fāz/the Jester and her Jester

A jester and her jester

Why are we not all born

with a jester attached?

With us until we die.

To keep us awake.

To remind us of the truth.

To fill mortality with laughter

and the jingle of bells?

If the jester

listens to her jester

as the brain listens to the heart

she may eventually find peace

among the flow and thrust

of our twisted ribbons.

Are we finally saved then,

can I relax now

or did i get it wrong again?

I’m certain I saw a family resemblance

and, it was only yesterday was it not

that the ferryman winked at me?

And although the days are losing definition

I’m certain it was the same day

you made a necklace out of acorns

and hung it around my neck, laughing.

The partnership is blessed

and sacrificed

at the same moment.

The breast to the memory stone.

Not a circle after all but an arc.

And all is suddenly Carnival,

bright and loud and gilded,

showing the folds and creases

of pockets and wallets and bags

as we leave them at the door.

Unburdened

we are

free to dance.

The Jester and her Jester. 18×14″. Acrylic on paper on panel.

Painting and poem by clinock.

fāz/the carnival is over

after the Carnival

warm and salty winds

caress bones and sad singing

of a dancing past

 

 

The Carnival is Over. 18×14″. Acrylic on paper on panel.

Painting and haiku by clinock.

fāz/the Empty Green Line

empty green line

 

(OMG LOOK! he forgot

to remove the painters tape,

should we tell someone?)

 

they wear each other like hats, like masks,

like hair and hair nets,

like birds nests and spilled honey.

 

the empty green line waits

but words can’t be found.

the poet

holds

his

breath.

 

they are a circus unto themselves,

an orgy of coupling, a welding, a carnival,

partners in the great stumbling dance.

 

they wear each other

like music wears silence,

like the night wears the moon.

 

(meanwhile, other clues are given,

attention shifts from vagaries of language

to the eccentricities of the senses).

 

they wear each other like magicians wear clowns,

like gulls wear the wind,

like somehow nothing seems real

without the written

word.

this magic is called The Naming.

it is also known as

The Forgetting.

 

 

The Empty Green Line. 18×14″. Acrylic on paper on panel.

Painting and poem by clinock.

DUETTO (a collaboration) 6

Duetto 6

carnival of life

willingly or not

masks disappear

 

This is the last Duetto in this series. Thank you again Ese for an inspiring and delightful dance – your haiku brought another dimension to my drawings and I hope my art did the same for your poetry.

Ese’s blog – http://esengasvoice.wordpress.com

With The Sun In My Eyes (images from San Miguel De Allende, Mexico)#1.

I have been away from Art Rat Cafe for awhile, traveling in Mexico and so full of experiencing every moment of heat and sun and the fascination of a different culture that, except for one poem from the coast I have rarely thought about blogging. However, I am settled into San Miguel for awhile and able to begin to sift through the daily and amazing sensual input of sounds, smells, colours, textures and sights that I encounter on every street and around every corner. So this is a good time to share again, and the simplest way I can share is through my third eye, my camera. I will begin these postings by publishing one or more images a day, sometimes with words of explanation and sometimes allowing the photos to speak for themselves.
My first post is about one of the most popular celebrations in Catholic countries and cities: the Carnival. This is a tradition that is held every Sunday prior to Ash Wednesday before Lent. In San Miguel in the 1970s the tradition took place on the Jardin, the central plaza of the town and consisted of the women walking in the opposite direction to the men, who used to give them a flower or ask them permission to sprinkle confetti from an empty eggshell on their heads and requested them to be their girlfriend. The girls were always in the company of their mothers and sisters. The photos and description of the modern equivalent to this tradition follow.

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This the beginning of spring here and also the start of religious and secular activities leading up to Easter. Today on the Jardin my favorite local ritual took place, definitely derived from pagan origins. Children and teens chased each other with bags full of painted eggs that were empty of the usual content and filled with confetti (although the young jokers in the crowd filled them with tempera paint powder or flour). Except for the little kids it is a blatant courting and fertility ritual and loosely continues the tradition from the 70s. Boys chased girls and visa versa and smashed the eggs on each other’s heads, covering each other and the entire ground of the Jardin with multi coloured confetti. It was hilarious to watch and actually no one was exempt, I was egged three times and completely covered. I watched the kids running after each other around the outside of the Jardin, screaming and laughing while the adults dance together around the central bandstand to mariachi music under blue skies and hot sun. I know we have much to be thankfull for in the north but I think so often, when I am here, that our northern culture is missing so much, we have so few gathering places like the Jardin to dance, play music and connect with each other, and we have nothing to match this eggstatic ritual of joy in celebrating spring and courtship.