In the Cave
(514-520 BC)
one goes on a journey
knows where one’s been
reality returning
one tells what one’s seen
shadows dancing
on night’s silver screen
verbal sketches
from where one’s been
speaking other languages
heard not seen
the more one speaks
the more others think
‘dream’
a dream for those
who’ve never been
where one’s been
Murals
Painting a mural,
inside, interior
wall, knowing it will
stand time’s test.
Viaduct broken,
a tumbled engine,
Canadian workers,
railwaymen all,
some from Macadam,
pebbled the floor,
handrail, radiator
camouflaged for war,
part of the painting.
Depart from the station.
Turn right. Straight ahead,
flaked peeling paint.
So sad, this outside
mural, exposed to winter’s
snow, frost, winds, and ice.
So vulnerable
and so ephemeral.
Butterfly on a rock.
Such a short-lived
summer, over in a day.
Comment:
My friend, Geoff Slater, inventor of line painting and a renowned muralist, is painting a mural at Macadam Railway Station celebrating the role of Canadian railway engineers in WWI. Here are two fragments from his unfinished mural. The poem above is based on his lamentation that his outdoor murals, subject to the slings and arrows of outrageous Canadian winter weather, are ephemeral, like butterflies, and cannot endure.
Jack Pine at Tara Manor
(1770 & 1834 & 1917 & 1977 & 2018 AD)
Tara Manor jack pine
arm-waving Maritimer
long-past sea-faring
cult-haired declamation
poem to a wilderness
cultured
cultivated now
you radiate disorder
flustered
clicking needles
clustered
knitting the wind
lop-sided
radical forest church
spired with birds
crows’ nest crowned
growing out extravagant
salted the air
old man’s beard
sprouting fresh bristles
old salt sea salt
always a helping branch
to point the time of day
each rough-barked limb
a friendly hand extended
every night
your black bristling branches
haul down the sun
Stones
(3 May 1808 AD)
stones once thrown
can never be brought back
nor words once spoken
nor the bullet
once released
from musket or gun
here lies who knows who
face down in the dust
shirt soaked in blood
body pierced with lead
nor water time nor love
can ever flow back
beneath that bridge
some kneel some pray
some raise their eyes
to uncaring skies
every one of them dies
shooters
those waiting to be shot
even the soldiers
reloading their guns
never understand
how time’s tide runs
ebbs and then flows
until everyone goes
this you
lying face down
on cobble stones
well know
Comment:
The poem is drawn in part from the Goya painting of the shootings, El tres de mayo de 1808. The painting above is a close-up of Geoff Slater’s latest mural, still in progress, at Macadam Railway Station in New Brunswick. “If only the stones could speak, what stories they would tell.” This re-post was inspired by a visit to Seasons of the Witch on Mr. Cake’s Cake or Death site with its images of Goya’s Black Paintings. So, we have a continuing Goya mini-Fest, May the Second and May the third.
Tongue-Tied
(2 May 1808 AD)
bottle tops unscrewed
tighter than the tightest
oyster refusing to open
pointed knife and scissors
plastic this many layered
onion-skin’s pliant defiance
waging its guerrilla war
against arthritic fingers
words tongue-twisted
damning dark mouths
white picket fences
midnight the faces
lightning the teeth
felonious figures
grimy with grimaces
Mother Hubbard’s
cupboard empty hearts
robin redbreasts
battering heads wings legs
against stony cobbles
if only stones could speak
what stories they would tell
this city this sunny square
anywhere
Comment:
El dos de mayo, 1808, marks the start of the Spanish War of Independence. The people of Madrid rose up against Napoleon’s Mamelukes and Goya painted that encounter in his Dos de Mayo. On the third of May, 1808, Goya also bore witness to the shootings when Napoleon’s troops took hostages and shot them. Two great and wonderful paintings which we can celebrate today and tomorrow. Also well worth a visit, today and tomorrow, is Mr. Cake’s Cake or Death site with his blog on Seasons of Witches and his introduction to Goya’s Black Paintings. Another site that merits serious attention is Geoff Slater’s art site.
Stones
(3 May 1808 AD)
stones once thrown
can never be brought back
nor words once spoken
nor the bullet
once released
from musket or gun
here lies who knows who
face down in the dust
shirt soaked in blood
body pierced with lead
nor water time nor love
can ever flow back
beneath that bridge
some kneel some pray
some raise their eyes
to uncaring skies
every one of them dies
shooters
those waiting to be shot
even the soldiers
reloading their guns
never understand
how time’s tides run
ebb and then flow
until everyone goes
this you
lying face down
well know
By Any Other Name
hortus conclusus
(1430-1432 AD)
don’t let them know
your origins your secrets
hide who and what you are
unholy ghosts will prowl
wild dogs will howl
sister-spouse
a garden enclosed
walled behind whose house
anonymous flowers
roses in abundance
set amongst thorns
sealed-up this fountain now
its well run dry
dead leaves in the bowl
shrunken petals
echoes of children’s voices
their faces hidden
among last year’s leaves
Courbet
(1944 AD)
a deep moist cave
moss-grown cavernous
casting from night to day
synchronous memories
ascent descent blood scent
ejection rejection
tumbling down falling
insidious angel
no room at the inn
trapped no escape
Hieronymus Bosch
black-winged devils
cloud tormented
descending
anonymous red skies
factory and furnace
foundering foundries
mysterious birth myth
turned into lies
virgin berth
borne with tweezers
untouched the channel
from dark to light
rogermoorepoet 