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moon child Jan 2019
Only the finest of artwork on my walls
Mark Rothko
Gustav Klimt
And countless photos of you
Glenn Currier Dec 2018
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.”   - Mark Rothko

To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think

The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls

A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.
The Rothko Chapel is on the University of St. Thomas campus in Houston, Texas.  It is an irregular octagonal brick building with gray or rose stucco walls and a baffled skylight.  It serves as a place of meditation as well as a meeting hall and is furnished with eight simple, moveable benches for meditative seating. About 55,000 people visit the chapel each year.  Fourteen of Rothko's paintings are displayed in the chapel. Three walls display triptychs, while the other five walls display single paintings. Beginning in 1964, Rothko began painting a series of black paintings, which incorporated other dark hues and texture effects.  [Based on article in Wikipedia]
Joe Thompson Apr 2018
If you should come upon a painting by Mark Rothko in a museum -
I'll assume you are not one of those billionaires who has one hanging on the dining room wall, or hidden away in a secret room behind the bookcase -
but either way, do not just look at the painting or you will see nothing.
Well, except color. You will see color. Rothko loved color.

But wait a while and you will begin to hear it whisper its secrets:
How lives are layered upon lives;
how painful sacrifices
get buried beneath petty ambitions and lies
and joys and succes as well-
oh, and perhaps another layer or two of color.

Each generation scrapes the parchment clean
and blithely scribes new marks on its surface -
confident that they will not forget the lessons
that seem so absurdly obvious.

Empires disappear beneath overgrown vines
and dieties who, drunk on the blood of virgins
would feast on the hearts of conquered warrors
but now shuffle past each other
with oblivious nods, grousing about the food,
wait for the day someone remembers their names.

Listen and perhaps you will learn
how every layer of life is a forgotten secret
discernable only by its subtle influence
on the layers that are built up above it.

If not. There is always the color. Rothko loved color.
KathleenAMaloney Apr 2016
Water Moccasin
Gods Word Written Upon the Earth
Beauty
In the most Voluptuous Form
Dark Princess
Scouring the Waters Edge
Looking for Life
And Finding It
In the cool undergrowth
Of Still Waters
Unknown

Full Spectrum
Of Inky Goodness
Mating Season Now
Not One
But a Tribe
Gathered Together
In Divinity
Secretly Offered Chalice

Fingerprint of a Language
Upon the Flesh

Mysteries Awakening
Untold
Until Now

I Am
We Are

Shatki
Trevor Blevins Mar 2016
This end of the trail is where Christian values drive up social status,
Tell you your friends,
Who not to glance at.

I'm not one for all that purity,
And no one else in my shoes could deny the *** in the air.

Crisp and new,
Shining like the grass in the rain,
Remarkably less discussed.

I feel no need for forgiveness tonight,
Which makes me happier than usual...

Typically, I will count the days with
Input to the last time I felt like I had direction— spend an hour telling Rothko I almost relate.

I admire you, but tonight I hope you're miserable.

My bones went hollow, the mood went heavy,
And the bridge went to ruins...

Can't say I'm surprised.

I'll fall asleep with ambience tonight, and wake to all the correspondence I'm not waiting for,

But I'll be of use to you.

I'll be of use in the North,
So odd to imagine my purpose,
Replaced as I am
Or even just looked over.

It's a downpour,
Yet I'm having the strangest drought,
Feeling like I need more light and far less space,

Who now will be at my sickbed?
Red
Should the ache dull,
consummate the liver,
fulfill desire,
I refuse to stop it.

I keep feeling the whole day in one pinch.

Perhaps writing should not render in burst
format as it ****** and rots.

Rothko knew pain was art because to Rothko
it was all art.
He would not budge, stood stooped in
knee-deep-scarlet splash-stained denim
begging all to see the colors through him.

Rothko paints mountains with pulses in
red rectangles.
Andrea Zapiain Oct 2014
Soft, hush, a body stirs
a scene eerily undisturbed
and yet an arm, white as foam
draped over the girl who sleeps alone

she wakes
her heart beats at the touch
confusion gives way, soft, hush
disturbed, afraid
cold seeps through her feet
marble, not a dream
she watches herself
soft, hush, a body stirs
dreading the day, buried in pillows
red hair, red hair
same smile, same eyes

the other makes a cup of coffee
two sugars, drip of milk
routine smells of butter
and strawberry jam

the other can't see, so she only watches
the girl who sleeps alone
now an observer, undisturbed
a ghost in the sidelines
as routine takes the other by the hand
dresses her up, paints her lips
high heels, high heels
red, black, pale and nothingness
words left unsaid
the girls who sleeps alone remains
undisturbed, messy hair, no dress, no heels

both, disturbed and undisturbed
to the marble palace
where the living honor the dead
Mark, she thinks, the girl who sleeps alone

Oliver, poor Oliver
found his mentor resembling his paintings
red, red against black
black eating away the red
and yet... red, dripping from his wrists
red, splattered on the floor
Rothko, no more paintings
Mark, no more red

the other is gone
no, it can't be
the other existed, or perhaps it was 1970
and Rothko never slit his wrists
and perhaps... and perhaps
Oliver, poor Oliver
looking at the girl who sleeps alone
and there she is, very real
splendor, messy hair
no black dress, no black heels
Rothko was right about fear
and one day the black will swallow the red
not a trace of it on her lips
based on a short story I wrote and the life and death of Mark Rothko.

— The End —