Read everything that you can find about art except the reviews.  Read the Bible; read Hume; read Pogo.  Read all kinds of poetry and know many poets and many artists.  Go to an art school, or two, or three, or take art courses at night if necessary.  And paint and paint and draw and draw.  Know all that you can, both curricular and noncurricular — mathematics and physics and economics, logic, and particularly history.  Know at least two languages besides your own, but anyway, know French.  Look at pictures and more pictures.  Look at every kind of visual symbol, every kind of emblem; do not spurn signboards or furniture drawings or this style of art or that style of art.  Do not be afraid to like paintings honestly or to dislike them honestly, but if you do dislike them retain an open  mind.  Do not dismiss any school of art, not the pre-Raphaelites nor the Hudson River School nor the German Genre painters.  Talk and talk and sit at cafes, and listen to everything, to Brahms, to Brubeck, to the Italian hour on the radio.  Listen to preachers in small town churches and in big city churches.  Listen to politicians in New England town meetings and to rabble-rousers in Alabama.  Even draw them.  And remember that you are trying to learn to think what you want to think, that you are trying to co-ordinate mind and hand and eye.  Go to all sorts of museums and galleries and to the studios of artists.  Go to Paris and Madrid and Rome and Ravenna and Padua.  Stand alone in Sainte Chapelle, in the Sistine Chapel, in the Church of the Carmine in Florence.  Draw and draw and paint and learn to work in many media; try lithography and aquatint and silk-screen.  Know all that you can about art, and by all means have opinions.  Never be afraid to become embroiled in art or life or politics; never be afraid to learn to draw or paint better than you already do; and never be afraid to undertake any kind of art at all, however exalted or however common, but do it with distinction.”


— Ben Shahn, from The Shape of Content


Photo by Francesca Woodman


Saturday, April 30, 2016

Thirty-seven (The Suicide of Vincent Van Gogh)

From an attic room in a tiny inn, an artist works.
His canvas faces windows that open west,
His eyes are lions hunting,
He uses his paintbrush the way a hunter wields a spear.
The sun is setting, light wanes,
But in this dusky corner of the inn
Light is made stronger by the ensuing night.
Like a flood of water, darkness tries to fill the room.
This man fights the grim tide
He defies a constant pain,
(bleeds not blood, but copious paint)
With brushes and colors and canvas,
Arena gladiator
He battles an encroaching gloom,
Sunflower yellow
Cobalt blue
Persian green,
He delays the approach of doom.

Thirty-seven.

In a straw hat
Limping with a case under each arm
Ear bandaged tightly,
Red whiskers bristling
He is a general marching to a new hill.
Every hour,
Binocular eyes survey terrain
Dart but give expert glances,
While his hand dashes and dabs with the horsehair tip.
The sky is captured by handfuls
Pinioned by nails of brilliant green
While flowers weep crimson amid the grain.
Deep ocean blue, heavy clouds,
Black-slash crows loudly warn of a final storm.
Desolation of endless fields
Ripened wheat,
Restless music of eternal yield,
Troubled skies and worried eyes
A tall figure walks with a scythe.

Thirty-seven.

He watched the sun that afternoon.
It was flung fire that stuck to a shattered mirror,
Radiated lines of molten stress that eclipsed the natural grandeur of the world,
Echoed like a gunshot in the hallways of his mind.
The trees were cast in livid flames that burned a jungle green
But they whispered in tongues of smaller, silent blue.
Everywhere there was a finality of spectrum that defied scientific hue.
Late afternoon,
July 27, 1890
He stood at his window and looked out.
The sun was a drop of melting gold
Dripped like a lump of butter
Gliding down the drooping ceiling of the sky.
He saw a reaper pacing in the sea of wheat
Moving in slow circles
While stalks fell in spiral patterns at his feet.
Death came in sunlight
Not in fear
Nor in darkest night.
There was no sunset
Just a cycle,
An assemblage of unceasing seasons
Passages that led to passages.
Months compounded into years
Years expanded into decades;
Souls were linked to souls,
While these souls were linked to more souls.
A hundred paintings
A thousand paintings,
Across the years, a never-ending progression.
Seasons, souls, and painting,
Constant cycle of creation and dissipation,
But never a cessation, a final destination.

Thirty-seven.

