Ten Poem Installation: Concerning The Flow Of Consciousness, Thinking, Time, Writing, Painting And Sculpture, The Failure To Communicate And You Poem by Dennis Ryan

- dedicated to Wallace Chafe (1927-) , Professor Emeritus and
research professor at The University of California at Santa Barbara

I. YOUR WONT

Wednesday morning, December 12,2018 at 7: 08 a.m.; Thursday morning, January 3,2019 at 9: 18 a.m.h

My gift to you myself straightforwardly;
yours to me yourself crookedly.How was

it that such antitheses ever aligned,
ran parallel courses one to the other

toward similar destinies? Did it ever happen,
or did my sympathy—naïve, overactive—

simply get the best of me? You might make reply
had you the courage, but leave it lie, as is your wont.


II.THE FLOW OF CONSCIOUSNESS, THINKING AND TIME
IN THE WRITING OF POEMS, THIS TIME ABOUT YOU

Wednesday afternoon, December 12,2018 at 4: 19 p.m.; Thursday, December 13, at 8: 10 p.m.; Saturday night, December 15 at 9: 20 p.m.; Sunday morning, December 16 at 10: 50 a.m.; Wednesday morning, December 19 at 8: 32 a.m.; Thursday morning, December 20 at 8: 21 a.m.; Saturday morning, December 22 at 9: 05 a.m.; Friday morning, December 28 at 7: 19 a.m.; Sunday morning,
December 30 at 9: 25 a.m.; Tuesday morning, January 1,2019 at 9: 07 a.m.;
Thusday morning, January 3,2019 at 9: 28 a.m.

I couldn't have written this without you;
but then again, everything I write I create

based on my knowledge of reality, not yours,
so how close have I come to the real you—

whatever the phrase the real you might mean
as regards personality, behavior and self,

selves you've allowed the rest of us to see?
(You remind me of the second Study for

Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, watercolor,
1907: 5 women posed, counter-posed.

Which phase, face will you show today,
this morning, afternoon and night?)

You move into and out of consciousness
at times, the holidays now nearly upon us,

and what price memory? Priceless, though
it's more problematic than this moment even

though I don't pretend to understand how
memory works nor how consciousness flows.

Regardless, thanks for giving me a subject,
a topic to dwell on and express (this tenderness?)

though my exact thesis I have not yet discovered.
We are skilled, well-versed at this, having put

the art into practice for many years
in our respective careers; others have

learned how to narrow down a thesis,
in part from us, and in part through

their own struggles, hard work and persistence.
It's a recursive process.Now.Immediate consciousness.

And then.Displaced consciousness.Both are
processing whenever we think, talk and write.

I wrote a differentpoemthis morning about you
and me I don't think you'd care for.It's as close

to reality as I can get.I feel confident in this.
If you respond soon, I'll consider revising it

based on our dialog, then write a second
that takes your side, views as you relate them.

And better yet—you write a poem in dialog
with this, go beyond it: include corrections,

amendations, omissions, my limitations,
explain how my knowledge of reality

is constrained by what little I know.
Readersmight (might?) appreciatev

this, hearing from you, hearing
your versions of things, how

and what took place, when—
the occasions, and possibly...

Until then, silent thief... Hannin. 犯人
Doroboo泥棒Chinmoku 沈黙

as Igarashi learned all too well while fishing
a red shoe out of the ocean in The Blessing Bell


III.COMPOSITION MEANT FOR SILENCE

Saturday afternoon, December 15,2018 at 12: 20p.m.; Sunday morning,
December 16 at 9: 30 a.m.; Wednesday morning, December 19 at 8: 46 a.m.;
Thursday morning, December 20 at 8: 28 a.m.; Saturday morning, December 22 at 9: 15 a.m.; Friday morning, December 28 at 7: 21 a.m.; Sunday morning, December 30 at 9: 40 a.m.; Tuesday morning, January 1,2019 at 10: 29 a.m.; Thursday morning, January 3,2019 at 9: 32 a.m.

When the feeling arrives,
I begin composition optimistically,

with the best of intentions
(bright colors) , meaning well,

but of late the poems you color
(this form you dictate) ,

have become predictably dark,
negative in tone, valence, meaning

and outcome, when, during
the throes of composition

I get down to the nitty-gritty
of relations, this composite portrait

whose beginning I can track back
to my first viewing Blue Dancer:

at that time, this, I begin to re-survey
the landscape, these chiseled surfaces,

only to regret what I've written,
andsay 'I'm sorry' to thin air:

Woman combing her hair,
circa 1915, cast 1922: rendered

as concavities rather than convexities—
Archipenko used interior space

to visually link front to back,
inside and out, the head replaced

by its silhouette within which
only space exists—this empty space,

absence, silent thief.(I think you
would respond if you felt you—.)

