Thoughts upon reading it once.anna_unfoldingApril 15 2011, 16:49:48 UTC
It's a problem of focus, it's a problem of diligence Yes, the dominant paradigm is: if only I could plan and execute with focus I could make art....
But why not let the colors do what they want, which is blend... Oh, yes, just like my best writing, the ART is created by my subconscious unfolding on the page in front of me, when I let my brain get out of the way. Plus, the "blend" begins the poem's theme of things being interchangeable, representational; of being the things they represent more than the things themselves.
But it’s not, not beautiful, not true, not even realistic, more like a man in a birdsuit... Oh, so validated here. So yes, this this about him, not the bird...about what the DOING actually means when you need to do it but don't know why. Pick a bird, any bird: pick a character, a setting; pick a moment, pick a film, a football team, an actor. You are picking yourself. Every single time. It will have the wings of the bird, but it will be you.
so that looking at the page is like looking out the window at a bird in your chest with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway because the hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not and the hand wants to do something useful. Here the poem explodes into pure art, and my skin is electric with reading and feeling, and my brain turned off. I was lost to the art, and yet, it meant everything to me, what he is saying. The hand wants to do something useful... this points back to the first question of the poem, and points forward to to the real question of art: what are we, our skills, our bodies, but tools yearning to be put to use, to the purpose of drawing the heart?
And the end? Can we lose the illusion of control that forces "focus and diligence" on us; could we ever be the tools, the art, the heart we actually are? That is this poet's answer to The Problem (if there is one) but I feel it as a question. Can I? Can you?
But why not let the colors do what they want, which is blend... Oh, yes, just like my best writing, the ART is created by my subconscious unfolding on the page in front of me, when I let my brain get out of the way. Plus, the "blend" begins the poem's theme of things being interchangeable, representational; of being the things they represent more than the things themselves.
But it’s not, not beautiful, not true, not even realistic, more like a man in a birdsuit... Oh, so validated here. So yes, this this about him, not the bird...about what the DOING actually means when you need to do it but don't know why. Pick a bird, any bird: pick a character, a setting; pick a moment, pick a film, a football team, an actor. You are picking yourself. Every single time. It will have the wings of the bird, but it will be you.
so that looking at the page is like looking out the window at a bird in your chest with a song in its
throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway because the hand is a voice that can sing
what the voice will not and the hand wants to do something useful. Here the poem explodes into pure art, and my skin is electric with reading and feeling, and my brain turned off. I was lost to the art, and yet, it meant everything to me, what he is saying. The hand wants to do something useful... this points back to the first question of the poem, and points forward to to the real question of art: what are we, our skills, our bodies, but tools yearning to be put to use, to the purpose of drawing the heart?
And the end? Can we lose the illusion of control that forces "focus and diligence" on us; could we ever be the tools, the art, the heart we actually are? That is this poet's answer to The Problem (if there is one) but I feel it as a question. Can I? Can you?
Reply
Leave a comment