Ekphrastic poem with buttless chaps and unicorns
An artist asked me to write some texts to accompany some illustrations, mostly engravings of various nudes in traditional pastoral or home settings. Though he is highly skilled, I found it difficult to enter into the world of these works. One approach is to be 'ink aware' -- to appropriate that eReader term -- to be conscious of the deliberately constructed artifice of the images, to talk about the paper and the ink and how images are formed, both conceptually and physically. How to bridge an aesthetic gap and have the result be satisfying for both collaborators?
I've created several short texts already. I'm posting this slightly longer one which I have recently completed. Why? Because it mentions "buttless chaps" and "unicorns" and so is perfect for the Internet? (I stole the images from Wordsworth). Perhaps, and though it is the most conventional of the texts and most traditionally coherent, it begins investigating the representation of traditional tropes of the nude and of women in particular. How to unpack visual conventions while still not hobbling their aesthetic effect? I don't think that the images are disrespectful or problematic though their 'gaze' appears to me to replay several old tropes much in need of renovation and unpacking.
yet again I am an artist and a naked woman
emerges from my hedge
to embrace Greek and Roman ruins
I look deep inside the flower
where bees seek the galaxy
better wireless reception
and pollen like damp stars
I see nothing but what is invisible
the seat of philosophy’s buttless chaps
created to ride the impossible
kind of unicorn:
vague updrafts of something phenomenological
and chaffing
twenty-two dimensions where
each trembling of hedge reveals
your quantum self
here even when
somewhere else
Comments
And chaps, I just realized that I have used a term that doesn't exist to describe the aspect of the chaps that doesn't exist. Idiomatically, chaps don't have the quality of buttlessness, but rather asslessness.
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we must be quick
tabula rasa
time is running out
I spread my legs
like someone in an email
who says she is lonely
and waits for me in Russian
or in an oil painting
I conceive a new hairstyle
a cerebral challah-braid
brain weaving the days
in Rapunzelling chains
which snake me
it seems I’m pleasured
by a hedgehog
or giving birth to
a bedframe
a plough
a seagull shape from Hans Arp
a blank and unmarked sky
nice post love reading it
Leather Bombers Jacket
Leather Jackets
nice post love reading it
Leather Bombers Jacket
Leather Jackets