Demented Confessions 6 – Owl Song

Owl Song

I fill the night with prophecies.

Do you hear her in my cry,

the oracle?

~~~

My nest is filled with tiny bones and skulls

and I will read your secret name in them

if you ask me for a song

~~~

and bring me sacrifice.

~~~

Art and Poem by Clinock.

Owl Song. 8″ x 8″ (20.32 x 20.32 cm). Mixed media relief in cradled panel.

Demented Confessions 1 – Invocation

Invocation

Demented – from Old French dementer or late Latin dementare, from demens ‘out of one’s mind’.

Confessions – via Old French from Latin confessio (n-) from confiteri ‘acknowledge’

Invocation

My Renovation Quest was to become out of my mind. Somewhat in the same way one is out of milk or coffee but more to the point outside of the rational and the drunken monkey, like the Dadaist Buddhists were if they ever were.

I do not welcome madness. I did once or twice but there was no pleasure in it.

Dali said: “The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad”.

So I confess and acknowledge what is found. Each work is a confession and a confirmation. I honour each work as an actual act of art made with these hands, eyes, heart and brain.

 It was another hard winter, here in the soft northwest Pacific sense of ‘hard’. Almost endless rain and if not rain then air so loaded with icy moisture one could squeeze it like a sponge and almost get snowflakes. A chilling, foggy dank, cabin fever, mossy, dripping, out of one’s mind Gothic kind of winter as I began these wall boxes. They are a necessary transition from my free standing ‘Renovation Art’ sculptures to that which comes next.

They made me laugh and wonder and ask what, and why.

In the dark hibernation of my winter past, in the name of Renovation, I made my confessions every day and night to all who still lived and listened. Did you hear my sins? Did you enjoy them? Did you hear my invocation? Must there be sacrifice?

Self-indulgent revelations in the fur and fire of the cave.

Invocation. Mixed media relief wall box by clinock. H.8″ (20.32 cm) x W.8″ (20.32 cm) x D.2″ (5.08 cm).

tête-à-tête (renovation art 5)

Tete a teteTete a tete 2

better eye to eye

than head to head

but better head to head

than back to back

 

this is the dueling stance,

ten paces gentlemen

then turn and kill

and may the best man win

 

how do we measure

‘the best’, and ‘man’

while the ‘not quite so best’

die again and again?

 

Sacrifice is an archaic prayer

of blood, shadows and dark power

but still we feed the endless fires

and the insatiable gods

 

 

Art and Poem by Clinock

Sculpture: tête-à-tête by Clinock. H. 8″ x W. 6″ x D. 8″ (varies). Fired and acrylic stained clay / feathers / screws / beads / painted wood base.

Remembering…(edited redux)

Photo on left – My Grandfather with his wife and daughter. Photo on right – His son, my uncle. Both British Army – WW1 and WW2.

Long gone now into peaceful death

they both survived the horrors

of the wars,

but at what cost:

Cruel black holes torn

in their lives

beyond words and understanding.

Their tongues frozen

when asked about the war

and the other war,

the never-ending wars.

 

I know from his medals

that uncle, or ‘Nunc’

as he liked to be called,

fought in Europe and Africa

and the Dunkirk landings.

Of my grandfather nothing remains

but his cremated silence.

 

Two lives fragmented

in stinking mud, nightmares and hate.

Two lives who sacrificed

many seasons of  laughter,

sunlit meadows, family picnics,

planting gardens, raking leaves

and reading by winter fires.

 

Instead they fought in hells

I cannot imagine,

watching friends ripped apart

by jagged metal,

drowning in poison gas

or burned alive in oily seas.

They crouched in fetid rat holes

while the sky concussed and screamed.

Shivering with cold and wet and fear

they dreamed of home,

warm clean beds,

kettles whistling on stoves,

hot baths, purring cats,

the embrace and love of wives,

friends and sweethearts,

and peace, blessed peace.

 

Protected by tenuous good fortune we believe

we are at peace, but the wars continue

and we are not immune from the violence

and torture in our world.

We are never safe from the grinning generals

and their demonic dreams of power.

 

/Poem by clinock/

 the survivors

The Survivors by Kathe Kollwitz – lithograph. 1923.

 

Poem by Ts’ao Sung  (ca. 830-910)

 The hills and rivers of the lowland country

You have made your battle ground.

How do you suppose the people who live there

Will procure firewood and hay?

Do not let me hear you talking together

About titles and promotions;

For a single general’s reputation

Is made out of ten thousand corpses.

kathekollwitz_sumiao04

No More War by Kathe Kollwitz – lithograph, 1924.

Broken

Broken. 18" x 22". graphite, conte & charcoal on paper. (Dwg #28)

broken in the rain,

repair is complicated

and plans misplaced.

 

all parts are fallen,

sanguine and separated,

vulnerable to rust.

 

solitary fragments

wait for the miracle

of reattachment.

 

magic craves time,

sacrifice and surrender

to reanimate

this static wreckage

that still pulsates with dreaming,

and magic must be fed.

 

drawing and poem by clinock.

Remembering…

My Grandfather with his wife and daughter; and his son, my uncle – British Army – WW1 and WW2.

Remembering – by clinock.

Long gone now

They both survived the horrors

And became like fathers to me

Loving, understanding and guiding

With pragmatic kindness and patience.

But there were black holes torn

In their lives beyond words and

Their tongues were unable to move

When asked about the war and the war

The never-ending war.

I know from his medals, sleeping in

A box under my bed, that uncle, or ‘Nunc’

As he liked to be called, fought in Europe

And Africa and was a veteran of the Dunkirk landings.

Of my grandfather nothing remains but his dark silences.

Two lives scattered and smashed into mud,

Nightmares, death and unshared memories.

Two lives that sacrificed seasons of love,

Sunlight on green meadows, family picnics,

Puttering in autumn gardens, reading by winter fires.

Instead they slogged through hells that

I cannot imagine, watching their friends ripped apart

By hot metal, drowning in poison gas

Or oil and blood soaked waters.

They wrote home from dripping rat holes

While the sky concussed and screamed.

Shivering with cold and wet and fear they dreamed

Of home and warm clean beds and

The kettle whistling on the stove and

The cat purring on their lap and

Knitting needles clicking and

The embraces and kisses of wives,

Friends and lovers. And peace, blessed peace.

Their bodies survived but something deep inside

Died, something never to be exorcised,

From them or from us.

Protected by tenuous good fortune we believe

We are at peace but the wars continue and

We are not immune from the nightmares of death

And torture in our world. We are never safe from

The Generals and their demon dreams of power.

 

 

Poem by Ts’ao Sung  (ca. 830-910)

 The hills and rivers of the lowland country

You have made your battle ground.

How do you suppose the people who live there

Will procure firewood and hay?

Do not let me hear you talking together

About titles and promotions;

For a single general’s reputation

Is made out of ten thousand corpses.