Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Neil Ellman Meets Paul Klee's "Wild Man"

A frequent contributor to P&P, New Jersey poet Neil Ellman has published more than 1,350 poems—most of which are ekphrastic—in print and online journals, anthologies, and chapbooks throughout the world.  His latest chapbook, Of Angels & Demons (Flutter Press), is an ekphrastic collection based on the works of Paul Klee. Read an interview with Ellman in which he explains his life-long fascination with writing poems about art. Click here.






The Future Man
 
Klee, 1933
(after the Watercolor by Paul Klee)

He will be neither man nor machine
neither illusion nor material
not a new beginning nor an end.

He will have neither passion
nor the capacity for thought—.
he will be an afterthought

Without character or a name
he will have no sense of who
or what he is

taking any form
that suits his momentary needs
without conscience or remorse.

The Future Man will be
a cipher, a fallen star
the consequence of his past.
Klee, 1922


The Wild Man

(after the watercolor by Paul Klee)

The man in the wilderness
is wilder than the trees
wilder still
than the creatures
that inhabit
the forest, moor
desert and prairie
is a man possessed
by his natural state
venom in his fangs
a rattle in his tail
the wilderness consuming
his humanity
as it retrieves
its spires and pyramids.


The Man of Confusion

(after the watercolor by Paul Klee)

Disembodied, disillusioned
Klee, 1939
by the pallor of his skin
and tremors in his hands
an aging man is easily confused
by a shadow without the sun     
and the moon without its glow

too easily bewildered
by the flight of crows and ravens
on a black-star night   
or the way a river bends
toward light

he knows the end is near
but not the reason
or the road to take
confused by creation
the dissonance of his life
and the voice of death from air.


Gaze of Silence

(after the watercolor by Paul Klee)
 
Gaze of Silence, 1932
In silence
eyes gaze within
and without
words and expectations
without knowing
what is there to know
but seeing, believing
the images in the clouds
as if they were real
without comment
knowing they are not
in silence
the eyes gaze
like the Sphinx
over a desolate land.

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Anne Carson: Ear to the Canvas

“I mostly think of my work as a painting,” poet and scholar Anne Carson told Kevin McNeilly in 2012. “It’s not about the meaning of each individual word adding up to a proposition; it’s about the way they interact with each other as daubs of meaning, you know as impressionist colors interact, daubs of paint, and you stand back and see a story emerge from the way that the things are placed next to each other. You can also do that with language.” In fact, Carson continues to do that with language—and never more intriguingly than in her suite of poems “Hopper: Confessions” that muses on the art of Edward Hopper and fourth-century philosopher and theologian Augustine. (Men in the Off Hours, Vintage Books, 2000)

Room in Brooklyn
 
"Room in Brooklyn," 1932
This
slow
day
moves
Along the room
I
hear
its
axles
go
A gradual dazzle
upon
the
ceiling
Gives me that
racy
bluishyellow
feeling
As hours
blow
the
wide
way
Down my afternoon.

Let us not say time past was long, for we shall not find it.
It is no more. But let us say
time present was long,
because when it was present it was long. (Augustine, Confessions XI)

Nighthawks
"Nighthawks," 1942

I wanted to run away with you tonight
but you are a difficult woman
the rules of you—
Past and future circle round us
       now we know more now less
            in the institute of shadows.

            On the street black as widows
       with nothing to confess
our distances found us
the rules of you—
so difficult a woman
I wanted to run away with you tonight.

Yet I say boldly that I know that if nothing passed away, time past were not.
And if nothing were coming, time future were not.
And if nothing were, time present were not.
                                                            (Augustine, Confessions XI)


"Automat," 1927

The Glove of Time by Edward Hopper

True I am but a shadow of a passenger on this planet
but my soul likes to dress in formal attire
despite the stains.
She walks through the door.
She takes off her glove.
Does she turn her head.
Does she cross her leg. That is a question.
Who is speaking.
Also a question.
All I can say is


I see no evidence of another glove.
The words are not a sentence, don't work on that.
Work on this.
It is not empty time, it is the moment
when the curtains come blowing into the room.
When the lamp is prepared.
When light hits the wall just there.
And the glove?
Now it rose up - the life she could have lived (par les soirs bleus d'été).
It so happens
paint is motionless.
But if you put your ear to the canvas you will hear
the sounds of a terribly good wheel on its way.
Somewhere someone is travelling toward you,
travelling day and night.
Bare birches flow past.
The red road drops away.
Here, you hold this:
evidence.
It so happens
a good evening glove
is 22 centimeters from hem to fingertip.
This was a glove "shot in the back"
(as Godard said of his King Lear).
Listening to his daughters Lear
hoped to see their entire bodies
stretched out across their voices
like white kid.
For in what does time differ from eternity except we measure it?

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Poet Neil Ellman Meets Paul Klee at a "Fateful Hour"

Fateful Hour at Quarter to Twelve

Eleven o’clock, waiting    
Paul Klee, Fateful Hour at Quarter to Twelve, 1922
Godot in the park, waiting
eleven thirty-five
then forty and forty-five
minutes crawl
like millipedes
on a wall
between tomorrow
and now, still waiting
at this late hour
the coming
of the dragon
in the guise of a child
with the face of an angel
but serpent inside
with fifteen minutes left
to the end of world
as we know it
in the stillness of the morning
as fate had ordained it
at the end of the day
and the end of time.


Adam and Little Eve
  
Paul Klee, Adam and Little Eve, 1921 
                       I

Big Adam, full of himself
with all his ribs and teeth intact
the first of his kind
the first of men
without a woman to call his own
he wanders alone in his garden
picking petals from a rose
with no one to receive them
but himself
he looks as little as a worker bee
sipping nectar from a star.

                      II

Coming from a single rib
she must have been a little thing
as little as a hummingbird
so little she could barely speak
above a whisper in the wind
but Eve, the child of a child of God,
is bigger than she looks
the first of her kind
born from a stubborn bone
to rule the world alone.


Botanical Laboratory
  
Paul Klee, Botanical Laboratory, 1946
In my laboratory
I grew a rose
that could not die
immortal on the vine
as if I were a friend
who would understand
its secret life
how it  would live
through centuries
watching other flowers fade
to know the loneliness
of the setting sun
and sagging of its leaves
nor could it propagate
and watch its children grow—
how sad the rose
that only knows
the solitude of life

eternal on the vine.

A frequent contributor, New Jersey poet Neil Ellman has published more than 1,200 poems, many of which are ekphrastic, in print and online journals, anthologies, and chapbooks throughout the world. His latest chapbook, Mind Over Matta (Flutter Press, 2015), is based on the works of the Chilean abstract-surrealist, Roberto Matta Echaurren.