A painting

[working through]

well, this is my first time here. Feel a little unsure of myself, but here it is.


After several lunations carving
A portrait down from luminous vermillion flesh into blue psyche,
Our remainder developing from a covellite, which, if you don’t know,
Is a deep
And lustrous indigo-blue ore of copper, from the earth, and
I set down raven blue in flight for the woman’s background,
Or unrealized self… so
I sat in a restaurant, dark and cavernous,
Attuned to value, dove,
Raveness,
The flying light sparingly, as if symbolic,
Stingy, hard-won light,
Highlighting translucent silhouettes as
Well as opaque, a moment of completion
Shakespearian in flow; and erupt-
ed around the eatery
Like tide and rain, and yes… like a flock of ravens
Fleeing a storm, the
Storming Nothing, black, black nothing
But suggestions between your several minds, the
Perfect theater of
My own countenance, my face dissolving
In admiration for this brave species
I watch knowing they’re unaware
Of the beauty of their perseverance.

Home, solitary, lonely in my rustic shower
Through the willow and grape,
At the cactus paddles, the mint,
A cacophony of surfaces insurmountable,
Intoxicating, Geministic, reanimating
I surged up against the underneath of the surface
That makes things… that unbroken word
Spoken to bring the Single Surface animate,
Folding, creasing, swelling
The impossibility of life
Into a resistance, a skin like the skin of the grape
Restraining its flesh; the pair as one:
Spirit.
Desperate to salt in the raining shower… for a weak spot, a hernia
In the painful epidermis of perception,
The mantle of the earth,
The play of light and shade
Above my core, my unrelatable prison.

I will have to lay aside the brush of words,
Pick up the chisel of blue,
An onionskin deeper into ochre,
A hernia,
A deep melancholic sleepless night
Against morning, un-sutured
In the raw brushwork; I
Am canvas, a single lamination on nothing… I
Am the application of blue to myself to get out
Through myself
To let the beautiful, beautiful world
Say goodbye… into the blue all: what
Happens to the backlight’s
Speech of light over the contours of the young father’s
Face as his glass shilloete inclines, melts to light
Into his child, our child of…

[billy]

some of the lines on there own feel beautiful in their own right. Lines 2 and 6 to name only two.
sadly the beautiful lines don't hold the poem to together. while the artist know what his work represents it won't work unless he shares some his knowledge with the person viewing it. the same can be said for poetry etc. i get glimpses but never enough to see the picture.

[Philatone]

hello working through! nice to have you!

what i'm seeing now is a poem buried under its weight. the images strike me as excessive, to the point that their original goals elude me.
for example:

The flying light sparingly, as if symbolic,
Stingy, hard-won light,
Highlighting translucent silhouettes as
Well as opaque, a moment of completion
Shakespearian in flow; and erupt-
ed around the eatery
Like tide and rain, and yes… like a flock of ravens

we have 7 lines to describe a light in a dark room. that in and of itself is not an issue. for me, its the wide variety of descriptions used in this span. we have a symbol, a "victor" of sorts, a "moment of completion", "Shakespearian", "rain", "tide", "flock of ravens". this is heavy. i can follow, but at the risk of watching the images lose their impact, and I don't think that is the intention.

just my own take. i like where this can go, but as of now i'm a little stranded

[rowens]

I like this poem. It's fleshy with the flesh of a brain in the nervous grip of sudden inspiration. Now it's rushing home, strugglng with the approaching task at hand. It's trying to conserve something, while at the same time, it has to change it.
I'd want to make a few alterations. I'm thinking about making a study of this painting.
You should go through it again yourself, and consider if you like the shape you've given it, and make sure all the phrases link together to say what you mean to say.
I think, for one thing, "this brush of words" has a better tone than "the brush of words" since it's the artist that is thinking, rather than the poet that is writing, whose voice we hear. "This" allows "brush" to have more than one meaning; not that that's necessary.