Kimbell Art Museum, Ft Worth, TX | Turner exhibition, 2022 | 35mm film photo by author
Lashing out, fair rations the slap and sting of salt waves mixed with snow ice and fire, a cold burn swirl and tumult of upturned cargo and souls nearly foundering with progress breathless for the suffrage of a new life
This is the second of three ekphrastic poems I wrote at the Kimbell Art Museum during their exhibition of Turner paintings earlier this year. THIS is the painting the poem is based on. Thanks for reading!
Kimbell Art Museum, Ft Worth, TX | Turner Exhibition, 2022 | 35mm film image by author
The field of death illuminated Light suspended, in suspension pigment in medium, applied, brushed and varnished but not glossed – so much loss at what cost By their own light those who could not fight search for signs of life
Wandering in suspension the crowds pass in muted tones, hushed and dim making their own inspection frame by frame mostly weighed by age and time, and glossed by the wonder of art’s rime
This is the first of three ekphrastic poems that I’m going to share from the trip my daughter and I made to see an exhibition of Turner paintings at the Kimbell Art Museum earlier this year. THIS is the painting that the poem is based on. Thank you for reading!
Dad, September 2020 | 35mm kodak film (photo by author)
He sits in his usual place, a sturdy ocean of calm waiting. Heavy repose rests, stoic, in his lap, unperturbed by the silence humming in his drums. Gone is the beat that fanned the fire, the flames from his mouth; someone turned off the gas that combusted in his internal engine.
A stroke of bad luck. A rogue droplet, bent upon mischief, scrambled all his eggs. Now a handful of pills dully keep the leftovers warm.
The old stubborn ox put out to pasture, the bull wandering away, while we venture into the neighborhood to plaster up missing signs. Have you seen him? How is he? We look and look. He is there. He is not there.
In honor of Father’s Day, and my Dad’s 81st birthday (which is today!) I decided to share this prose poem I wrote a while back as a prompt response on Medium. If you’ve been following my blog, you’ve probably read me talking about how my Dad had a major stroke in 2020. I try not to let myself think about his current condition or how drastically different he is now from before; when I consider the reality of it, it makes me so sad that I can easily lose sight of the fact that he is still here with us, which feels like nothing short of a miracle.
I know that lots of people say to hug your loved ones, forgive them quick as you can for any grievances between you, life is short and precious, etc and all that blibbety blah – those words can be eye-rollers, but for me it’s all so true. My Dad used to exasperate me to no end; now, I would give anything for just 5 minutes with him pestering me like he used to. Things can change quickly, y’all! In my family we have this lesson before us to be grateful for what you have because you never know when it might be swept away.
Happy Father’s Day, all you Dads! Here’s to a day of whatever makes you happy, even (especially) if it’s telling groaner jokes and being obnoxious on purpose.
The beach is a poem In sand and sun, waves and time A poem without words
Greetings from the beach! How about this – what if the video at the top of this post was a poem prompt? I don’t need it now, because I am there, but I’ll need it when I’m back home and daydreaming about the tide. Want to write to the video? Go for it!
Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center | digital photo by author (using a lensbaby lens)
The night fog dampens sound weighs it down so it can’t rise to tap at the window pane or whisper shout in my ear
The night fog turns normal nine into mysterious midnight secrets breathing on the glass to expose ghost writing left behind by unseen fingers letters lingering in the dust for time to find
The night fog hides darkness and throws back light, a shock of gloss through the frosted mist that fights the odds to point the way forward
South Padre Island National Seashore | 35mm slide film, xpro | photo by author
Shade – because there won’t be any take some from the dark corners at the back of the pantry bring a little of the gloamy coolness that lurks under the trees in the yard
Flip flops – that you won’t wear because the wet sands sucks at them, turning them into heel-paddling liabilities
a hat for the wind to steal
clothes you won’t use, except when forced out of your bathing suit for the partial respectability of dinner
a book – mostly for bringing home remnants of salt and sand
buckets of sunscreen
a cooler to weigh down the towels
snacks for the gulls to scream for; chip-clips to dissuade invetable aerial theft
dreams – to float and drift on the waves; all the flotsam of a well-loved life rushing away and back again, zipping off to imaginary islands, caught in the riptide of summer
Guess what I’m doing. . . . . I noticed the other day that the WordPress app is very convenient for making posts on the fly. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll send y’all some live poetry and photo action from the beach! Thanks for reading – and happy summer, y’all!
window seat no longer vacant filled by me, poetic spy
My daughter loves to go for “writing dates” with me at coffee shops. This tradition has evolved from us sitting together to her wanting to be left alone and me going stir crazy because she always wants to stay much longer than I do. Recently we went for one of these rendezvous in the late afternoon, and halfway through my cold brew I realized there was no way I could sit still for more than about 30 seconds at a time (anybody else struggle with caffeine late in the day???). To calm my over-hyped nerves, I started focusing on my surroundings, and lo – this poem appeared.
Ondu pinhole multiple exposure, Ilford FP4 | photo by author
I’ll tell you lies, sweet little ones or big fat juicy ones
I’ll tell you how the morning whipped in like a windstorm and last night fear pounded on the door from 3 to 5 am until four of my neighbors hopped the fence to restrain him then we all sat in the grass and watched the sun rise singing hymns and passing a joint around
I’ll tell you about a guy I met at a party who carried a primitive knife around his neck to cut ties and bad vibes this was on the beach where he had been swimming with sea turtles I still have sand between my toes
I’ll tell you how a group of rattlesnake handlers told me in the detail the best way to prepare the meat and groused about feral hogs mowed down from helicopters how they spoke the calm language of wild danger expressing fangs, tuned in to the ranging dialect of western nature
I’ll tell you about the explosive flat tire we had to change while a tornado-wielding thunderstorm bore down on the side of the highway, drawing herds of deer out of the brush, across the street fence-leaping, white tails flashing like lightning as they headed for clearer skies
I’ll tell you, and you can listen but it’s up to you to excavate the truth of it, should there be any at all to find
This poem is part 2 of my tiny discourse on “the Muse” – part 1 was yesterday. Recently at a party part of the conversation I had about writing was whether or not there was any truth to it, as in does a poem (or song, as the case was) reflect your life, is it based blatantly or in coded fashion on your life experiences? Or is it lies, wonderful fabrications for the sake of art? Does it matter?
So, I wrote this poem. Which parts do you think are true? And how do you write?