"rothko" poems
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
_New York
after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.
In 1991, shortly before he died,
Motherwell
remembered a "conspiracy of silence"
regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism.
Upon return from Mexico, Motherwell
spent time developing his creative principle
based on automatism:
"what I realized was that Americans
potentially could paint like angels, but that there
was no effective creative principle around,
so that everybody
who liked modern art was copying it;
Gorky was copying Picasso;
******* was copying Picasso;
De Kooni
ng was copying Picasso;
I mean, I say this unqualifiedly,
I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:
All we needed was a creative principle,
I mean something that would mobilize this capacity
to paint in a creative way, & that's what Europe
had that we
hadn't had;
we had always followed in their wake
& I thought of all the possibilities
| [ ], [ ]
of free association—because I also had
a psychoanalytic background
& I understood the implications of—let's just say it
might be the best chance
to really make something entirely
new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;"
Thus, in the early 1940s, Robert Motherwell
played a significant role in laying the foundations
for the new movement of
Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):
"Matta wanted to start a revolution, m [a movement w/in
Surrealism].
He asked me to find some other
American artists that would help start a new movement;
it was then that Baziotes
& I went to see ******* & de Kooning
& Hofmann & Kamrowski & Busa & several other people;
& if we could come with something;
Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she
would put on a show of this new business;
... so I went around explaining _the theory of automatism_
to everybody because _the only way_
that you could have a _move - - - ment_
was that it had some _common_
_principle_. It sort of all began that way."
In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit
his work in New York and in 1944
he had his first one-man show at
Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;
that same year, the MoMA
was the first museum
purchase one of his works; From the mid-1940s,
Motherwell [ ], [ ]. ( )
became the leading spokesman
for _avant-garde art in America_;
his circle coming to include
William Baziotes,
David Hare, Barnett Newman, & Mark Rothko,
with whom he eventually started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced
Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros and in 1950 he married Bettie
Little,
with whom he had two daughters
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
"If you're the least bit sensitive, this world will eat you alive."
Is it any wonder then that so many of us want to die?
But I gave up a long time ago on suicide
Such an ignoble way to say goodbye
So if I must go, I want to be beaten by some ******* while defending a woman's honor
Shot by an oppressive father for attempting to liberate his daughter
Gunned down by the government for standing up for the rights of another
I guess you could say,
I have dreams of becoming a martyr
"Only the good die young"
Only through self-sacrifice can you become
Deeply ingrained in humanities' collective brain
I want to make a difference
Before I grow old and insane
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Lincoln
JFK
Jesus Christ
Gandhi
Joan of Arc
Tecumseh
And then there's Socrates
Somebody help me, help me please
I want so badly to die for the sake of a belief
But it's all so ****** up now
Twisted and torn
Sometimes I wish that I was never born
And there have been others who felt the same way
Vincent Van Gogh
Rothko
And Hemingway
I know it's not fair of me to say
They all lead lives wrought with such pain
Like Bradley Nowell
And Kurt Cobain
Some saw it coming
Like Mark Twain
Freedom really is a double-edged sword
After Jack Parsons blew up he left us his words
His mom OD'd shortly after having heard
Greatness can only last so long in this world
And what of Albert Camus?
Was it really unplanned?
And that poor old Nietzsche
Came so unglued at the end
And fate is really something
How can we comprehend
Some lives are surely doomed
From the moment they begin
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
here,
by the bustling west side
a vintage Rothko in the making!
as the setting red sun
smooches a shy, dark-tanzanite sky.
her succulent strawberry lips,
seemingly
nowhere in sight.
there’s gotta be a portrait of this rose
somewhere......
the search now
ever since this bird has flown,
is for the missing piece of me,
which i keep scrupulously looking for
on every street
© 2021
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 9:11 AM UTC
The dream state number one
The caught artist within the vortex
A drowned state and lost soul
As the eyes swirl and look up
And look up until they drop
A strange aridity covers the flesh
Gauze revealing the idea
Leaving enough hidden.
The final trip - californication?
The restaurants’ in New York
Blatantly bare. Now Iconography
Undersigned scarcely unmade up
The deep eyes plundering a life
Through an eye for art maybe
Taken from the mesh.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
Fog Horn
Crowning Light
Upon the Unseen
Revealing Star
Sorrows Journey
Broken Promises
Flesh Dyin
Gods Promise
Still Alive
Rubin....
A Man By the See
A Lover
.......and a Friend
Life unfolding
Two Paths Now
Cry For Me Lover
Pain
Of a Shattered Kingdom
And The Violence
Of a Stolen Heart
A Wife's ****
Rothko's RED
Caste Out
Before
The World
For Nothing..