He experienced a realization
Similar to the one with the knife and the tip of his ear,
But this was different, it was an internalization,
It came from within, came without external provocation.
He had made hundreds of paintings,
Created windows into brilliant worlds
Altered mundane reality.
But these were just representations,
Images etched on dragonfly wings that trembled in the wind.
He would make a sunset.
He would make an end.
The wheat would fall, it would not grow again.

Thirty-seven.

He set his brushes in order,
Put the letter to his brother in his pocket,
Looked one last time at his favorite chair,
Closed the door, with his key he locked it.
Walked along the road in summer,
The revolver with its bullets was heavy in his pocket.
He chose the field from a week ago
He had painted a sullen sky that draped the world in iron folds,
Black crows flew low over barren fields, and a storm was coming on.
Today it was a bleak afternoon,
The sky had no ceiling and the earth was an empty room.
The sun was a glowing copper coin,
There was the sound of wind in the grass.
He looked at it all,
His artist's brain captured the scene as he might paint it:
He was the focal point,
A stark, standing figure facing a field of wheat,
The sun hung in a sky of brushed bronze with blue flecks.
But this was not a painting he would make.
He closed his eyes-
"No more!", he said to the wheat.
To the sun and sky, he announced,
"I will not be sad!"
He gripped the gun,
Felt a strange exhilaration
Flung it upwards to his chest
Pulled the trigger.
There was a sound,
It came from close, but seemed to echo from far away.

Thirty-seven.

Stunned he sat there,
His eyes were open, his ears were ringing
No pain, just a cold feeling in his side.
The grass was soft under him,
But the earth felt like it was tilted,
Rolling like a ball down a hill.
The revolver was on the ground, away from him,
Shining metal against tangled weeds.
He looked at his hand,
There was blood on it, and his blood was bright red.
Suddenly he was lying on his back, looking up.
Through the brown summer haze,
He saw the sky had streaks of pale blue
Like an old woman's veins,
Dabbed with long strands of pulled cotton clouds
They rippled across the tall dome overhead.
The sun was bright in his eyes,
He was thirsty for water.
Heavy grains of ripened wheat bobbed and dangled in the wind,
Made shadows on his face.
He looked at the sun, the sky, the wheat;
Shook his head.
"No," he whispered, "no."
"La tristesse durera toujours."
"This sadness will never end."

Thirty-seven.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Memory of Rodin

At her desk
Swiveling on a stool
Humming jazz
Over a white shoulder
Swell of bosom
Flows a luxury of hair
Pianist fingers
Braiding fire
Dreams of Paris
Distant eyes
Memory of Rodin.


Saturday, February 27, 2016

She dances

In the attic alone,
She dances with sexy heels.
Time does not exist,
Only this afternoon
Sun a slice of yellow ribbon bold 
Pinned to sky by thumb-tack gold.
Here, there are no fears, 
Just memories packed in dust.
If young, she dances,
She will do so when old.
In the attic alone,
She dances with sexy heels.



Thursday, February 11, 2016

Portrait of self

Strips of cloth
Old metal in the sun 
Passages in winter
Paper I've written on.
The wood is worn 
Foundation from an old demolition 
Carved in time from my family's soul,
Something that was in my mind
I did not know.
There are many things to say
When the pants fit
To use an old shoe to stop a door.
Once, when I was young
I met Frida Kahlo;
Today, I saw her picture.
When everything speaks together.


Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Frente a frente

Jeanette was young
But now she's old
Her lips were full,
Now they're thin.

I traced the roadmap of her skin
Avenues of grace 
Boulevards of sin
All those things, left undone
Memories faded in the sun.
Silent as she stood there
Eyes between wet strands of hair.
There is a painting of an empty couch,
It hangs in a faded living room.
Once there were flowers,
Now there are none.

Jeanette was young
But now she's old
Her lips were full,
Now they're thin.



Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Wandering

Late nights
Sleepless & long.
I wander hallways of my mind
There are pictures on the walls
But I wish they were bare.
Would there be silence
If not for echoes of a song.






Thursday, January 7, 2016

My bed

My bed is a fortress 
In uncertain hours 
Piles of pillows, strongest of towers.
While music plays
In the most random of ways
Lana Del Rey
Max Richter
Lessie and Sir Sly
Outside 
Winter rain against my windows,
Popcorn & books my companions.
Hello, Jack Kerouac!
How are you, Sylvia Plath?
Sweet Lana mourns
Soft ice cream
Salvatore
Caio amore.
La literatura es mentira,
Oui, 
Tú moi manques, mon amour.