Mexico – campanas y nubes

sma domes and sunset

it has never failed

and it was planned to be so

by the white fathers

sma campinale

I speak of the bells

that oscillate in the heart

and call us call us

call us

3 bells

the cloud / sky romance

magicked us eons before

and we reach out still

 

into the beautiful blue loneliness of space

~~~~~~

 

poem and photographs by Clinock

Ghosts – silence

silence

An investigation for jesters

and saints,

this sadness of a man,

this separated ghost,

this disconnected stare

in brittle glass,

unrecognized reflection

of nothing known

in this frozen liquid sand,

pinned to a drawing board,

crucified

in clouds of calendars

and an ambiance

of echoing silence.

 

Ghost of a ghost

exiled from connection

to all familiar senses,

wandering lost

in a papier-mache world

filled with mute puppets

and the creeping feet of madness

drifting on autumn leaves,

the dumb changing of seasons

and the cold winds to come.

 

There was a voice once

filling days and nights,

sweet ectoplasms of love

buried now in the heavy quiet

of collapsing bridges

and the broken entities of light.

 

There was a precious presence

partnering in mirrors,

a twinning wholeness

held gently in his hands,

now crumbling into dust

and blown on September winds

across a face

that is a stranger to itself.

 

There was music and whispers

tongued and lipped

across vibrating cells,

songs of angels and dreamers

gagged now and gone,

leaving a face alone

to face itself,

a double haunting.

ex silentio.

 

 

self-portrait drawing and poem by clinock.

Ghosts – Hungry Ghost

hungrybird

Hungry ghost,

insatiable spirit,

I would free you first

amongst many if I could,

release you from your struggle

for relief and escape,

but you are mired so deep

in your painful longings

I cannot reach you.

 

Hungry ghost,

never satiated,

always searching, wild eyed

for the soothing elixir

that will fill the emptiness inside.

Tasting this and drinking that,

inhaling green and golden brown

mists of pleasure and illusion

to alleviate your loneliness.

 

Hungry ghost,

stripping the beauty of what is

with beaks of desire

to find fulfillment in what isn’t.

Hunting through nature and time

for more than is given.

Feeding on dreams

while the nurture of life waits

untouched around you.

 

Hungry ghost,

I would free me of you

and you of me,

exorcize these cravings

for the imagined, the untrue,

with chants of love

and a final act of will

dissolving these yearnings,

these haunted addictions

into clear mountain water.

 

painting and poem by clinock.

Ghosts – the alone

ghost1Cracked and whispering,

smeared

across frayed and faded

veils of memory,

dissolving

fractured interstices

of stained days,

the one alone,

lost.

 

Loss and paradox

chime

dried bones in dank tunnels

beneath a burning bridge

where bright darkness

casts an eye,

staring down my soul,

stirring my cells

translucent.

 

Intimate spirit

trapped,

struggling for escape

but chained

to rusting remnants

and luminous ice,

a nameless shadow

craving release,

freedom

 

to be loved into

tree skin,

sleeping rocks and gulls,

wolf and worm,

petal and seed.

To enter floods and dust,

and the rising moon.

To let go.

Transcend.

 

Mixed media painting and poem by clinock.

dark (leaving)

leaving. 16" x 20". pastel and conte on paper.

slipping quietly away

it took so long

the leaving

mute as shadows

step by quiet step by

tiptoed second

the slow disappearing

barely noticeable

the slow increments

of separation

the widening chasm

the darkening distance

between the leaving

and the left

the left behind

the wreckage

 the stripped bones

the abandoned child

the sheets of insomnia

the barbed and broken

understanding

slipping quietly away

taking nothing

leaving everything

to the silent drifts of night

drawing and poem by clinock.

Amputation Dream

Amputation Dream

I dreamt I lost my right hand,

a mysterious amputation

while sitting in my chair

half asleep and dreaming

and in this dream within a dream

my hand was suddenly not there,

a painless evaporation

of an old friend

leaving my left hand

alone and searching

with blind fingers and nailed tears

for its departed twin.

 

what is the sound of one hand …?

 

…a silent scream in sinister solitude,

left behind and grieving

though only a helper before,

a practical auxiliary,

holding while the right sliced,

patient while the right painted,

entangled in pillows

while the right caressed

the ecstasies of night.

 

dance partner gone

ten now halved

the ship veers to port

 

how will I now applaud brilliance?

how will I now make art or write?

how will I now be a lover?

fold laundry or reel a fish?

how will I now be symmetrical?

 

I breathe uselessness

through an empty sleeve.

 

acrylic painting and poem by clinock.

Uncovered Treasure 1

Solitary 2

he walks alone

across the city,

worn shoes echoing

the tessellation

of another

cold and solitary

wandering day,

cap and overcoat

armored against

rejecting light

and silent sound.

no one approaches

or smiles,

no hellos,

not even animals

come close

to the dark clothing

of his ambulation,

he is an island

in the shimmering

geometric ocean

of his loneliness.

 

In a recent mid-winter apartment purge I uncovered a set of 35 mm slides from some mist-enshrouded past era of my life. These photographic images enchant me, as they must have done many moons ago when I originally captured them on slide film.

Not owning a slide projector I scanned them into digital form and looked at them on my laptop. The images were visual poetry to me and words began to form around each one…

This post is the first of a series in which I will share these uncovered visual treasures paired with writings evoked by each slide.

I am also fascinated by the journey of the process these images have gone through over a long period of time. Originally an unknown photographer created an image using a film camera, manipulating and printing it using chemicals in a darkroom. The image was then purchased, photographed a second time and printed in a book where I found it and transformed it into slide film…a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. Using technology that was barely there when I made the slides, I scan the image, another form of photographic reproduction, adding a fourth layer to the process. Perhaps posting the image on WP could be considered a fifth stratum?

No doubt the images have deteriorated in quality as they have traveled through time but I accept this as an intrinsic characteristic of the process. Rather than treat the aging as a defect I prefer to see it as another face of beauty.

 I have no record of the original photographers of these images. If anyone out there recognizes the photographs please let me know and I will immediately add due credit to the artist.

poem by clinock.