Best Pollock Poems
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JACKSON POLLOCK
Nor star
Nor dust
Existence
In
Nospace
Dave Austin
Dripping paint on canvas made works of art.
Jackson led the abstract expressionists.
He would be successful right from the start.
Using some techniques from famed muralists,
his achievements comprised very long lists.
All over the canvas Jackson would flow;
dripping and spattering paint to and fro.
Abstract images would cover it all.
As unconventional as artists go,
any of his works would bring a windfall.
brightly colored leaves
pasted down, pasted down, down
by rain... to the ground
Orange streaks across the horizon
and supple reds sloppily dot
like stars in a naked sky.
Browns are all engulfing now.
A hungry wolf,
steadily eating up the page.
Yellow splashes play second fiddle
to the darkening and
The greens melt like blocks of fresh ice
on an Indian summer’s day.
When he starts a new painting,
Canvas stretched taut against the defining frame,
Gesso-coated smooth and even,
Pure and uniform…
How does he begin?
Are his tubes of paint arrayed in careful rows,
Summer colors first – winter colors last?
Is the final result already in his mind,
Or, does it grow organically,
Layer upon layer?
Does he paint all the reds at once,
The blooming roses and spurting blood?
Are the blacks a backdrop for stars
Or a prayer against the coming night?
Is the smear of green a leafy tree?
The blue streaks a sky?
How can he tell?
And, after all the colors are piled up,
And the canvas is awash in paint,
Leaping from the edges of the frame
Ready to crawl across the wall…
All this I can understand in my engineer’s heart
But… how does he know when it’s done?
This is why I prefer nature to modern art.
God knows we’re not finished yet!
Yours are the paintings that speak to me
In a way that cannot be spoken
They fill both my heart and breast
They cause my mind eternal unrest
I see them in my dreams.
My heart beats faster
In the presence of their rhythms
They dance to the music of another lover.
Or that lover could be me
I feel your passion as my truth.
The broader the strokes the more I feel
The lesser your details must be given
Every color executed with a reason
I know the fervor that you’ve shown
The metrics of your vision.
The finer grains of your textured points
Like stars thrown cross the heavens
Are they the products of a celestial force?
Did God choose to show himself through you?
Or just serendipity as many would believe?
Some accidental truths.
Nothing special
Nothing to be gained
Nothing to be learned from you.
I see them as an orchestration of the divine
conducted from above.
Yours are the paintings that speak to me, Jackson.
Yours are the paintings I love.
(November 30, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
POLLOCK
arrested moments
drip by drip-
encaptured
The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster
Underfoot the dropped was-so-lost pen breaks snapping its midnight ink artery to spurt explosively out like some imprisoned force nearly dead but risen sucking in saving air
while dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black pitch arcs streaking fall staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn between a sofa and yellow armchair there will be an awful task to clean this
now like aJackson Pollock’s winking quickly cast so rapidly set.
After the stroke we gape as the room itself clutches a stiller life mood blank in an erased atmosphere forgetting any will to find a contour of drawn new breath or speech only yet
whispers of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time when the
corpse lies in its open casket
under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers by Rilke
until finally someone declares the tragedy past turning to suggest the use of gold leaf rather than ink on the outlines of the next drawing of the hour as it may proceed.
**********. **********. **********. **********
(C) sally Young Eslinger 11/2020
Thanks be to God
The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster
Underfoot the dropped was-so-lost pen breaks snapping its midnight ink artery to spurt explosively out like some imprisoned force nearly dead but up again sucking in saving air and spread on
dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black arcs streaking falling staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn together between a sofa and yellow wing- chair on the gray carpet there will be an awful task to clean this now became a Jackson Pollock’s winking quickly cast so rapidly set.
After the stroke we gape as the room itself clutches a stiller life mood blank in an erased atmosphere forgetting any will to find a contour of drawn new breath or speech only yet
whispers feel of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time as when the casket sits in the room for a wake under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers and phrases of grief
by Rilke
until finally someone declares the tragedy Into the past turning to suggest the use of gold leaf rather than ink on the outlines of the next drawing of the hour as it may proceed.
**********. **********. **********. **********
(C) sally Young Eslinger 11/2020
Thanks be to God
ACCIDENTS IN TIME and SPACE a Pollock Ekphrasis
A counterpoint to tease floating
paint in swirls and mounds full
of radiant energy and surprise,
an adventure for our eyes,the
texture comes alive.
Opulence ,intricate yet plain
apparent yet unreal accidents
in time and space,colour
flowing without restraint
You may hear me recite this poem and most of my PS anthology on YouTube under my pen name ichthyschiro
Also read over 250 of my short forms @strand poet on twitter
TURMOIL RELEASED another Pollock ekphrasis
The power that resides in a single line,
lavender mist with Autumn rhythm,something
rich and strange,without precedent.A maze of
calligraphy in explosions of random energy
defying the rules of art NO 1 to 32.Black on Brown
loops and sprays,divided arteries,shooting stars
of turmoil released ..a twist here and there.
Ekphrasis inspired by Pollocks masterly years 1947-50
You may hear me recite most of my PS anthology on YouTube under my pen name ichthyschiro and read
my short forms @strandpoet on twitter
Paul Jackson Pollock
Condense versions that affected the times,
Immense variants that scoped his pleasures,
Florence immersed unravel a mentor,
Propense expounds at immortal measures.
Paul J. Pollock, painter, from Wyoming,
Haul labeled abstract impressionist art,
Gall at pouring, splashing, horizontal,
Call, was his ardor, loved beyond his heart.
Drip technique viewed canvass at all angles,
Whip body whole, frenetic dancing style,
Flip the brush, traverse the canvass boldly,
Grip abrupts a hold, paint flicks, dons a smile.
Divide hath praised his immediacy,
Pride his fluency of the creation,
Deride the random effects of his art,
Astride the split, sits a fenced summation.
Face that he wore was like seasons changing,
Space art goes on, naught a start, nor an end,
Trace that he drew, nay pictures, but events,
Chase rare acclaimed, never, nor what they penned.
He paints Blue Poles in 1952,
The Australian government purchased it,
Be it known, poles sought, chase made, was futile,
We found the entitled, be a misfit.
First, the Mural most expensive of his,
Burst, Number 17-A, naught mellow,
Dispersed, Mural on Indian Red Ground,
Versed, The Deep black and white, hints of yellow.
Guise his failing marriage with Lee Krasner,
Unwise, alcohol, substitutes his wife,
Empathize, Ruth Kligman, unfaithfulness,
Dies, drunk driving, Ruth lived, late renown life.
2020 February 08
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT J ,any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
arrested
9A
1A
31 5A
8
1 11
moments