Nouvelle 55: Portrait of Mary Magdalen, or a Poet

-

-

Saint Mary Magdalen at the Sepulchre
by Giovanni Girolamo Savoldo
Mary has just now seen Christ, and the artist paints
radiance reflected on her cloak from the risen Lord,
while Mary's face is in shadow

Portrait of Mary Magdalen, or a Poet

A response to 'Mary Magdalen at the Sepulchre'
by Giovanni Girolamo Savoldo

A veiled face,
cloves cloaked in a sleeve.

Fragrance,
like late summer gold,

leans into the cold of tombs.
Interior lights

– not the apotheosis of the sun—
are the radiants you seek.

Day is where you are,
everything else, shadow.

Break the clove’s shell.
Rub the dark powder

painting your skin,
and smell your breath.

Nouvelle 55 is a poem or fiction in 55 words, based on a piece of art.

Poetry should be heard.

-

-

Assistir Filme »

Nouvelle 55: Vulnerability

-

-

Vulnerability

The world is not delicate
on the whole. I feel it here
in my sternum, my ribs,
lying on my back under you,
stars distant, tree immense.
The world is not delicate
and the plum leaf is strong,
even when the beetle nibbles
her into lace, making room
for more stars to be
strung between her veins.

Painting: Georgia O'Keeffe's 'The Lawrence Tree,' painted on her first visit to New Mexico, when she visited D.H. Lawrence's ranch. This tree was in front of his house, with a bench under it, and she lay back on the bench to paint the tree. 

Nouvelle 55 is a flash fiction or poem in 55 words based upon a work of art.

-

-

Assistir Filme »

Poem: Dancers

-

-

Dorothea and Francesca, by Cecilia Beaux, 1898

Dancers

inspired by the painting "Dorothea and Francesca"
by Cecilia Beaux

I am dancing like that.
I am there
in the pink satin folds
of their blousing
though not the blouse or skirt
themselves
but riding them
as a cork
rides waves
just dipped under the silk.
I am the curl
of the mother’s hair
as if I were smoke
and she the fire.
I am the rubbed flower
their shoes
point to outside the frame,
fragrance alone.
I am the rain
outside the house,
my drops
traipsing down
inside the silver of each
blade of grass,
imperceptible.
I am dancing like that.

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

-

-

Assistir Filme »

Nouvelle 55: The Girl by the Window

-

-

The Girl by the Window, 1893
by Edvard Munch

Art Institute of Chicago

The Girl by the Window

Afraid, gulping bitterness,
she padded to the windowed moonlight,
to see if it were really so.

“You see? She is leaving. Look at her trunk.”
Grandmother’s voice was a triumph, like a horn.
Grandmother didn’t know her own trunk
was packed for just such a night as this.

She was afraid she would never leave.

This is my first nouvelle 55, a flash fiction.

I wonder if you're like me at the moment. My attention span is shorter than ever. I feel restless. I can barely make it through a news article or op-ed without feeling that there is something else I should be doing, thinking or saying. Living in the moment, this moment, now, has never been more difficult. Strangely though, yesterday I read longer in War & Peace than I have up until now, go figure. I had my laptop open, looking up facts about the Napoleonic Wars. I couldn't get enough. Tolstoy's beautiful writing, where I ride each sentence like I'm tubing a slow-moving river, kept me riveted for hours. It also inspired me to write fiction. Very, very short fiction.

Flash fiction, micro fiction, what the French call nouvelle. Steve Moss challenged people to write them in 55 words, no more, no less. I'm in the mood for Paris, so I made up this genre: nouvelle 55, which is flash fiction, based on a piece of art, in 55 words. This particular nouvelle 55 is a meditation on Edvard Munch's painting "The Girl by the Window." I'd love it if you'd try one. There are helpful tips for micro fiction at Heelstone here. Go ahead, find a piece of art for inspiration, and write a nouvelle 55.

