Meandering through my mind lately:
Conversations. Often silent.
Our fellow creatures.
Henri Bergson; Form is only a snapshot of a transition.
Willem De Kooning; Content is a glimpse of something, an encounter
like a flash.
Anton Chekhov; (paraphrased) Observe, do not intuit what you can’t know.
The kernel of each mind is private and of indecipherable complexity.
Looking at de Kooning
(Woman VI, 1953)
Muted memories and faded feelings
reignite at his rhapsodic touch.
A crooked line, a line of despair,
alerts us to the palsied woman we ignored
to join the others who reveled on the deck,
martinis, balloons in hand.
An awkward pair of lines
side by side; one black and harsh
the other tentative, a soiled white,
return us to the felsenmeer
when the path was lost in shifting morning mist;
we beseeched the gods to reveal themselves
and as de Kooning’s sudden thrust of red
refueled his passion, that one small pile of rocks
restored our way in the ravine.
The narrow-headed horse, bewildered,
paces in the ruts beside the rail;
the pink bellied bird thrashes to save himself,
his wings a rush of musty gold…image after image
is secreted until the prisoner, behind the twisted bars,
stares at us from empty eyes.
Imagine Raven dropped
a stolen mirror from the sky, its shiny side
spun round, your reflected self invisible.
On the horizon you spot an unfamiliar bird
splayed stilts for legs, striped wings askew and spread
like a killdeer sensing danger to her nest.
Part fox, part sharp nosed rat, or something in-between,
you watch this creature stalk the bird, but as they touch.
to your surprise, a silent dialogue begins.
Without a mirror to respond
they wrap themselves in a serenity,
and welcome any transformation that comes.