Warhol–Pop Art in Words

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Warhol

Maybe Andy was on
to something.
One-after-another
screen-printed cans—
Campbell’s soup:
red and white,
silver and gray,
navy blue with a gold seal.
An icon of comfort in
the midst of so much dismay.
Tomato, Chicken Noodle,
Split Pea,
Bean with Bacon, Pepper Pot.
Mother’s Milk, Mother’s Comfort.
Bring it on.

Did you ever stop?
Really look at art?
I mean art in a grocery store?
“Wake up!”
Andy would say.
“Look.
Listen closely.”

I pick up a navel orange.
Its dimpled skin
leaves a scent-mark
on my fingers.

“If you want to know me,
look at my art,”
“I’m a deeply superficial person.”

So I stare at him,
but he doesn’t glance back.
Eyes drifting to some
far-away place where
wholeness waits,
or to a party where
touching never held room
for emptiness.
The pull of gravity so great
the Mass collapses in
on itself,
Black Hole. Black Whole.

All that sparkles is
not diamond dust.
Even that wouldn’t adhere.
Your world
became glittered in so
much plastic.

Redemption plays in
pink and yellow
electric chairs.

Curl up,
snuggle in its lap
and die alone
while the nurse who
was there for you,
wasn’t.

Oh my God,
I am heartily sorry,
hardly,
heartily.
So much pain.
I repeat, I repeat.
Marilyn in
black and gray
and brown,
blue and pink.
We are heartily sorry
who we aren’t,
what we are
and what they made us.

The woman handed
the boy
a piece of dense bread.
“It’s dry,” he said.
“Dunk it in your soup,”
she answered.

I wrote this poem way back in 2010, around the time the Nevada Museum of Art hosted a Warhol exhibit. Many, perhaps unknown details underlie this writing. Here are a few of them.

• As a child, Andy was sick a lot. His mother sustained him on Campbells soup.
• He surrounded himself with celebrities, but never found self confidence or the ability to fill that empty space within himself.
• He pursued adding diamond dust to his work, but had problems with making it stick.
• He painted a rather grim series of electric chairs.
• He died at a young age of complications from gallbladder surgery. The private nurse who was supposed to be with him had left the room.

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I would love to have you join us for dVerse MTB where I’m hosting. The theme is Pop Art.

 

Dark Night–Quadrille

Dark Night
Quadrille—Winter iii

Photo: Victoria Slotto

My soul wanders
in a dark forest.
Winter cold pierces
ebony skies and I
seek you,
my rock-in-hiding.

Fear leaps up
when I hear the crunch, crunch
of footsteps in dry leaves,
approaching from behind.

I turn to find you—
light shimmering
with warmth.

This is my 3rd Quadrille with all the words from our second series of poems with exactly 44 words. The 3 words thus far: rock, crunch and leap.

 

Violation–dVerse Open Link Night

Violation

When words force entry,
molest my every conscious thought—then,
surrender, I must, or endure unrelenting torture.

(Fire rages, outrages across our valley,
scorches acres upon acres of pine and cheat grass,
assaults, blasts, torments verdant mountain ranges.)

Words hound me without ceasing,
shove me from bed at 3 AM,
hammer, barrage, rape

(Deer, squirrels, bluebirds, bears flee
for safety, though flames overtake them,
devastate their habitat.)

serenity, rip it from my soul,
until I respond, rearrange them
on pure white sheets

(Ashes plunge into pristine waters,
hurl charred fragments, suffocate,
pollute, wash sepia across blue skies.)

of blank paper in my notebook.
Slowly intensity subsides
and I taste fulfillment.

(Last night a gentle rain showered
the Great Basin, purged the air.
Smoke will return, but this morn, we garden.)

 

Tonight is the popular Open Link Night at dVerse where both topic and form are up to you. I was unable to participate in the wonderful prompt for Poetics this week on muscle verbs so I decided to expand it a bit combining a poem about poetry with a poem about landscape.

While both Northern Nevada and Northern California are both experiencing multiple wild fires, most of which are due to human carelessness, we are currently not in danger, but the smoke does pour into Reno off and on. The worst is from a fire at a distance of maybe 150-200 miles near Yosemite in central California. Please keep our first responders in your prayers. They are going from one fire to another with very little sleep. Ironically, we did have some rain last night which resulted in flash floods in a community north of us.

The doors to the pub will open Thursday at 3:00 PM EDT

Image: CalamityMeg via Flickr

Image: sierrasun.com

 

Mud Pies–dVerse Poetics

Image: Pinterest

Mud Pies

When we were young, two little ones at play,
our families thought that we belonged together,
so sweet, like milk and honey.

Sticks were our bows and arrows, then
Look closely. See that scar you gave me,
reminders of a rough-house game of kick-the-can.

When we played house (you acquiesced),
“That’s not a game for boys,” you said,
so I said nothing when you fed mud pies .
to my beloved, fair-haired doll.

Now, in my garden, thoughts of you swirl in the loam
—the scents of clay, the grainy texture of dank earth.
No longer play, but poignant memories tinged
with just a hint of sadness, just a hint of wondering

what might have been, had you not died so young?

