"brushwork" poems
Venezia, its musical key of brick and shade
And the canals in rejoining polyphony
Sweeten the dour Church-ear.
From the impasto knife and loose brushwork,
A thumb-smear of waves and gently-bristled strife
Rise to assumption of the cloud-submerged bay,
Mural of cristallo, only-light without landscape,
Made too from the winds of Murano,
Its clayed blowpipe of waterways molding
The lagoon of blown glass and bouquet of colored sea-shadows.
The Tiber lies on its side, like the lion and fox,
Licking its paws at empire’s dust,
A drifting gaze of water that already foresees
The swift-run northward to Romagna,
Where the veined fur of the roe will succumb…
A ripple twitches like one dark claw of the Borgia…
The watercolors of the Arno are a fresco
On the wet plaster of the lips of Firenze, Tuscan fire-dream.
Or like the warring leg in curve of counterpoise,
Sprung foot-forward to the daring world
And arm slung down in stone-victory
From this valley, too much like Elah,
With taunting eyes turned from the Medici toward Rome.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC
tonight the sky.
dark palette.
the stars are projectors.
the paintings of them are in
perpetual motion,
carry the zero.
conflicted still life.
of spathodea.
of pomegranate.
of her own folded-up *****
it's all in how you interpret
the brushwork.
girls can tell.
a reassuringly dull sunday
turns to intrigue.
the busy girl buys beauty.
people are places and things.
lost affections in a room
in need of images
or at least explanations.
she looks for it.
she listens for them.
the sound of existing.
the sound of a quiet room.
a rainstorm or possibly the sound
of someone taking a shower.
blind little rain.
autosleeper lowers her head.
the economy of sleep patterns.
and little else celsius.
tonight the sky.
tomorrow a place where
one can ruin oneself,
go mad, or commit a crime
with paint.
Aug 15, 2022
Aug 15, 2022 at 9:07 AM UTC
Brushwork
If I were a jazz pianist I would pay
my dues in one lump sum on a tip
from some country singer on his way
down who gives me the shirt off his back
a Nudie with piping and plenty
of rhinestones that catch the stage
lights just so and sweep in reflection
across the polished planes of my 1890
rosewood Steinway Grand Modal C
a beaut with a pedigree, one I won’t fail
to mention from the stage in the second set
during the pause between How High The Moon
and I Love The Life I Live from behind
a bobbing cigarette, sharing the remarkable
fact that this is the very same piano
Mose Allison played in a two night stand
at the Blue Note in 1962. Later I’ll work Jimmy
the trumpet player’s name into a tune and trade
winks with the guy on upright bass
the drummer slack jawed oblivious, lost
to us all in some very tasty brushwork.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
_Dream your life in watercolours,
Live your life in oils,
Frame your canvases with time and distance;
Hang each by a silver thread,
In a windowed gallery of memories,
Exhibit often and without discrimination;
Celebrate the beauty in your clumsiest brushwork,
Accept the imperfections in your mastery,
Reshape your truths, as light plays and colour transforms._
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 10:31 PM UTC
In a room full of his art,
He stood as strangers admired.
There was only one subject -
The one woman on his mind.
He'd stopped time to draw her,
Living in that one second for hours or days.
He'd done it so many times
He filled the gallery with paintings of her face.
Iridescent eyes in black and white,
Blonde hair filling the canvas.
He'd seen her from every angle
And what a beautiful sight she was.
Then she was walking through the door,
Moving like air in her red dress.
She exuded the beauty and grace
That his artwork couldn't quite express.
If ever a person came out of a painting,
She was not the one.
No amount of talent and brushwork
Could captivate him like she'd done.
And his eyes did not stray now
As she bridged the space between them.
This meant he had a chance
To try and make things right again.
But he need not have apologized.
She sshed and told him, "It's okay.
This tells me so much more
Than you could ever say."
His paintings of her and only her
Were wherever they landed their eyes,
Save the window where she looked
And said, "It's snowing outside."
"Do you trust me?" he implored.
Curious, she asked, "Why?"
He said, "I need to show you something."
Then he made her close her eyes.
She trusted him - and then froze.
For he'd once again stopped time.
But then he let her into his secret world
And she couldn't believe her eyes.
Everyone they could see was still.
Even the snow floated in midair.
Everything was stopped in that second
And they were the only ones there.
They ran out in the not-falling snow,
Creating outlines with held hands.
He kissed her then, the snow like stars
And they'll decide when that second will end.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
the sky's getting behind
its blue--to terrify itself.
electric, alert and popping.
the trees fizz lime green.
the moon's askant
half-sunk--
the tapered brushwork
of a blown crown.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 1:45 PM UTC
The clouds, spreading themselves across the sky
As spontaneous brushstrokes upon the canvas
And the trees, having found reassurance from the evening light
Steady their bows
And reassure the creatures, who now -
String their melodies across the canvas,
Whose eternal patterns appear now -
Not so erratic,
But rather the careful brushwork of some grand design.
And now we wonder - a chapter of the change
"Could there be, after all, one first mover?"
(but without capitals of course).
Now these years of rational thought
Dissolve at the sounds of the soft dusk
And sights that are everything - or nothing at all-
Or the exact words of the Romantics
Whose verses skim across the sky like the clouds themselves-
Or infinite other things.
At this moment
The body, not resentful - but still static
Lets forth instead the mind to project its frame across the sky
And through the white waters - suspended.
Now we wonder "How could there be pain or hate below the clouds - " despite having just read the evening news.
And from the world absorbed, we let forth
An infinite stream of thoughts that unfurl
Across the darkening sky.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
I don't mind hearing voices from time to time, for they keep me company in lonely hours. They never say anything harsh, hate filled or humiliating, they just chatter on while I sit here in silence watching the paint dry- thats not a metaphor or anything, I literally did paint the walls red this morning. I don't think I've don a very good job though, because I see little devils in the sloppy brushwork; They do hurt, throw hate and humiliate me.
I really need to put on a second coat, but I'm tired and the voices aren't telling me to move yet. I'll wait for their command, or for the devils to walk up and off the wall. Oh boy, then I'll have some real company. A crowd some would say.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
there is an intimacy
that in touching
I cannot touch
your colours linger
after brushwork soft
has long left canvas
your words
dear friends, are never parting
and never held, yet always, always
so deeply felt
MChallis @ 2015
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
I want to talk to you, now
that the sadness is thickening
in the air, now
that I begin to flee the night
Somber rue settles, ergot
of rye: i feel a blackened wheat,
I feel contorted,
and worn, crumpled, contaminated
crude
now, I am past again, i am
faint, fossil, begone from the city
I roll in little tremors
through sandpaper streets
a
frantic brushwork of the winds
I am canvas, paint, the face I hate
a feeble cry
of the stray cats in crooks
you
you make me so, so thin
I buzz a wasp in my sleep, i begin
to hate the sleep
I don't... I don't want to sleep
I want to disappear tonight
I want to talk to you
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 10:24 PM UTC