They say a picture may paint a thousand words
but I can't read what he wrote
household paint poured onto a horizontal surface
ain't what I call works of note
splashed with no pre-planned end-result
for art's sake to me does not art make
known for his 'drip technique'
yes he was a drip and no mistake
yet a few of his spills sold for millions
long after his prime
as a fool and his money are soon parted
and you can fool some all of the time
but if we pry the boards from his studio floor
and hang them on the wall
why it would be far more relevant
tho' still takes no skill at all
his splotches are not pictures of poppies
nor pansies petunias or hollyhocks
in fact they're really nothing more
than just a load of Pollocks
arrested moments drop by drop-
fill the unconscious mind
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
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!
JACKSON POLLOCK
Nor star
Nor dust
Existence
In
Nospace
Dave Austin
brightly colored leaves
pasted down, pasted down, down
by rain... to the ground
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.
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
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