Unwillingness Betrayed
Heart Torn Open
Refusing
The Violations
Of a False God
HORROR Unveiling
Fighting for Life
Fires of Dismantling
Families Betrayal
Eternity I keeping
Power of Prayer
CLAIM me NOW
AMMA
Mary
GAIA
Lakshmii
Bridgette
ISIS
Demeter
KALI
Rachel
GoddesSes All
And Yet there is only
ONE
Marry Me
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
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.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
I wish I could run to end of the cosmos
Just reach the reluctant intellectuals
Just so I could catch a glimpse of them ducking out of the limelight
I wouldn’t bother asking them
It wouldn’t do any good
They wouldn’t have much to say
They’d be a bit focused sticking to their morals
And criticizing the museums
Tell them to open up just a little bit
So that way everyone could rush in
Empty canvas in hand
Or typewriters
Or a marble slab waiting for them
They’d rush in
Bringing a beautiful fire to everything else
Explaining themselves to Matisse and Greco
Mona Lisa and Caravaggio would understand though
At least I think so
Van Gogh laughing in utter delight
The fire would burn all the glitz and convention
But all the passion
Emotion
Angst
Uncontemplated beauty would shine brighter than ever before
Some observers would go insane
Climbing up to the top of skyscrapers
Jumping off
Screaming, on their way down
DUCHAMP
Conning the police out of their guns
Putting it to their head
Walking into the middle of the street
Welcoming the buses with open arms
And I know you want to save those people
But it’s not up to you
We’ll see them again someday
Hopefully they’ll understand it then
Don’t cry for them, though
Look at all the others
Running through the streets
Naked
Without shame
Greeting their friends from so many years ago
As they stand in front of Rothko and he looks into both of their eyes
And they stare back trying to let themselves be encircled
With smiles
That shine like halos
As they look at their sisters
Without lust
And with compassion
While they express their enthusiasm for jazz
And sing as loud as trumpets
Dancing as fast as a piano
I’m finished crying for the dinosaurs
Or feeling guilty for Christ
I jump into the smile of the moon
I spread my arms wide open in front of the sun
Just to let him know that he’s welcome
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:06 AM UTC
A chimera ground
of profound sadness
enframes a deep field of arabesque red
split in two,
as Salomon would,
by a thick bleeding bar of black 'n blue remorse.
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
The role of the artist, of course,
has always been that of image-maker;
Different times require different images;
Today when aspirations have been reduced
to a desperate attempt to escape from evil,
& times are out of joint, our
obsessive, subterranean & _pictographic_
images are the expression of the neurosis
which is our reality; to my mind certain
so-called abstraction is not abstraction at all;
On the contrary, _it is the realism of our time_
1. To us art is an adventure
into an unknown world,
which can be explored
only by those willing to
take the risks;
2. This world of imagination is fancy-free
& violently opposed to common sense;
3. It is our function as artists to
make the spectator see the world
our way, not his way;
4. We favor the simple expression
of the complex thought. We are for
the large shape because it has the
impact of the unequivocal. We wish
to reassert the picture plane. We are
for flat forms because they destroy
illusion and reveal truth; |
_5. It is a widely accepted notion among painters
that it doesn't matter what one paints as long as
it is well painted. Rothko said this is the essence
of academicism;_
6. There is no such thing as a
good painting about nothing.
7. We assert that the subject is crucial
& only that subject matter is valid
which is tragic and timeless. That is
why we profess spiritual kinship with
primitive & archaic art
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
Hearts sparse in this carpark,
the wind feeling rowdy, biting like a
small rabid animal with no collar
wandering the city alone at night.
The car is making me claustrophobic,
I've spent far too much time with the heat,
too many minutes burning cigarettes and
my hands near-numb from the caffeine.
Poems are less like action movies and
more like action paintings exploding
in suspended motion. I'm sure we all
remember when art felt new. I can't
recall when it didn't feel so lived-in.
(*And of course this poem is merely
a memory of feelings, which is not much
of anything to me or you because the past
is dry and done and does not intrude.*)
Lincoln, Nebraska is a livelier city
than one expects. It is like going to an
art exhibit expecting Rothko and getting
Basquiat, bombast and immediacy.
My favorite poet is Craig Morgan Teicher
because he and I may ramble but he is not
afraid to sacrifice accessibility for
feeling. He could find the beauty in the
image of Lincoln, Nebraska in January.
I will soon need to devise another way
to keep myself entertained so let us
say this CD spins one more time and
maybe I can go for a walk, clear my head.
I do not intend this to be wrought with
sentiment, but there are times I am not
as cold as this city. There are times
the mind must scream
so the heart stays safe.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
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?
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
Better duck the Stuka dive bombers
if you want to still paint like Rothko.
I can no more steal your last breath
than exhibit prostrate in your sky,
we all have our crosses to bear
but I am confidently on a fool's errant
searching another thoroughbred obligation
with my paraplastic factory vision,
currently stranded in Haifa
night goggles on!
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
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.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
The abstract expressionists wanted
to
strip
their work of associations
yearning for pure emotion
I didn't understand
but now I do.
Every song I've heard before
heard now
reminds me of my hollow heart
voices and instruments as phantom limb-reminders.
So I find weird instrumentals
electronic
trip-hop
stuff I never liked, things with nothing tied to them.
