"impasto" poems
You Are the Texture
…………………………
**~ for all of you,
you, you poet~**
Impasto
“**is a technique used in painting,
where paint is laid on an area of
the surface thickly, usually thick
enough that the brush or painting-
knife strokes are visible.
Paint can also be mixed right on
to the canvas. When dry, impasto
provides texture; the paint appears
as if, to be coming out of the canvas.**”
<1:47pm>
Cut & Paste
*is a technique used in poetry writing,
we refer back to our visions,
heard words,
the eyeful, the earful, scents,
the reads read,
all in the mind’s palette blended,
thickly, but
when
the merging fused,
every word~in~coloration,
it is unique, reincarnation,
copying impossible.
The imagery, cut and pasted from thy heart and soul,
upon canvas,
your poems~pieces each appear*
***as you-are-texture,
you becoming out of, you,
the canvas.
<2:04pm>
Postscript***
………………
it is not lost on me that the
scars, our words, herein,
as we note all too frequently,
almost casually,
are, can be, those selfsame
words/painting-knife
employed
for our first and foremost canvas we utilize,
ourselves…
our bodies,
our
very selves
salved
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 8:06 AM UTC
Selene.
By the sea, I have been staring,
at your bright colours change.
Erythematous, murderous intentions of
a disease disseminating
on your surface.
The slow, penetrating anguish
tearing the guts,
a one-sided, disdained,
newborn sadness,
I am welcoming in my arms.
On the operating theatre of life
white and now dead moths,
stillborn butterflies
inside the flesh removed,
drowned themselves in a pool of blood.
They, an absurd joy
that never stood a chance
inside this cyanide prison.
Portals of loaned,
disillusioned happiness closed.
The liquid that raced turbulently
through my vessels, drained on a half-filled
with tears palette.
With menacing, impasto knife-like strokes
on the body
Morpheus painted the shadow-covered moon
with memories that refuse to be forgotten
from purulent, open wounds.
'Those worlds you will (never) see.
The people you will (never) meet' he said.
Soul chemicals eroding
the behemoth sky,
as the paint dries out.
Ashes of my Dreams (Not) Achieved,
astral remains;
everything I silently kept inside.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
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
blood from our wounds paints a picture
admired only as it hangs on a wall
smell, touch, taste, and sound
all futile in this moment
sight only, is what guides us
far away we stood, admiring the red saturated strokes that told our story
an impasto of textures, you didn't need to touch to understand
reaching out
we watched paralyzed version of ourselves
fall into recollection
of the pain, the joy, and the solace we once knew
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
Loneliness is a sketchwork of pen and ink of iron gall,
Brushed over in brown wash of wood soot from oak,
Disguised then under tempera of golden-ratio of yolk,
Flared over with fiery oils to the smoke-blurred brink, sfumato,
Or pigment of the fresco, a shade of off-life, languid as watercolor,
Or from the too-fondly-felt impasto knife.
But bares its bones in the light-dark cleft of Caravaggio,
With diminutions of death and the storm’s dark imbroglio,
And sunlight as flesh made into soul,
The skin stretched whole around the world.
Each sky is just a sketch
Of loneliness, left unsigned,
By every hand.
Jul 4, 2019
Jul 4, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
Rigid, impasto clouds
Stick out of the sky
Like Van Gogh
Put them there himself
Sky peaking between
Buildings and towers
Pushed and pulled
Twisted and ripped apart
Like fabric tearing slowly
Moved by the breeze
Invisible currents slicing
A silent cacophony of air
I reach up and feel
Solid, dried paint crackles
Under my finger tips
I pull my hand away
Digits stained white and blue and gray
Shifting streets and their buildings
Pulsing and moving and shaking
Jagged and prickly corners
Edges of windows glint
Like drops of blood
On the edge of a sword
Walls and sidewalks
Rough like a giant cat's tongue
The skyscrapers carve the landscape
Into a distorted forest
An amalgamation of today
And yesterday and the day before that
I reach forward and feel
I pull back in shock
Fingers pricked and knees scraped
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 3:55 PM UTC
THE NOWHERE & EVERYWHERE OF IT ALL
Without a second glance
I step into the book.
I have Great Expectations.
Just pop in to be Pip
yet again.
I hide in the full stop
at a page's end.
Nip in between
the space between
word & word.
My mother's voice
seeks me out.
I leave just as Miss Havisham goes
wooooosh!!!!
Or I step surreptitiously
into a Jack B. Yeats
becoming pigment
becoming paint.
Here being blue.
Now being red.
Thinking thick impasto thoughts.
Shape shifting from horse
to rider to sea.
There is nothing
I can not be.
"Dónall...Dónall...where...have you been!"
"Nowhere..!" I say
( and sotto sotto voce )
everywhere....everywhere.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
even the roots of your hair are warm
amid this dandruff winter.
tribal tracks stretch to melt with your sun belly, warm
twist tongues like bristles
impasto scars left
behind in soft places
planting harvest in your nail bed.
between motions,
we fall into warm rays.
Stretch our backs- stooped roofs
a rat a tat cat caught in sunlight
tips of fingers crafted
like a porcelain milk bowl
the haven above your lips shatter
fits of grinding dreams.
fall back asleep to black and white sounds
and that **** street lamp:
our room’s own star
moon tucks away behind
clouds like specific uncertainty
curves the blanket upon the handle of our hips
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
THE NOWHERE & EVERYWHERE OF IT ALL
Without a second glance
I step into the book.
I have Great Expectations.
Just pop in to be Pip
yet again.
I hide in the full stop
at a page's end.
Nip in between
the space between
word & word.
My mother's voice
seeks me out.
I leave just as Miss Havisham goes
wooooosh!!!!
Or I step surreptitiously
into a Jack B. Yeats
becoming pigment
becoming paint.
Here being blue.
Now being red.
Thinking thick impasto thoughts.
Shape shifting from horse
to rider to sea.
There is nothing
I can not be.
"Dónall...Dónall...where...have you been!"
"Nowhere..!" I say
( and sotto sotto voce )
"...everywhere....everywhere..."
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC