Saturday, April 25
Each artist embarks on a personal search.
An artist may take introspective refreshment from green.
Or so they say in Barcelona when air is dry.
In our country it is a water sprinkler that hints, "rinsed green."
Colors often break themselves into separate hues
of noisetone. In a Barcelona cabaret when green is overtaken,
it is stirred into the mint color of drink.
The spirit is lifted among primary colors. Nine rows of color.
The future writ in white spaces.
-- Barbara Guest
The Collected Poems of Barbara Guest
Posted by rb at 4/25/2009
Sunday, April 19
a medley of scattered fragments—one so calm and shy, almost detached and as if philosophical, the other so urgent, anxious, imploring—were nevertheless the same prayer, bursting forth like different inner sunrises, and merely refracted through the different mediums of other thoughts, of artistic researches carried on through the years in which he had sought to create something new. A prayer, a hope which was at heart the same, distinguishable beneath these disguises in the various works of Viteuil.
-- Marcel Proust In Search of Lost Time
Posted by rb at 4/19/2009
Friday, April 10
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.
The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.
-- Amy Lowell, from "Spring Day"
Spring Day (link)
Posted by rb at 4/10/2009
Thursday, April 2
Caught out in daylight, a rabbit's
transparent pallor, the moon
is paired with a cloud of equal weight:
the heavenly congruence startles.
For what is the moon, that it haunts us,
this impudent companion immigrated
from the system's less fortunate margins,
the realm of dust collected in orbs?
We grow up as children with it, a nursemaid
of a bonneted sort, round-faced and kind,
not burning too close like parents, or too far
to spare even a glance, like movie stars.
No star but in the zodiac of stars,
a stranger there, too big, it begs for love
(the man in it) and yet is diaphanous,
its thereness as mysterious as ours.
-- John Updike
Listen to a reading of this poem by Charles McGrath (link)
Posted by rb at 4/02/2009