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, August 16, 2015

Help Me

Ausgeschnitten - Carved out 23 x 50 cm pastel - available -


This executive of eloquence
and he’s empty as a spoon.
Still, he’d like to mount the Erechtheum;
the Himalayas to know his weight; dip his toes in the Seine.
Nobody would dare ask him where in God’s name
he was taking them ( thematically, stylistically, wherever)
or why he can’t find anyone to iron his shirts.

He dreams of fireflies in an enchanted wood above Camogli.
He dreams of tenure. He dreams of liberating
an exotic waitress—Surinam? Macao?—enslaved
by a pancake house in Soda Springs, Illinois. He dreams
of one bottle of “Opus One” Cabernet Sauvignon. Then of two bottles
he dreams. He dreams of Cordoba, the orange trees there,
the white courtyards with tiled staircases that go
nowhere unclean, whiffs of jasmine, roasted chicken, garlic.

In his current day dream
lights are being strung from everything
in a dusty piazza, Calabria, baroque village, pagan celebration
   of some Christian holy day,
1957. The air is dry. Black haired women, warm
and moist, wearing floral-print dresses, their elegant
men dressed in white shirts and woolen slacks
with hideously elongated flies. We have no idea why

we’re here but the wine is cheap
and a few of the girls, appearing to need love,
pull us down with delicate urgency
to their talcum-powdered breasts.
In the light of a bonfire, and just what one
would expect, the village church is a
crumbling wedding cake; for about fifteen-minutes—
thanks, Andy—everyone’s a poet.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.