The following poems are included in a forthcoming collection entitled Yellow is a Difficult Color, which is a compilation of ekphrastic poetry written in response to contemporary art. Some edits are included, as these pieces are in process.
AWAY
THE BLUE OF DISTANCE
NIGHT SEA
AWAY
Yellow inside yellow
inside yellow inside
tell me of their names
(I should not ask these things)
A house. Interior rooms.
A house. Exterior rooms.
We have rooms.
Jung thought this.
Did Albers think this
the world inside the world
inside the world inside
the world let me in I cry
my mother never did
soft spoken apparition
(I should not ask these things)
outside her house ringing the bell
little girl shaded green
with rays
no answer ran away.
This one. Beaming.
This one. Ascending.
Bouncy ball pink
storm drain grey
come back grey
stay he doesn’t let me in
(who is he I should not say)
black box inside black box
inside black inside black
stacked
then sinking
then falling
away
(On Homage to a Square: Guarded, by Josef Albers)
THE BLUE OF DISTANCE
Draw it?
Blue graphite
blown
across the page.
Or seal it
in a bottle.
A silk scarf
might float
across
the room.
Her ghost
beside the bed
taking off
her clothes.
Skin.
Goosebumps.
Sky.
The way
the wind
passed through
Dickinson’s
window
that afternoon
in August.
Look
from your sealed
glass height
to feel
the wind
again.
Try,
remember,
the color
of the sky
that September
morning.
Try,
remember,
the sound.
(On Wind (through Emily Dickinson’s window, August 14, 2012, 3:22 pm), by Spencer Finch)
NIGHT SEA
Furnace shuts off. Rain. Footsteps. Little. Quick. Louder. Slowing breath. Head tucked. Pa. Ma. Storytime. Bathtime. Dinnertime. Hiccups. Choo. Choo. Train rushes. Over the track. I want pasta for dinner. Ashes. Ashes. Humming in the car. Stripes. Skipping to the next. It looks like a window. What was in her mind. Bulging blue. Not cerulean. Little rectangle. Little rectangle. Little rectangle. Skipping. Big white gallery. Up the stairs. Quiet. It won't rain. We'll go to the park tomorrow. Mint chip. A scoop for you. A scoop for me. Tires smear lines through the wet streets. Let me just finish this. Who will play with me. Let me read this. Gone. Fading. Heart drawing. Little fingers. Fogged windows. Warm water. Shower. It's pouring. It's raining. Powdered sugar. Squeeze. Lemon. Puffed pancakes. Mixing batter. Flour. Egg. Milk. What's the funnest thing we are going to do today? Mama is still sleeping. It's early. Shhhh. A penny for a spool of thread. A penny for a needle. That's the way the money goes. Pop goes the weasel. Loud. A striped ghost. Red and white striped shirt. Pulled over his little head. It starts with a T. Tuesday. In the dark. Striped socks shoved in my face.
Fogged
glass. Hearts
drawn. Fade
fast. Ring
around. Blue
grid window.
Cold night
sea.
(On Night Sea, by Agnes Martin)
THERE ARE NO RULES
I didn’t realize all that I was doing. I was trying to get at something — I didn’t know what until it was manifest. HF
I don’t want to write about how that Helen Frankenthaler painting made me feel. Her big expansive canvas taking up the whole room. I don’t have anything important to say. I did wonder if she laid her canvas on the ground as she poured her turpentine-thinned paint onto the canvas on her knees, and if that felt like religion to her. And did she watch with longing as the stained mess soaked in and became one with the raw canvas? And is this how she thought one day to paint herself into an entire room? And what was that day? My thoughts are dark today. Was she in despair? I imagine her weeping from, what I can not say. Heartbreak, perhaps. Was Helen Frankenthaler heartbroken that day she painted an entire room. Did she feel crazed? Possessed? Broken? And did it take her mind off of her pain for a little while, to paint her colors everywhere. Live inside her painting. And what was it like when Life magazine photographed her? Did she feel like a genius? Or did she feel ashamed, exposed, found out?
(On Beyond the Sea, by Helen Frankenthaler)
VISION
It morphs. Then disappears. Then reappears. I like
the big black hollowness of the room. I like
the not knowing how big it is. I like
the am I the only one here. I like
the tamped down silent hush. I like
the on and on and on darkness. I like
the I am absent. I like
the I am here. I like
the I am not seen. I like
the fear of nothingness. I like
the I feel sight coming. I like
the I feel sight disappearing. I like
the I am out of my head. I like
the I am in my body. I like
the I don’t know
what it means. I like
the I am in it, not just
looking at it. I like
the feeling
myself feeling. I like
the seeing
myself
seeing.
(On Pleiades, by James Turrell)