In this blog we will share with you our vision of beauty, balance, harmony.

As Mark Leach writes in his book Raw Colour with Pastels: “Sound is all around us, and it is musicians who refine that sound into something of beauty. As a painter, I have always felt that my purpose is to craft colour in a similar way, to see through the confusion and seek harmony and beauty.”

And we add: Words, fragments of sentences, spoken noise is all around us, and Ken arranges words in such a way as to capture beauty in the accidental, the ambient soundtrack of life.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

RECOLLECTIONS AND OTHER LIES




 
Ein fiebriger Moment - A feverish Moment 50 x 70 cm c/o Karin Goeppert



RECOLLECTIONS AND OTHER LIES

It ain’t fine but it does have a certain
rustic poise, the wine, a voluptuous
body and there are the cherry tomatoes,
goat cheese, sardines in oil, the Mediterranean
religion, pleasure in a word,
yes and again yes, date palms like hula skirts
fired up in the hot sun, and as a bonus we’re making love
in our six-star boudoir. Pure fantasy, I’m afraid, a lie.
What I’d really like to recollect, if it were possible—
because to re-collect properly you must first have “collected” something—

is the cloistered white-washed silence
of hundreds of miniscule churches—
one tiny space each, stuffed with dust-furred icons—and
more or less surrounded by cooing dove-cotes
on Myconos and Tinos
neither of which we can afford to visit, and never will

ditto Lesbos
where the head of Orpheus is still said
to chatter away on the beach at Molyvos
urging hungry, somewhat surprised tourists
to drop in at Uncle Kosta’s tavern, just behind the port,
   for fish with very special sauce.  
You told me a few years ago that only the
irreducible mattered, the delectably
inaccessible, is how you put it, an awkward phrase
but pretty impressive for a junior college drop-out. I was hooked.
I recall

we were eating gyros and pita bread in the city and
I asked you to abandon your husband and child
and “run away” with me—and how
you couldn’t stop laughing at the “very thought.”
I’ll never forget that.
And your legs. And your bottom 
as you walked over to feed the juke box, how
it seemed, beneath the polka dots, to have a rubbery life all its own.
 And, yes, the mole you might have had right between your eyes—
or was that some other dream?



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