liberation

June 22, 2010 at 3:46 pm | Posted in ekphrasia, poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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would that it were possible
to write pure instrumental lines
an imperceptible dissolution
into a henry moore shaped whole
like grass pondering dandelions
or two children holding hands
light variations
to untie the sublime from this humanness
of language, the moral, the spirit,
tethers which dull the glisten
of wordless beauty vaulting
the harmonic between open sky
and the softness of skin,

Friday Night Karaoke with F.

May 21, 2010 at 7:00 pm | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, ekphrasia, genre isn't dead yet but it should be, performance, writing | 7 Comments
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Happy Birthday Albrecht Durer. They tell me you were also prone to crankiness inherent in the precision obsession being such a perceptive mathematician of perspective.  We are still enjoying your mass reproduction revolution collapsing the distinction between the low art and the high culture. I would clasp my hands and pray if I still felt that was an appropriate response to soldiers  advancing through the mists of time and various other ridiculous apparitions. These days, I measure lines of sight only in decibels.  Approximate the distance between the letters involved in, “It’s only typing,

Sillyness, willinilliness, numbers have meaning only in context, “why is it pouring rain”, slamming his glass down on the piano, get some perspective, son, Rousseau had tiggers too and the softness in their eyes as they watch us watch her rise. I’m only typing “the 736 bus will be 14 minutes late again” and I do, remember those blue berets must be on the manifest, oh hey presto, I remember Durer he said, fancy hatted fellow, now count me in,

I looked down at the keyboard and thought one two three four, you make me feel like

(Albrecht Durer (1471), Henri Rousseau (1844) and Leo Sayer (1948)  share todays birthday May 21st)


Napoleon Hat, Long Johns and a Box of Chocolates

May 19, 2010 at 1:01 pm | Posted in ekphrasia, writing | 9 Comments
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It would be a relief to resort to jaunty nonsense and lurid wooden horses turning circles on an infinity merry go round or perfectly encoded details of a mundane life, ashtrays and nature poems described by one sleepy reviewer as ‘somewhat transportational’ but alas the responsibilities of leadership leave us oblivious he said disentangling himself from the inextricable, emergent. What wild rapids, grinning.

Perhaps we can reconstruct an empty architecture of nouns without verbs, less destabilising of the Takeshi Kitano Nexus, Sir? fers to the sound of ripples revolving round pebbles, sshhh, My life is very smooth these days, my job is easy and well-paying. I have a passport and two bank accounts. I am no longer concerned with the voluptuousness of time (which after all looks after itself as it follows its own tale) nor with vansquishing the inexplicable. Curvature, magnificence and innumerable immaculate details around the hallowed abundant atop however,

Pop. Not so much getting older as homeward bound, oh those tiptoe sounds how they remind of a maypole gyspy wedding dance… still enjoying the gigglest apology, my dear, buttoning his lips and reaching for his hat. Now what’s all this tit tatt, The Who Nexus? The What?

(Dance Of The Veils, Pablo Picasso, at The Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg)

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