Tag: creation
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Chattanooga Film Festival: Good Night: Turns Chaos into Catharisis
When dusk swells over Buenos Aires and the pavement begins to sweat neon, Good Night unfurls like a whispered dare. Matías Szulanski’s urban nocturne doesn’t just walk you through the city—it hurtles you headlong into its waiting mouth. Here, the moon bears witness to impulsive crimes and fractured trust, and every alley glimmers with potential…
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What Will Not Survive
Sharp as an edge that does not ask what it is cutting. whole as a thing that does not need proof to exist,thought arrives in full motion before meaning—color before shape, light before weight,not as process, not as method,but truth already formed, unwilling to be held,which needs no tending, refining, It is not a single…
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Unfathomable Will
I found the city a pitiless thing.It smelled of steel, concrete and the bay.I use to sit on the sea wall that edged my old college condo, the one I sharedwith a black cat, and sing Otis Redding-skipping the whistling part of his songbecause my lips could never purse the right tune- and watch the…
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Nightfall
The ramshackled town falls quiet to the artist’s eye in the retreating light.The old houses will truce their aged lumber,antiquity, for the invading dark beauty of his creation.He lived here once as a boy, in the sadness of his angels,held hostage (he thought), by the catechism of church and steeple, becoming a refugee from sawdust…
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Byobu- (A Japanese Screen)
He knows how to observe the heron in the twilight’s lonely inclusion-this blue dream that could vanish in flight if drawn too near—head, eyes, ears pulled forward following the flow of fish ahead— until it vanishes from his sightbehind a screen of slender reeds.
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The Well-Trained Palomino
Again, today,the cowboy will closehis eyes and listen to the hoovesof wild horses all around himknowing that his well-trained palomino will take him homelike a loverwho knowswhat his lust wants— knows the way to him,through the black covers of that dark room—even as the returningcreates and then destroys the greening prairie, the chambray wind.
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Living the Half Life
The drought has made July linger. The air smells of sewer booty, sweetgum, sassafras, fescue, concrete and asphalt. On this long summer day when the light and heat decide to linger— parents let their children play well into the night on the community’s green. Their laughter and the croaking of frogs in the rention pond,…
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Unfinished Poem
(after Mark Strand)In the drifting of the moon over the waters she saw a past fear jumping to the future : Rain was falling on her husband’s grave, while this poet was moving into her house, in the rain.In her old room the poet was writing a poem abouta woman who strolled under trees and…
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Christos
The beautiful things he made came back to him: the long tableof good wood built solid, true;the simple seatscarved even, joinedtogether perfectly right;the hung doors that swung cleanas he passed;even the crossbeamhe swayed from— his blessed creation.
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Two Artist’s Love Letters
1.He created for her colors that never existed,and then threw them away, creating new anew, mattered matter, forever dynamic cosmos of spiritually affective things reconciling in the meeting of colors.Innocent white, virtuous gold,evil black, envious green,passionate red, blue love,fearful yellow, hateful scarlet-all given back to the death lifefrom the ones rejected by herfrom his daily…
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An Old Garden
(After Richard Aldington’s Aux Vieux Jardin)Today I found an unknown garden in the woods.I do not know who carved this still pool fringedwith reeds amidst a forest browning for winter.Who decided to protect it from the tearing air,tended it to suckle water from dark clouds.All I know, it blooms with great delight, apartfrom the diverse…
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Opening Her White Parasol
With the push of a button, the delicate porcelain releases lace ribs from the handle- little dove wings- shading her dreams, memories of father, creating this object to protect her from the shriveling sun.
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He Creates the Sax for Her
She brings his instrument all together: a reedy tongue golden viper that fits his fingers. She is his night. And she dances for him, caressing him until the night is jazz and he is jazz— his only music.
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The Bench
When the oak fell in the stormhe carved a bench for her.He placed it in the best grove shade asa reminder the bench once bloomed.Still, rays of light split through the leavesand the bench, even in winter, was warm.Here she knew fully his silent love for her,even after he fallen silent, buried nearby.Eventually, it became…