the complexities of silence

 

It was a period of silent contemplation.

Away from previous distractions and illusions.

It was an adventure into other realities

and a questioning about things like this.

 

I return to things like this

and I’ve been thinking again

about creative process, how and

why do we do what we do?

 

Painter, song writer, potter,

dancer, musician, actor.

What is this mysterious energy

entertaining us all?

 

Enter this beyond I know

so very well, the back of my hands,

the inside of eyelids, thighs,

mapping you to my home.

 

And the very bones of me,

and the meat, absent of me,

and the soul of every move I make,

and the complexities of silence.

 

art and poetry by Clinock

 

 

I had been thinking about underneath

the complexities of silence

and how much deeper it can go

before we are only the dance?

 

 

Art – The Complexities of Silence – 16 x 20 – Mixed media

 

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Ghosts – silence

An investigation for jesters

and saints,

this sadness of a man,

this separated ghost,

this disconnected stare

in brittle glass,

unrecognized reflection

of nothing known

in this frozen liquid sand,

pinned to a drawing board,

crucified

in clouds of calendars

and an ambiance

of echoing silence.

 

Ghost of a ghost

exiled from connection

to all familiar senses,

wandering lost

in a papier-mache world

filled with mute puppets

and the creeping feet of madness

drifting on autumn leaves,

the dumb changing of seasons

and the cold winds to come.

 

There was a voice once

filling days and nights,

sweet ectoplasms of love

buried now in the heavy quiet

of collapsing bridges

and the broken entities of light.

 

There was a precious presence

partnering in mirrors,

a twinning wholeness

held gently in his hands,

now crumbling into dust

and blown on September winds

across a face

that is a stranger to itself.

 

There was music and whispers

tongued and lipped

across vibrating cells,

songs of angels and dreamers

gagged now and gone,

leaving a face alone

to face itself,

a double haunting.

ex silentio.

 

 

self-portrait drawing and poem by clinock.

Ghosts – the flayed

Aching to be clothed

in warm flesh again,

feeling it tight and smooth

against muscle and bone.

Hating this cold nakedness,

exposed to the core.

Waiting beyond time

for another skin to slide across

this osseous frame,

liquid, soft and trembling,

smelling of sun,

a fitting sensuality

once so tenderly touched

by a lover’s hands.

 

It is desires such as these

that binds a spirit

to this physical plane

of sweat and body,

this glistening intimacy.

 

Under the chill September sun

I deadhead the hydrangeas

and geraniums with shining

secateurs.

The withered blossoms fall

into my hand

and soon enough the foliage

will follow, dropping,

brown and wrinkled

onto the palm of earth,

and the garden will become

a murmuration of skeletons

waiting for new growth

to golden on their surfaces.

 

It is not so easy to face

this bone racked spirit in my night.

Its rattling visage is not pretty

and its pleading cries

come howling through my dreams.

 

I peer beneath desires

it breathes,

beneath its mask of dying,

into an endless nightmare

of longing,

reaching to be whole again,

refusing to accept

the flaying of time,

the peeling away

of the surfaces of care,

layer by layer

until there is nowhere else to go

except the beauty of the armature

flying free, released.

 

And you, my haunting,

whipping my heart

with cold filaments of silence.

It hurts, but you are freed now

and covered

by the bleeding veils of love.

 

mixed media painting and poem by clinock

‘The 100’ # 97 – Dove

…” the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.”

Leonard Cohen. Anthem

 That which once was clearly read

now manifests in ciphers,

silent, broken and disintegrating.

Whatever the answer was,

in this parchment of peace,

it is gone now, forgotten,

fragmented and lost.

Words and songs are smudged,

dark wings tear the light,

chaos reigns beneath the ordered surface

and the zero and the I,

tattooed in bar codes

indelibly across our eyes

binds us and blinds us.

And our blindness multiplies

with the hate and lies,

the killing, the hurting, the violence

wasting our hearts

to ashes, charcoal, stone,

and all we might become

is lacerated by darkness.

 

 But still we inhabit our dream

 as if the unbearable pain

was part of a stranger’s nightmare,

otherwise, we ask

how could we breath?

how could we sleep?

how could we believe in love?

So we claim neutrality,

pretend we do not see

the millions of bodies of falling doves

filling the sky like tears,

blood on white feathers

heaping around our feet

freezing us numb in holy snow.

 

 

Mixed media collage and poem by clinock.

Thank you Steven @  http://poemimage.wordpress.com for design inspiration.

Black Sphere.

tangled confusion,

fractured uncertainty.

one floats away

the other balances

on the edge.

the light is all wrong.

mazes keep in

bars keep out.

the fires lose heat

in the freezing air.

cold silence muffles

all meaning and

harmony is lost

to disintegrating

composition.

 

can this one be saved?

perhaps multiple layers

of white are needed,

a tabula rasa on which

to begin again

but this time

without the colours

of the heart,

simple earth tones maybe

applied with the practicality

of a tractor

ploughing a field,

a mechanical approach,

technical, rational

with no attachment

to the harvest.

 

Art and poem by clinock.

Art: Black Sphere. 24″ x 18″. acrylic on paper.

Uncovered Treasure 6

for those we loved

for those passing through

for those left behind

I write these words of silence

powerless

as they crumble into dust

and vanish on the winds of night

 

I have no record of the original photographer of this image. If anyone out there recognizes the photograph please let me know and I will immediately add due credit to the artist. Please see previous posts in this series for the background story.

poem by clinock.