-

-

Assistir Filme »

Meditation: Corner of a table

-

-

Still Life: Corner of a Table, by Henri Fantin-Latour, 1873
Art Institute of Chicago

The following poem is not a judgment on this gorgeous painting by Henri Fantin-Latour, who is famous for paintings of flower arrangements. It is just a meditation prompted by the painting, that went off in a certain direction, deflected by a splinter in my head. As much as I love wabi-sabi pine, earthenware and distressed linen, I also love silver, crystal, damask and mahogany. And wine? Yes. And the yellow of lemons or pears that smiles upon us in a room when outside March rains darken the sky. I do love magnificence like this. It just becomes less savory knowing that not all can taste it. I know this is a bit heavy again. Don't worry, I don't feel morose, and I hope it doesn't make you feel that. As Shaista reminded me of Paul Simon's words in her comment in the last post, which was a reminder from my post before that, These are the days of miracle and wonder. Keep the cycle going.

Enough

A meditation on the painting "Still Life: Corner of a Table"

by Henri Fantin-Latour

Spare me the entire
table spread like a paragraph
of Henry James
unpacked from a sea-going trunk

Don't even think that presenting
just the princess sugar bowl, arms butterflied
and head dropping in shyness, will not be too much

And god no,
not the full
goblet of wine, so blood-rich it has all but disappeared
into the genealogy of the glass

Hide, please hide
the vinegar cruet
better than that
I can’t bear its amber-gold liquidity!

What do you mean
exposing the skins of those plump lemons
as if the white compote
lessened them with her modesty?

What do you think
the empty elegance of a cup and saucer
on glimmering damask

can do to transcend the lace
of rhododendrons
like foam from waves of the sea

reaching up to wash
the fruits and bones and porcelain sand
from the table

all under a furtive crescent moon
peering from her crystal pitcher of Bordeaux
I beg you

spare me all
but the empty corner of a frame
on a dirt-brown wall

We have had quite enough
magnificence for a century or two
And by "we" I mean just us here
at this corner of the table

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

Listen to Joni Mitchell sing "Banquet" from her 1972 album "For the Roses" in the Grooveshark widget below the lyrics, about the imbalance of greed and need on our planet.

Banquet

by Joni Mitchell

Come to the dinner gong

The table is laden high

Fat bellies and hungry little ones

Tuck your napkins in

And take your share

Some get the gravy

And some get the gristle

Some get the marrow bone

And some get nothing

Though there's plenty to spare

I took my share down by the sea

Paper plates and Javex bottles on the tide

Seagulls come down and they squawk at me

Down where the water skiers glide

Some turn to Jesus

And some turn to heroin

Some turn to rambling round

Looking for a clean sky

And a drinking stream

Some watch the paint peel off

Some watch their kids grow up

Some watch their stocks and bonds

Waiting for that big deal American Dream

I took my dream down by the sea

Yankee yachts and lobster pots and sunshine

And logs and sails

And Shell Oil pails

Dogs and tugs and summertime

Back in the banquet line

Angry young people crying

Who let the greedy in

And who left the needy out

Who made this salty soup

Tell him we're very hungry now

For a sweeter fare

In the cookie I read

"Some get the gravy

And some get the gristle

Some get the marrow bone

And some get nothing

Though there's plenty to spare

-

-

Assistir Filme »

Meditation: The Song of the Lark

 -

-

The Song of the Lark, by Jules Adolphe Breton

The Song of the Lark

a meditation on the painting

by Jules Adolphe Breton

At the bottom of the sky

an orange sun

meets the field

arranging

a constellation

with her sickle.

The trees, the house,

silo and barns

bind

her body,

her hands

mown with labor, her feet

like stones in the dirt,

her breasts: fruit

in peeling skins.

Her body

rises

from the ground

ground

ground

And her face

blossoms

in the patulous sky

like the song
song
song

of the lark

Listen to a podcast of this poem here.

I had searched for an audio of a lark, without any satisfying results. Now, after Lorenzo's comment about "The Lark Ascending" by Ralph Vaughan Williams, I am posting a recording of it. I listened to it for the first time today. It is so incredibly beautiful, I just sort of sit speechless, in tears of listening. Please give it your rapt attention if you can take the time for all fifteen minutes.

-

-

Assistir Filme »