And something changed in a bird-twitch Just as the jay on an opposite roof twists Away, and the blue and the stripes of black Exit my window view. And just like that Your hands and their small hairs were snatched away, Fine stripes of black gone: it was getting late. Would your blue nails be kept to yourself Not to trace the arm freckles of … Continue reading Tu t’envoles by Zeke Greenwald
She is your mother. That is the truth of the image: she is your mother and thus the child there, with the milky eye, the face half in shadow, must be you? But is it you? It is a you you do not remember, nor is it a moment you remember; it is a small child in woolen leggings, pulling at the hand of a … Continue reading YOUR FATHER, YOUR MOTHER by Mary di Lucia
When we think of the history of art, the television rarely comes to mind, despite the fact that upon exploration, tv relates to many discourses: architecture, urban planning, the beaux arts, technology, psychoanalysis, and finally, portraiture itself. A tv in a room with a tv viewer and couch loosely mirrors some aspects of the psychoanalytic triad; that is, the tv, like the analysand, broadcasts a free-associative … Continue reading A BRIEF HISTORY OF MID-CENTURY PORTRAITURE: TV by Mary di Lucia
He will go blind. He will go blind, you think, as they have all done, and it is you who will have let it happen. You have let it happen; it is too late. You could have told him: it is not the eye. It is the hands which reshape the universe. They are the remakers. All is seen through a glass, whether or not … Continue reading Blindness/Your Brother by Mary di Lucia
His teeth were sharp. By day, he hid them. By day he had hands. At night, they were claws. They scratched on the old trees until the bark was gone. They were telephone poles. He was leaving messages. He kept his hands in his pockets. The crows came: one, two, three. Their claws left tracks. He couldn’t read them. The clouds were too thick. He … Continue reading The Great Bear by Mary di Lucia
I am old. I walk into the river, under the gray stone floeberg. I am tired, and my eyes are dark. I lie down, and the sludging water rolls over me, slowly. I am old and tired and very cold. My eyes are dark, and my brown dreams stagger as if to drown. The shadows of those I’ve loved sweep quickly past me. I see … Continue reading Into the River by Craig McVay
There go I, rambling across your thorny hummock Gnarled tendrils of your thicket stifling my frailties Still I mutinously protest your jeremiad against my essence Your prominence a shadow over my adequacy I plot my escape from your autocracy and cruel judgement No longer is my soul nonplussed by puerile desires The fierce chimera now lies beneath my breast, and I being in fine feather … Continue reading Soulmate My Narcissist by April Vomvas
