( amour fou )

( amour fou )

we leave

the house to ramble

when twilight stretches

we amble to the art gallery

where he insists on lingering

in front of extraordinarily tragic

post-war paintings on the second floor

we pass through halls lined with useless geezers

note their somnolent eyes, pouched cheeks, sadness

& corridors of the historical male gaze on the female body

he is always in a fevered search of earth-toned abstractions

while I loiter in the sublime aspect of following him around

***

My pal is back with poem prompts! I traded the crossword puzzle on my morning commute for a bit of pecking. The prompt: crazy love. I opted for translating it into French for the title and went to town and then paired it with a post-war Pollock.

Being able to write this poem opened up my chest. I’ve had my big fat head buried in the sand of late. I can’t get out of my own way. Writing always helps. I still feel grizzled and unsettled, unsure of myself, of everything. Writing helped me today. Grateful for that. It’s hard to need to open up only to be flouted. So silence, walls. Big thick walls. There’s nowhere for the drama to go but the page, right? At least this way someone is listening to something other than inside out anguish. Soul is tired. And still, I persevere.

Poetry!

In propinquity,

Nic

I Looked For A Light

I Looked For A Light

I sought out a light however pale

to shine through the breadth of

separation – a fragile subjectivity

it is an arbitrary vignette

a fusty bankrupt morning

cool-eyed & cold-blooded

a well-thumbed copy of Didion’s

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

burnt brown toast & stale coffee

deskbound at the kitchen table

lone & impervious

accents & idioms of an external exhale

pleading & preaching graceful pensées

a lax wager of uncompromised insight

I looked for a light

in order to see - to unpeel the mundane

& reveal the momentous

I looked for a light

                in an e.e. cummings poem

                in a suspenseful detective story               

                in a Jackson Pollack drip painting

                in a Vivian Maier snap-shot

I sought out a light

I pursued the gleam

to outrun the gloaming

**

Joan Didion is a brilliant observer, a powerful thinker, an exceptional writer and an iconic woman. I read ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’ back in 2015 and just finished ‘Blue Nights’ – both books, honest and intensely personal, rich in texture, stark in description, potent in the punch they intended to throw.

I admire her, Joan Didion. Her work is brave. It is timeless. Emboldened. In these two skillfully articulated memoirs, with honesty and ache, she presents clear-eyed memories of her past, a portrait of a marriage and then the worrisome wonders of parenthood and growing old.

Joan Didion, in a very short period of time, lost her husband and partner, John Gregory Dunne, while Quintana, her only daughter lay unconscious in a nearby hospital suffering from pneumonia and septic shock. She too soon died.

She formed her thoughts and experiences into a profound meditation on mortality, twice. I cannot imagine what it must be to see your husband die at your kitchen table while worrying for your only child suffering mere blocks away in a hospital bed. And then, inevitably, all alone.

This woman has paid her dues. The title of one of her older books ‘We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live’ – aptly applies to her fate so many years later.

Joan Didion and I share the same birthday but her sentences are better.

In propinquity,

Nic

Jackson Pollock's Floor

Jackson Pollock’s Floor

Frank built the Guggenheim

a grand mastered structure

on an uncertain foundation

a convulsive innovation spelled

in an inverted ziggurat scheme

all this

so that Jackson Pollock might

concentrate a lavender mist for

a taut composition on the floor

to mount on a clean (W)right wall

full impasto/abstract expression

chance effect/unique freedom

drip drip drip

syntheticresinpaintalkydeenamel

greensilverblueblackyellowmarine

so that Jackson Pollock might

heavily influence a discerning eye

stir a little bit of pride in your protest

art built for a vast emotional aftermath

large-scale retrospective/comprehensive exhibit

it is romantic to recoil from the images

have stark dreams in the open rotunda

name them/number them/sell/parade

manipulation of art/careful compliment

those with heightened superior gifts

settle into your quaint country-sides

jangle the gables of your suburbs

force a tight perimeter around your cities

so that you might

walk the length of Pollock’s spotted floor

in your bare feet with your soul showing

**

Headstrong hump day!  My marbles are all falling out and I’m desperate for a little bit of outside sunshine (yes, it’s sunny, or partly here) and quiet.  I’ve got an hour left of my work day and then I think it might be beneficial to park myself somewhere with some tea, a nibble and read my book.  I started reading ‘Dear Girls Above Me’ by Charlie McDowell last night and got through half.  I forced myself to stop reading and turn my light out.  It’s funny and fresh and I am enjoying the male narrative in a modern setting that utilizes the aspect of social media and worldly romance.  I also bought ‘The Birth House’ by Ami McKay.  I loved her second novel, ‘The Virgin Cure’.  I am reading her work backwards but hers is worth reading.  Her writing is stunning. 

I also discovered I had more vacation days left at work than I thought I did.  Woo hoo!  I’ve submitted a request to make the Labor Day weekend an extended one and then for my December birthday day off.  I enjoyed having it off last year so why break tradition.  I’m a Wednesday child and this year, my 40^th, falls on a Wednesday.  Woe seems appropriate, no?

I polished this arty poem while I ate a bite of lunch today between phone calls and emails.  Hugh Jackman tweeted a photo of Jackson Pollock’s floor the other day and it just stuck with me, I couldn’t stop thinking about it so I wrote this poem.  I am fascinated by his artwork and always find it sad that someone with his natural artistic aptitude and his penchant for changing the rules, he died so young.

Pasta for dinner tonight?  Why not.

Stay smart.

In propinquity,

Nic