Sunday, February 10, 2013

Peter Gizzi / Vincent, Homesick for the Land of Pictures



Vincent, Homesick for the Land of Pictures
by Peter Gizzi

    Is this what you intended, Vincent
    that we take our rest at the end of the grove
    nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration
    saying, who and how am I made better through struggle.
    Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum
    this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision
    the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree.
    O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that
    or if you can indeed hear what I might say
    heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty
    of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection.
    To not be naive and think of silly answers only
    nor to imagine answers would be the only destination
    nor is questioning color even useful now
    now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons.
    That the sun can do this to us, every one of us
    that the sun can do this to everything inside
    the broken light refracted through leaves.
    What the ancients called peace, no clearer example
    what our fathers called the good, what better celebration.
    Leaves shine in the body and in the head alike
    the sun touches deeper than thought.

    O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing
    to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world.
    There might be nothing greater than this
    nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within
    like in the middle of the flower I call your name.
    To correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff
    to toil and to reflect and to home and to paint
    father, and further, the migration of things.
    The homing action of geese and wood mice.
    The ample evidence of the sun inside all life
    inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too.

    But felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect.
    The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity
    but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true.
    The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun
    at least what the old books called science or bowed down to.
    The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside
    and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that
    the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time
    in the time of pictures and refracted light.
    Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night
    the animal proximity of another and of nigh.

    To step into it as into a large surf in late August
    to go out underneath it all above and sparkling.
    To wonder and to dream and to look up at it
    wondrous and strange companion to all our days
    and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us.
    The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light

    the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers
    to be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing.
    The sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it
    the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms
    these starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge.

    Now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter.
    To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane
    and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread.
    The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression
    making so much more of itself here than where it signals
    the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing.
    Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing
    though nothing might be the final and actual expression of it
    that nothing at the center of something alive and burning
    green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet
    into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone.

    But what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar
    the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling
    what of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line.
    To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.
    The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever
    the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint
    into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight.
    That light was my enemy and one great source of agony
    one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass.
    The fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear
    the gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun.

    The gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun
    the fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear
    one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass.
    That light was my enemy and one great source of agony
    into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight
    the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint.
    The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever.
    To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.
    What of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line
    the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling
    but what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar.

    Into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone
    green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet
    that nothing at the center of something alive and burning
    though nothing might be the final and actual expression of it.
    Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing
    the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing
    making so much more of itself here than where it signals.
    The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression
    and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread.
    To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane
    now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter.

    These starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge
    the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms
    the sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it.
    To be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing
    the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers.
    The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light

    and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us
    wondrous and strange companion to all our days.
    To wonder and to dream and to look up at it
    to go out underneath it all above and sparkling
    to step into it as into a large surf in late August.

    The animal proximity of another and of nigh.
    Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night
    in the time of pictures and refracted light
    the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time
    and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that.
    The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside
    at least what the old books called science or bowed down to.
    The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun
    but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true.
    The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity
    but felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect.

    Inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too
    the ample evidence of the sun inside all life
    the homing action of geese and wood mice
    father, and further, the migration of things.
    To toil and to reflect and to home and to paint
    to correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff
    like in the middle of the flower I call your name.
    Nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within
    there might be nothing greater than this
    to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world.
    O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing.

    The sun touches deeper than thought
    leaves shine in the body and in the head alike
    what our fathers called the good, what better celebration.
    What the ancients called peace, no clearer example
    the broken light refracted through leaves.
    That the sun can do this to everything inside
    that the sun can do this to us, every one of us
    now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons.
    Nor is questioning color even useful now
    nor to imagine answers would be the only destination
    to not be naive and think of silly answers only.

    Of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection
    heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty.
    Or if you can indeed hear what I might say
    O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that
    the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree
    this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision.
    Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum
    saying, who and how am I made better through struggle
    nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration
    that we take our rest at the end of the grove
    is this what you intended, Vincent
.

CONJUNCTIONS:47, Fall 2007
http://www.conjunctions.com/preview.htm



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