I’m tripping back sixty-some years to a time when, living in a rural area, my only neighbor was a boy, a year or two my senior. We played together in the wild outdoors. He made a tomboy of me and I tried to domesticate him. I would be writing an epic poem if I tried to recount all our exploits.

I recall so well, after we had moved away, one evening during dinner (we were eating chop suey) the phone rang and I learned that my dear playmate, at the time only about 13 years old, had been crushed to death when he and a buddy had climbed a fence and tried to ride an oil well.

Please join us at dVerse Poetics where Bjorn invites us to play with words and dirt.

The Artisan Paints Morn

Photo: Victoria Slotto

The Artisan Paints Dawn

Ensconced upon my chair,
blanket-cocooned from cold,
I wait for Artist to appear.

In the East, first ray of light
peaks over hills,
dabs brushes heavy with pastel hues
upon my water-washed world.

Gold blurs into rose, blurs
into violet, periwinkle, blue
as night blurs into day
and I to wakefulness.

Then, in the distance,
a flash of white
flares ‘cross the lightening sky
and egret alights upon the bank
in prayerful waiting pose.

And I, to life, arise.

Oh, I hope you take a few minutes to visit dVerse Meeting the Bar where Bjorn treats us to an artistic prompt on Impressionism, a school of art that arose in the late 1800’s and endures to this day. He shares the best, most succinct explanation of the art form that I remember, and I used to be a museum docent.

Have You Ever?–Poetic Blooming, Day 9

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Have You Ever?

Have you ever
stretched out, belly down, on tickle-green grass
to commune with a lady bug?

Have you ever
climbed a tree to be closer to clouds scudding
across a cerulean sky?

Have you ever
tipped-toed through meadow grass, barefooted,
following the song of running water?

Have you ever
tried to count stars, looking for the one
that winks at you?

Have you ever
tasted a rock, a daisy or light, hoping
to become one with nature, with God?

I have.

Written for and linked to Poetic Bloomings Day 9, where the prompt was to write a poem about clouds.  As for walking barefoot in the meadow–don’t do it. We were scolded by a forest service employee because the place was full of rattlers! The follies of youth.

 

there are more words–Poetic Bloomings, PAD Day 5

Today (okay, yesterday) is day 5 of Poetic Bloomings PAD challenge and we are invited to grab a line of inspiration from Margaret Atwood’s stirring poem “You Begin.” This is my effort. 

Image: Book of Words by
rakloray, Deviant Art
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there are more words than you could ever learn
Margaret Atwood
“You Begin”

at night, i snuggle up to words,
make love to them in dreams,
taste them if sweet
or filled with bitterness

i touch their texture with my hungry tongue,
roll sounds about
so starved am i, they fill me with delight

i hear them echoing through the open window

then, with summer sun, i rise in early morn
to watch them dawn
in streaks of orange and gold
across the eastern sky

it’s then i settle with my pen
and thoughts

After learning of the death of Vivienne Blake, a poet to whom I grew quite close due to our age and the fact that I lived near her home in Normandy quite a while back, and especially because she was an all around wonderful person, my creative energy just leaked out. I hope to have day 6 written for tomorrow. Va en paix, ma chere amie.

Loneliness–dVerse Poetics

Photo: Keith Brofsky Labeled for noncommercial reuse.

Loneliness

Gnarly hands finger the fringes of her shawl,
finger the knots as she once she used to tell her beads,
touch the softness as they once caressed
her babies’ skin, their father’s just-shaved face.

She stops to swipe a tear that caravans
down the furrows of her weathered cheek,
betrays the smile she gives to me while sharing
stories of the life that makes her who she is today.

And when I stop to take her hand in mine
her strong grip closes tightly round my own
as though to circle hope and hold it near,
as though to stave off my departure.

Today, guest poet Mish, invites us to consider hands in writing and submitting our poems to dVerse Poetics. Please join us to read and submit a poem of your own.

overcast with a strong chance of pain

Photo: mentalfloss.com

overcast with a strong chance of pain

before your love grew cold
before the chill of apathy
(the whimpering dying flame)
there were those days
of sizzle like moth wings

the trickster took his time
took hold of you
or was it I, eye couldn’t
wouldn’t see the color gray?
the color of a stone cold heart

Today, Mary Kling challenges us to grab a line from a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye: Burning the Old Year. This brilliant work offers many opportunities for inspiration. The dVerse doors open wide at 3:00 PM on Tuesday. The line in italics is from Nye’s poem.

My quadrille for Monday’s prompt is here. That fun prompt is open all week.

sometimes there are no rules

Photo: Victoria Slotto

sometimes there are no rules

as when the call of doves defy the wintry morn
or roses flower on desert sand and
in the furrow of a craggy mountain.

sometimes there are no rules–
as when sweet love blossoms in wrinkled bodies
or when the heart knows ecstasy before the face of death.

sometimes there are no rules–
and thus i fly on silver wings
to touch these moonlit branches.

oh, can you hear the songs of stars?

Title taken from Mary Oliver’s Poem: “Three Things to Remember”

A slow start to writing this year, so I turned to Mary Oliver for a jump-start. It’s been a crazy few weeks.