No summer love
no winter warm kisses
or new year of uncertainty.
It's my escape
into some kind of sensation
for
now.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
It’s a perfectly dreamy day to disappear
The streets are quiet, and the sky’s cloudy
No one’s around, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty
There’s light in the air, just enough of it
Concrete ground scrapes the bareness of feets
A mirror pool reflects an image of self
At least what appears to be a self
Different but still very familiar
Backlit by the grey clouds
Pierced by this slender monolith
Broken by these glassy ripples
Dark silhouettes dance on black canvases
The dry wind mimics them but stumbles through hair
Who said anything about being outside?
The ceiling filters light through a window
Dim metallic light which hugs the body
Into a feeling of half-closed eyelids and irreality
There are human-sized holes in the walls next to the black paintings
leading into dark deep caverns
Where the air runs like stale sandpaper against the gums of my teeth
And the animal scampering echos off invisible walls
The blackness slurs its static noise
A cold command forces obedience
Look back at the holes.
Look at how they change every time eyes blink
Look through the shadows which curtains the door
Look and tell them what you see
L—
Oct 13, 2021
Oct 13, 2021 at 1:29 AM UTC
Wake up
Fly away
Push down
Stay
Simplicity or them
Loneliness or hatred
warmer than a pen
Or whatever I hold dear
Stand up
Pull away
Stomp down
Okay
Disease or sickness
Blades or dynamite
A Rothko darkness
Is this night
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
Only the finest of artwork on my walls
Mark Rothko
Gustav Klimt
And countless photos of you
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
you're a real piece of work
all rothko
and no manet
boring lines
keeping the colors
from conversing
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
Terminus of the world crossed to deliver its
whimper.
That whimper put to color...building blocks
lost in space.
A carmine dusk overtaking the blood's circuit...
spilt, spilt, spilt.
Earthen batter, sickly pools dried to raven-black.
Living pigment of broken flesh projected to
The Absolute.
The Void looks out of your windows...its
residency, as levels of formlessness streak
their way up and down them.
The very frame of Art itself perturbed as a
channel gone off the air...1970...you looked
out of your windows.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
So what others may say
and she can hear them
thinking that or maybe
inside her head hear their
voices say as such as she
sits on the stone steps of
her apartment thinking of
him and his thoughtlessness
and sure it’s what most
people think is the norm
guys being guys thing but
she can’t help being saddened
by his forgetting it being their
fifth anniversary since the
first day they met at the gallery
looking at the modern art the
Mondrian’s and Rothko’s and
her favourite Lichtenstein’s
and how he had been all over
her that day being all knowledge
and kindness and fussing over
the smallest detail and taking
her to that restaurant he knew
and the music he put on in his
classy apartment and how he’d
been quite the gentleman that
night not pressuring for *** no
expectation of anything except
her happiness and now sitting
watching the early morning slow
ride by of Sunday traffic and the
odd passing person and their
usual rest day greetings she feels
depressed that he has forgotten
that he has not called and breathing
in the morning air she wonders
now if he really ever did care or
maybe he’s grown sick of her and
her wants and ways or has found
some other woman to love and
caress and kiss and take out and
maybe he’s in some other woman’s
place lying asleep lying body next
to body face to face and she hopes
maybe he’ll ring or text or better
still come round with chocs and wine
and suggest they go and dine but
she’ll not text or ring him to remind
or find out where he’s gone or
whereabouts he slept the night
before no sir she mutters I’ll not
lower myself to do as such full of
cares sitting on her apartment stairs.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC
he catched mortality
without framing it
left it as a gateway,
an open door to Light
until the end
entering his real world
he knew the way
not by death
but real life
marked it
gently
when taking off
© Marialenn 12/12/2014
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
“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.
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.” - Mark Rothko
From where does this doubt in my poetself come?
A neglectful or ignorant adult
or my alienated teenage years?
A therapist could better declare
all the stuff from my past that impaired
my image, security or sense of self
find the dark corners in my mental health.
So I’ll leave it to all the shrinks
to discover why I think what I think.
Why so reluctant to publish a book
or collection of my work
make a website known far and wide?
I still don’t know what that’s about
but I hate the damnable doubt
in my poetic abilities and skill
and loathe my comparisons to the greats
getting even close seems so uphill.
But that Rothko quote makes sense.
It frees me
and lets ME be.
I’m not forcing anyone to do anything my way
but when others read a poem of mine
they are invited into my mind
to take a piece of my heart
and see my world that moment of that day.
There is no force involved
it was their choice to read
and I’m grateful they took the time
to linger with my verse or rhyme.
I love that old Sinatra song My Way
it might have had a self-centered air,
but it was a courageous thing to declare.
I also give thanks for those brave enough
to post their poems in public
to reveal to strangers and self-disclose.
It IS like taking off your clothes
to let us see what’s underneath
and I thank the gods that be
for a momentary journey into those worlds
to try on the artist’s priceless pearls.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC