Warren Falcon

Bronze Star - 2,795 Points (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Here Come The Wild Birds Again - Poem For Painters & Poets - Poem by Warren Falcon

for Barnett Newman, Abstract Expressionist Painter,
Cy Twomby, Sculptor/Painter, & Frank O'Hara, American
Poet, Art Curator & Art Critic

'A bird seems to have
passed through the impasto with cream-colored screams and
bitter claw marks.'

'Though they are all white with black and grey scoring,
the range is far from a whisper, and this new development
makes the painting itself the form.' - O'Hara about Cy Twomby's paintings



Two seasons upon your forehead.

Horizon of your brow now tilts toward sunset.

Stratus clouds lift above the
major line parallel but with telemetry
of their own -

symmetry shifts, music
notes stretched flat on the scale.

'Below all this your eyes two suns setting'

though it is redundant to say so,
a poem line tracing horizon, what
lies behind it/below/we leap or
can, happily, to mental verticals,

see distant stars orient us
as specks just as they are
specks such are these birds
flying out to sea such is
this our land giving way
beneath all their push.

We lay together, two wrecks, Love,
wooden ships conjoined by forces
too great, too objective to blame.
We stretch beside a shoreline,
eels play in the one rib of our
opened selves, our rarer fingers
share at last, gesture horizon
to stars, even Sun/Moon entwine
before and behind centering a
presumably expanding circumference
curving inwardly toward itself
which is an affection, a longing,
a bottom upon which even God can
lay hidden from secret admirers
such are mirrors whose surfaces
are rarely breached.

But there is reach.

Many ways to say the word 'love'

which, redundant to say,

sparks,

and we are returned to some

notion Platonic beyond higher

math

of over-said,

over-reached

'Infinity'

of which Barnett Newman spoke to
Frank O'Hara about, rather,

'the Void'

...
can the word bear a capital?
...

...
may the word bear a capital?
...

'V'

his fear of it, 'discomfort'
to be exact, not knowing that
Frank would be in it(Void) not
far from the saying of it, the
mention, the beach that day, hot
(so I have read) , crowded
though Frank chose a voided
spot to recline/to sun upon when
the tanned dune buggy ran
over/upon his tanned radiance
like attracting like
his broken nose/his brilliance,
that Chariot of the Sun Eclipse

it's job done

fated fell forward

into the 'wine sea'

as did Frank's soul

cherry dark, an Amarone

most homophone

he may have till then denied/tried,
at least decried/died trying to name
it(the soul a starfish painted say by
Cy) work an image dead mariners
make wishes

upon/within

as do we also wish.


*


I wish you, Love,
beyond/within all Voids

- is the Void one or plurality?

a painter on a near shore to
paint what we have become.
One(he must be) beautiful,
a man, radiant, who raises
a thumb to rearrange


^^^^^^^^^^^^^the horizon^^^^^^^^^^^^

***************************************** *************the sky*****

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~the moving line~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~'un~~~~~du~~~~~lant'~~~~~~aslant


of the sea where we without
breadth heave each our separate
selves and each other into,
squint, a promontory, shear,
one eye to gauge, the other
allow a thumb's scan by any
other intent acknowledgement
of worth perceived:

waves/wayward clocks (become)

adrift migrant birds, scores,
always crying at the unending feast.

We are not the least of these
but know ourselves too beyond
bondage to time which is to say
'hunger' in spite of rhythm.


*


Love, let us live without

rhyme


the sun go up the sun

go down,


the Sky-(Amor) -Wheel-(Fati)

turn and return

with feeling


Let the painter lonely be

alone

pinned to shore with

his paints, his brushes,

his thumb-gauged vision

in relation to ourselves,

and Void, without intended

rhyme trued, true to ourselves.


Nature, too, is true.


May he use the color blue.

Carelessly.

Tubes of it.


We once were that, too -

careless without.

Now wrecks.

Vaulted. Now become

weather without

foreheads


without

cloudnecks


Vastness


in the making

(if such
is made at all)

but is aporetic

euphoric

a condition,

a given hard

thumb

against

a sky of

tubes made


and of

squints made


we are then a

'striving after'

beyond cream-colored

foam/form

churned by storm


Here come the wild birds again



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Topic(s) of this poem: elegy

Form: Ars Poetica


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Poem Edited: Sunday, July 3, 2016


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