Palette Figure

When I made this sculpture in 1987 I couldn’t help myself from inscribing a little poem into its plainer side. I had chosen to give its two sides as thorough a contrast in treatments as possible; hence, one side got a brilliant burst of contemporary colour and texture, while the other got my signature, tonal/colour/textural restraint, and an original poem.

As the inscribed version of the little poem cannot be read in full from the sculpture, I’ve made the words visible by arranging them in the thumb-hole of this “palette”.

Winter Figure

Winter Figure

Draw. Erase.

Draw. Erase.

Draw a symbol of renewal

: crocus, baseball, robin. No. Rub it out

: too romantic, too sentimental, and much too soon.

Draft instead the black-plumed preacher

in the back woods—be-sooted raven, riled fundamentalist,

that besotted Cassandra high in the black back woods, 

who frets over winter’s excesses and counts/curses/condemns

every person, dog, cat that comes and goes below it

on the road to hell in a freeze-dried world.

Sketch cats agoraphobic that slink/crouch/slide

with flattened ears from barn to bush to shed

, schizoid from nightmares of being fed

to a fanged and hackled open space.

Draw euphoric people multi-hued and mechanoid.

Scatter them helter-skelter on wheels/tracks/skis,

ecstatic hearts pacing the harangue of oriental pistons.

Trace the stubble and tattered stems of Queen Anne’s Lace

where it decays and smudges the drifts of the paper white back lot slope

: charcoal remnants / trace reminders of seasons long erased. 

Mordent Figment

 

 

Today my pen challenges

for a poem that is not just another scar or bruise

but a true and innocent gaiety.

 

                      I know I will only find it

                     where the given exceeds desire and need,

                     where senses are freed from all anxiety.

 

But my pen is an idealist,

an indelible fanatic, a razor-edged puritan, poor thing,

dreaming of calligraphic ecstasy.

 

                      Like me

                     it will have to seem to live

                     with music of a mordent theme.

Excess

The temptation of flamboyant self-lacerating words.

 

Excess or Word Bomb2

 

What’s with your endless

and obsessive word take-downs,

in / out the frozen half-pipe page

of big-aired snowboard frays;

the gory glory gallery gawking,

the razor-edged play/replay,

the icy drifts of slow-mo mocking snow

and self-slicing words.

 

The word flay pays dividends in readership / followship,

its pain / despondency / despair exploded sweet against a sour blue;

you caustically describe, inscribe, intaglioo

your algorithms crystalline;

you recut, resplice, rephrase,

refine, respline, pin pull, toss off

oft in brilliant triple double roll

with inverse somersault,

fate fault-spelled, a carved crash craved

again, again.

 

I soft-shoe and compliment your art’s excess

with mine: Nothing exceeds like excess.

 

Fillière  ©  11  20  2017