Posts Tagged ‘Art

12
Sep
09

Revolutions

Not all are violent.
The good ones, the really good ones,
are quiet, unassuming and take place

when no one is listening, while no one is watching.
A man sits, he mediates, he prays –
and the world is changed.

A young girl hears her teacher’s words,
sets her life on a new trajectory –
and the world is changed.

A mother prepares her canvas,
paints a metaphor for time and space –
and the world is changed.

[copyright 2009 Darren King]

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04
Jun
09

Big Sur (or, working from my wife’s studio)

This painting by another artist
in my wife’s studio,
the painting she found years ago
at a garage sale
in our old neighborhood where we
lived after we were first married,
I wonder if the artist knows,
if she ever speculates
that I’ve walked the brush strokes
of her foamy shores
and have sat for hours in the cove
she fashioned patiently,
just for me.
And for weeks now I’ve listened
to her waves and never tire
of the salty breeze
off her aqua-blue water.
And all the calls from corporate world
can not detract me from her horizon,
where she has painted
water meeting sky meeting water.

[copyright 2009 Darren King]

17
Oct
08

Veteran in a New Field

Veteran in a New Field
By Darren King [copyright 2008]

I’m not sure exactly
how these things happen.
I started out on this path
waking early for years –
a burst of creative expression
in written word,
a whole body of work produced.
But then there is the other work too –
that puts the food on the table,
that pays the bills.
This work takes precedent
as it should
over the negotiations
of sentences and syllables.
But it as if I threw my hands into the air
and became less willing to brave
the loneliness of empty thoughts.

No wonder then, I take to poets
who were farmers, or who grew up on farms.
Farming and writing –
both require a lot of heavy lifting
and waking early and lonely hours
when there is no one to help,
no one but you
to get what needs to be done, done.
Lord knows you’re not in it for the pay
and you wonder if anyone even notices,
if anyone even cares.
And then you hit a drought,
or a stone and the wheels fall off,
all seems lost,
you can’t get it back together
you can’t get it back in the groove
you were in when everything
seemed so easy.
Hope becomes a thread
from which you hang yourself
grasping for any straw,
any straw that will see you through the day,
any straw that says things will turn up.

But then the thought comes to you
that maybe the drought is
part of the process –
to slow you down
to reprioritize your day
to get your bearings straight
to remember who you are
and speak the plain language
of the land you know
but have forgotten –
to plow ahead and be brave enough
to dig a little deeper and flush out
what was already there,
what has always been there.

02
Oct
08

Honey I get it. I really do.

By Darren King [copyright 2008]

 

There’s the first life you live –
the one where you help
your little boy clean himself
after with limited success
he’s used his big-boy potty seat
and then you wipe up the
cat puke in the foyer
you swiffered the night before
after Letterman.
It’s the life where
piles of laundry rule your space
but you’ve grown to ignore
them as a strong-hold defense
against insanity.
Make the beds, wash the dishes,
vacuum the floors, you’re too
busy to make lists and by evening
you’re waiting for your husband
so you can start dinner.
And when he finally arrives he’s late
and smells of his lunch he ate
peacefully in a nice restaurant
with his colleagues –
all of whom are over the age of four.
He comes in through the front door,
unscrews the top of his head, places his brain
on the table in the hall and asks,
“How was your day?”
Your second life
is the one where you imagine yourself
among your artists acquaintances
on a sunny Thursday afternoon
in a University town,
the streets have been blocked off,
you’re in a white, tented booth
with your name on the outside,
listed above the town you’re from,
your artist booth number.
You sip vendor lemonade as
your shoulders pink over the day
and you talk with attractive,
culturally-sensitive people who
upon approaching your work
ask you many interesting questions –
none of which have to do with laundry,
the best swiffer or pet vomit.
You love your children.
You love your husband.
But at least once a day, every day,
the possibility of your second life
will see you through
the reality of your first.

 

28
Sep
08

berrying

Berrying

“When you are harvesting in your field and you overlook a sheaf, do not go back and get it. Leave it for the alien, the fatherless.” – Deuteronomy 24:19

I keep searching
hoping
to uncover some hidden truth
to glean a revelation
like the poet who stares into a painting
and awaits the spark
when all he sees are dots
acrylic and oil chaos
and randomness
like an unkind god.
But the Lord is kind
and the Lord gives and
the Lord has taken away
and it comes to me
my father’s death
three years ago this day.
His host returning
to the same earth and dust
no hidden truths
no revelations –
only a remembrance
and itchy plants
and cool earth
and strawberries sweetly
suspended in disbelief.

[copyright 2008 Darren King]

28
Sep
08

some choices, some luck, mostly grace

By Darren King [copyright 2008]

I like grocery shopping with my wife.
We don’t do it often. Mostly
when the children are with my in-laws.
Sometimes we catch a movie,
or we end up in a bookstore,
or a coffeehouse,
or the university town near our home.
And sometimes we go grocery shopping.
My wife pushes the cart and makes the choices.
I saunter behind her, or ahead of her.
I keep on an eye on her purse in our cart
while she inspects pineapples or kiwi or strawberries
and tells me the names of vegetables
her Grandma Dorothy grew –
vegetables I’ve never heard of much less eaten.
I check out magazines, books and snacks,
things she repeats we will never buy.
So I drink the free coffee
they offer in the corner of the store.
And it’s then I realize how grateful I am
for my life and the way it has unfolded.




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