Month: June 2016

“Images Like Picasso”

/ Korin Thomas / 2 Comments

Darrell's Painting Edited

What face do I see when
this painting I look on
hesitantly, bewildered –
an animal wild or
an artist cast out?

Darrell draws on the streets
scraps and leavings.
Thus, his mournful face hangs
reproachful, purchased a pittance
cash and a little talk
on an early morning Seattle street corner.

In parlays with darkness
he loses again and again
his daily life’s work –
faces in wide-eyed astonishment –
given cheap to survive.
They mean what I cannot know or say.

What, in this horned face blood shot
scapegoat, cast out, cries “Hey?”
In forlorn darkness, destined
for ignominious attempts
at survival in hostile places –
urban street corner
six-o’clock in the morning
I, in a rush, he
cries out, “Hey, hey!”

Thus came to me on a morning
a scapegoat in ceramic and oil
Darrell or an image his?
Since, my inquisitor hangs
silent, strange and afraid,
his gaze fierce, wild
encountered on the corner
crying out, seeing me
knowing my face.

“Hey, I think you’ll like this…”
as if I could understand
wild unremitting abandonment,
the work of his hands
what he faces daily,
his own life cast out
offered in a frenzy of loss,
anger and haunting delusions;
mad tales of aliens
specters of sinister doings.
I only have tame considered words;
spared I the wild visions,
the lonely street corners.

Portland, Oregon – June 15, 2016

“Images Like Picasso” was Darrell’s name for this painting. I received it from him on May 1, 2008. He did not tell me his interpretation of this work. The poem is my own interpretation.

I have not seen Darrell for several years now. The last time he was selling his works outside of the Seattle Public Market. He recognized me even through the crowd and gave me his, “Hey, Hey!” He asked if I would buy him lunch and I did. It was the least I could do and certainly not as much as I might have done.

Most of Darrell’s works were done on scraps of wood or chips of concrete he found. He also used broken ceramic cups and, in the case of “Images Like Picasso,” he used an abandoned piece of ceramic tile.

Good Land

/ Korin Thomas / Leave a comment

Living on borrowed land
tilting in decline plane
to Columbia river current
strong, pushing to the sea,
meeting in turbulent confluence
moon tides, surf, susurrus,
setting sun of America
dying light of a dream.

What shall I tell them
who come upon this land
of what I did or said
when the land washed away
to the river and the sea
when the sun sets on them?

I will tell them
of my garden and my plans
that also washed away
down the northwest slope
into Columbia’s roll
splashing frolic into the great ocean.

May 2016

Inspired by Wendell Berry – The Gift of Good Land

“To live, we must daily break the body and shed the blood of creation.  When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently, it is a sacrament.  When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily, destructively, it is a desecration. In such desecration we condemn ourselves to spiritual and moral loneliness, and others to want.” (p. 181, North Point Press edition)

Talking to Others

/ Korin Thomas / Leave a comment

Each day I live alive
in space with other life
limited in time – moon cycles,
measured in waves, curves,
parabolas near and flying away.
Plants magnificent squirrels
scurrying insects-a-motion in air
everywhere on the ground
without sound, now this unique
very ordinary fly
landing fur-legged on my hand
as if I were only some other
thing, poking me proboscis-wise
searching, searching, wanting
I, the object of its desire.

A hard and hot sun’s shine
reflects off brittle green
pulsing, metallic sheen body
probing my own, dimpling
indiscernibly, finger’s skin.

I know this being.
What difference I wonder
between me and this particular fly?
We live, in this space.
He probes residual oils on my hands
a baby’s hands once;
lands on a rock at my feet
put there by me.
We know, we do, that we
together, here we feel
the same sun’s heat
take our nourishment
in our ways, my coffee
he, landing on its cup rim.
Why not speak to the fly?

I converse with squirrels
though they seem not to understand
or trust me; carry on conversations
do I, with birds
landing on the fountain
I filled earlier with water
bathing as I chat with them.
Perhaps, in their own voices,
they thanked me but I,
I do not understand them,
chirping in foreign tongues
sounding warbled, wistful like song.

Worms, dark hidden, I’ve exposed,
hear me explain,
listen as I tell them why
I am pulling them from dark places,
moving them to other dark places.
For their trauma, their fear
and my own, my own part
it is the least I can do.

Ants do not listen to me
telling them not to come
into the kitchen, but they know me
in their racing to find cover.
They are wary and stubborn
rightfully so, unwilling
to listen to me telling them
to go elsewhere.

The painful unknowing of creatures
great and small, my own unknowing
it is a sense I cannot absolve
myself of, nor any other.

Portland, Oregon – June 2, 2016

I’ve been thinking about and giving some practice to writing poetry with more structure or with formally recognized patterns.  I don’t believe I’ve been successful and I feel terribly constrained; immaturity most likely, impatience probably.  So, this one isn’t the least bit formal or structured.  I wrote it quickly, sitting out in the backyard.  I’m trying, above all, to write just knowing it is what I need to do.  Specifically, for this piece, I am writing about the absolute miracle of life at any moment, especially as I share it with other than human life, such as the very minute little something or other exploring my radio right now.