Escher: Metamorphosis

Escher's "Metamorphosis II"

I am a loner drawn to multiplicity.
I like it when things change but stay the same,
as a village in Italy creeps around and around a hill.
In reflections I see another world – or is it this one?
Over and over, bees and birds in flight and swimming fish –
patterns repeat, both infinite and contained,
shapes tumble into creatures, houses, streets and shapes again.
When each thing separates and all things coalesce I am complete.
Shapes tumble into creatures, houses, streets and shapes again,
patterns repeat, both infinite and contained –
over and over, bees and birds in flight and swimming fish.
In reflections I see another world – or is it this one?
As a village in Italy creeps around and around a hill,
I like it when things change but stay the same.
I am a loner drawn to multiplicity.

 

Escher's "Metamorphosis II"
Maurits Escher: Metamorphosis II


Inspired by Via Negativa: In the beginning and Fractal (this time the shape).

My white swan

The Swan, a painting by Hilma af Klint

The Swan, a painting by Hilma af Klint

my love is a tight
white glove
fitted to your whole body
cast it not off

wear this for me
so I can caress
you all over and leave
no telling trace

on your actual
sweet skin
so rosy and glowing
it dazzles me

this barrier between us
soothes me
its close fit ensures no
loss of sensation

you are a white swan
pirouetting on points
far above
my grubby love

encased in your white glove
you can touch
but not be touched as
best befits you

you can handle
the dusty old leaves
of an illuminated book
look but not be sullied

you can perform magic
pull from your tall hat
all the white rabbits
we require

you can attend a polite
old fashioned party
converse and drink milky tea
with an adoring me

oh dear one
don’t disdain my love
can’t you see it fits you
like a glove
?


Image: Hilma af Klint,
The Swan (1914).

The Grave Dug by Beasts: a new videopoem by Swoon

This entry is part 12 of 12 in the series The Temptations of Solitude

 


Watch on Vimeo.

The other videopoem that my friend Marc Neys AKA Swoon surprised me with at my birthday party (see yesterday’s post) was this interpretation of a poem I’d written in response to a painting by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, one of a series of ekphrastic poems I wrote in response to his series of paintings The Temptations of Solitude. (These poems were later collected along with the work of five other poets in a beautiful little anthology called The Book of Ystwyth: Six Poets on the Art of Clive Hicks-Jenkins, and you can watch the videos of our group reading at the 2011 book launch.)

I made my own videopoem with this text back in 2012, and while I wouldn’t call it a failure, I do think it rather pales in comparison to Marc’s. Nevertheless, it’s fascinating how the creative spark originally struck by Clive continues to give rise to new works of art. As Clive himself commented when I shared the video on Facebook last month: “I love the way art begets art begets art begets art. This is hauntingly beautiful.”

Sadly, this is among the last videopoems that Marc plans to make for a while. He told me he’s taking a year off from filmmaking to concentrate on other things—especially his music. Here’s hoping that when he does go back to making poetry films, it will be with new energy and fresh perspectives on the genre. His influence over the international videopoem and poetry film scene so far has been enormous.

For what it’s worth, I’ve added this and the videos I shared yesterday to the Plummer’s Hollow Poet channel on Vimeo, which is probably the best place to browse videos made with my own poems (since I don’t share those at my site Moving Poems).

Not genius, but scenius

Erasure poet Austin Kleon‘s keynote at SXSW 2014 should be required watching for every poet — especially the vampires and human spam, as he calls them, who are all about self-promotion, wedded to the false, romantic notion of the artist as lone genius. Kleon talks about how to “steal like an artist,” the importance of acknowledging one’s sources and sharing one’s work on the internet, and why we should emulate the great knuckle-ball pitchers. I’m being kept from my own work these past couple of days by a bad case of conjunctivitis, but this makes me impatient to get back at it.

Sea dream

We two are travellers
in a single dream.
Face up we float
together on a painted sea.
If we close our eyes,
we can drink the scent
of lilies, sense the touch
of angels’ wings.

We are bathing
in impastoed depths.
We are summoned
by siren songs of blue.
If we swim to shore,
escape the frame,
we shall not meet again.


Travellers in a Single Dream, a painting by Victoria Crowe

Cézanne’s Doubt

Cézanne's painting Mont Sainte Victoire

He comes here daily,
endlessly repeats the same motif,
his whole existence focused
on the mountain, on the struggle
to relate the scene before him
to the one appearing on his canvas,
stays until the light fades,
packs his things and,
unappeased, tramps home,
begins again tomorrow.

