So cute, you know?
Now I can't decide which of these poems I want to post and if I want to post them at all because I don't want to seem like a douche, but these are actually really cool. I'm also not looking forward to transposing them because the seat at my desk is really uncomfortable even with a pillow. Whatever, I'll just do the darker of the two, even though it doesn't match the dogs at all. It's by Mark Doty and is out of his book School of the Arts:
The pilot of the little plane must stop his engines
while the fifty pounds of sand are lugged into the nose
to balance out our weight. He explains, turns his key
in the ignition - sputter, whine, nothing.
Again: grind and cough, nothing. Ripple of doubt.
Third time: unpromising silence and then the motor
shudders awake, and we taxi till we face
a swath of black pavement bound by rowed lamps
--then race and lift so swiftly our colletive weight
seems nothing at all. Over the dim marshland,
a bit of bay, rows of rooftops bordering the shore,
the harbor islands with their lighthouses.
And turning back to look--we all turn back to look--
--what is it these glittering fields are like?
One wants words, but words are wanting,
figures worn: deltas and archipelagoes,
red nerves, coppery rivulets of a freeway's
arcing ramps. Then further, higher: hot jewels.
Scintillant flakes on a video screen. Better:
holes in black paper, an immense page
held between us and an overwhelming realm,
so that just this clattering glare comes
bursting through, just enough that we can bear to see. . .
Which seems to prepare us, somehow,
to turn in the other direction, toward the place
we're headed--nothing now but a tonal,
seamless night, darkness made intimate.
By all the lamps we've seen, whose multiplicity
made this warm field seem serene.
Or by the panel of intruments,
plate-glass green beneath the windshield,
the churning engine that faithfully pulls us
into the huge, physical dark.
As if it were all that's unsaid,
untranslated into the busy syllables of light.
Not afraid. Home in a while. No sign
of the town yet, glowing in its crook
of peninsulas, its dim nest of sea.
Lustrous, coninuous, unspoken night.
The self isn't made of language;
the self is made of night.
Since you're in a serious, poetic mode I thought I'd introduce to you an artist that I found out about through poetry class (which is where I found this poem). His name is Robert Arneson, he's a sculptor and he developed cancer from the clay that he was using for his sculptures. In reaction to this, he started doing these sculptures that represented his art killing him, which turn out some interesting images, you can imagine. The best one, the one we found in poetry class, is Eye of Beholder but there are no good images on the internet of this picture. So here are a few cool things I found at an Arneson website.....
Those are all by Robert Arneson and come from http://www.verisimilitudo.com/arneson/artworks.htm
Another artist I was made aware of through poetry class was a photographer by the name of Meatyard -- which is a weird name and suits his weird photographs that are kind of scary and demented:
I just found these on Google images.
There's a famous artist right now, Takashi Murakami, who I think did the artwork for Kanye West's album Graduation. Murakami is the one who designed the Louis Vuitton rainbow bag that made it so famous. But here's a few artworks I found on Google images. They're titled, respectively, Flower ball (3D); 727-272; Jellyfish eyes--Black 4; and Skulls rock.
During my search for the above images I stumbled upon this little site as well, which is a portfolio of a photographer named cindy sherman. It's actually really cool, but the images are kinda small -- check it OUT!
That's all for me, bitches, I'm fucking hungry. See you next time, over and out.