Cézanne’s agony, the doubt
he feels about the value of his work,
stems just from this: he starts
not with a given image, ready-made,
but seeks instead to make anew
each time the sense we have
of looking at and living in the world –
and thus creating it.


After Gabriel Josipovici,
Whatever Happened to Modernism? Chapter 8: “A Universe for the First Time Bereft of All Signposts.”

Writer and book blogger Victoria Best recently conducted a long and wonderful interview with the novelist and critic Gabriel Josipovici that makes you want to rush off and read/re-read his books – I did, and found the cadences of his critical writing so lovely they were almost a poem.

Gallery opening

(Lord’s day). A great snow, and so to church this morning with my wife, which is the first time she hath been at church since her going to Brampton, and Gosnell attending her, which was very gracefull. So home, and we dined above in our dining room, the first time since it was new done, and in the afternoon I thought to go to the French church; but finding the Dutch congregation there, and then finding the French congregation’s sermon begun in the Dutch, I returned home, and up to our gallery, where I found my wife and Gosnell, and after a drowsy sermon, we all three to my aunt Wight’s, where great store of her usuall company, and here we staid a pretty while talking, I differing from my aunt, as I commonly do, in our opinion of the handsomeness of the Queen, which I oppose mightily, saying that if my nose be handsome, then is her’s, and such like. After much discourse, seeing the room full, and being unwilling to stay all three, I took leave, and so with my wife only to see Sir W. Pen, who is now got out of his bed, and sits by the fireside. And after some talk, home and to supper, and after prayers to bed. This night came in my wife’s brother and talked to my wife and Gosnell about his wife, which they told me afterwards of, and I do smell that he I doubt is overreached in thinking that he has got a rich wife, and I fear she will prove otherwise. So to bed.

a congregation
at the gallery

we eat and differ in our opinion
hands like seeing fires

some talk in which I smell
doubt and fear


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 7 December 1662.

Three-step

This entry is part 5 of 5 in the series Art and about

 

Dulwich Picture Gallery

1.

This beauty’s not for everyone
blind windows like a prison
said a friend indifferent
to Soane’s genius
but I exult in it.

The honey-coloured bricks
and the harmonious outline
are earth and air.

It’s here that I come
to be grounded in a space
where sorrow and regret
can be felt but can’t annihilate
where hope can briefly soar.

The new Dulwich Picture Gallery in bright sunlight

2.

The sheer heft lovely lines
unchanging serenity
are what I love
so the old photo was a shock.

Many bombs fell on south-east London
You can see the places still
where a modern house interrupts
a Victorian terrace.

Around Dulwich small plaques
give the date the names
and ages of the dead

and in July 44 the gallery took a hit
that reduced its heart to rubble.

In this picture no sweet geometry
The honey drips
a waterfall of chaos
a radical artwork depicting
the horror of war.

Today’s fine structure
bears few traces
but once seen never forgotten
The rebuilt harmonies become a hymn
to resilience and repair.

black-and-white photo of Dulwich Picture Gallery reduced to rubble in Word War II

3.

On the corner by the pub car-park is a new mural
after van Dyck’s Venetia Lady Digby on her Deathbed.
Let me count the ways this work based on a portrait
of a dead woman fills me with paradoxical happiness.

Huge and bright and apart from the rose mostly blue,
it’s by the German artist MadC – C is for Claudia,
a woman of bold vision and talent and about the age
Venetia Digby was when she died in her sleep in 1633.

The painting was the muralist’s choice: a clever project,
these “old master murals” by street artists talking back
to their chosen works in the gallery have flashed up
on blank walls and gable ends all over Dulwich, but

none has taken my breath, none makes me stop and
smile and ponder each time I see it the way this does –
a mistressful meeting of past and present, private and
public art, death and unrestrained but not unthinking life.

MadC's Dulwich mural


Links:

Dulwich Picture Gallery
John Soane, the architect
World War 2 bombs in Dulwich
Venetia Lady Digby on her Deathbed by Anthony van Dyck
MadC (Claudia Walde), the muralist
and her Dulwich mural

Outside Art

This entry is part 4 of 5 in the series Art and about

 

photo of birches by Jean Morris

Outside the gallery
drawn up in close formation
a battalion of birches

straight from a forest
in a melancholy Russian novel
or one of those eerily pretty
paintings by Gustav Klimt

bright as morning air
their shadows charcoal strokes
on dusty ground

sculpted and framed by the eyes
of arriving aficionados
these modestly exuberant white wands
are also art.