This composition then, like so many,
is meant for silence—I can appreciate

even this now—creatingmeaning...
for silence? I'm never 100% sure.
宙時間


H
IV.EACH OF THESE POEMS DELVES A LITTLE DEEPER

Saturday night, December 15,2018 at 10: 15 p.m.; Sunday morning,
December 16 at 9: 40 a.m.; Wednesday morning, December 19 at 8: 57 a.m.;
Thursday morning, December 20 at 8: 45 a.m.; Saturday morning, December 22 at 9: 23 a.m.; Sunday morning, December 30 at 9: 47 a.m.

Each of these poems delves
a little deeper into consciousness,

my thinking about you and reality,
and I'm grateful for these testing points.
B
At the same time, I'm at the point
of wanting this series of poems

to end.Yes, I want it to end right now—
thinking, feeling, conscious attention

can delve only so far, so deep down
so far as I know, so deep down the pain.

What color patina to choose here?
Black to cover bronze, blue? Blue Dancer?

Woman combing her hairis encased
in glass, stands along a museum wall.

You need look for it: it is on
your periphery: 13 7/8 x 3 3/8.

Here.I hadn't viewed it until this week
Tuesday.My thesis, by chance?


V.WHEREFORE, WHERE TO?

Sunday morning, December 16,2018 at 11: 35 a.m.; Wednesday morning, December 19 at 9: 04 a.m.; Thursday morning, December 20 at 8: 58 a.m.;
Sunday morning, December 30 at 10: 06 a.m.; Thursday morning, January 3,
2019 at 9: 54 a.m.

Driven by desperation and despair,
what more need I mention here

as to what's gone before
to end this discourse?

Be in whatever guise inspiration
arrives, I will have to make due:

you the driver of past into present,
or so I think, the past not so long past,

is this a case of double indemnity?
Slick noir on the edge of reality...

A glorious tale of greed, lust and betrayal?
Not quite that trailer—The Narrow Margin—

past representations of trust and commitment
illustrate how deeply two individuals can...

The trailer breaks off at the point where
I am taxed by reality—in the present—

the past lacking in all instruction; therefore,
posed with this problem, wherefore, whereto? —

the word not meaning cause nor destination
alone, but why—your allegiance forsworn.


VI.THE EVENING (MARSH LANDSCAPE) :

Wednesday morning, December 19, begun at 9: 18 a.m.; Saturday morning, December 22 at 9: 30 a.m.; Wednesday morning, December 26 at 10 a.m.;
Saturday morning, December 29 at 11: 38 a.m.; Sunday morning, December 30
at 10: 19 a.m.; Tuesday morning, January 1,2019 at 10: 41 a.m.; Thursday morning, January 3,2019 at 10: 14 a.m.

Had the present turned out
differently, this poem would

never have been written:
would never have been.

There's the rub—tense is
an ever-present reminder:

enter a painting titled
The Evening (Marsh Landscape)

a combination of colors and location
that the German artist painted on the eve

of World War I. Every color is a key.
Every shade has a soul: yellows, greys,

blues. He had moved into a farmhouse
near his birthplace, had taken the place name

as his own, had began painting landscapes—
(now displayed in museums which

function as cemeteries for art.)
When is an artist happiest? Me?

When creating—in the act, I am
of myself by myself— as was he.

Exploring... discovering... meaning
a life... art as personal statement

now and then. Die Brücke. On the verge.
Europe in crisis. Painting before and between wars...

(As you now... living between Desert Storm
and a war that could happen—Anti-War,

your Liberal agenda, somewhat naive—
your big heart short-sighted—as I see it.)

Art intercedes. All alone in that awful museum,
with masks—he wrote he finally understood!

Art protects. (Spirit, spirits, the unconscious,
emotions.) He called it my first exorcism painting.

Art disrupts. It opposes. It reacts against—
German Expressionists, Favists, Nabis, Cubists.

One priceless, sunny morning (clear memory,
no doubt) —you showed up at my front door,

looked at me brought the window glass,
smiled, then said, 'I feel so _____ sometimes.'


VII.THE WORD WAS

Wednesday morning, December 26 at 10 a.m.; Friday morning,
December 28 at 7: 51 a.m.; Saturday morning, December 29 at 11: 49 a.m.;
Tuesday morning, January 1,2019 at 11: 32 a.m.

'Insecure'— It surprised me,
you using it. You seemed totally

otherwise: confident, secure,
discerning, self-assured;

it was a moment, now,
only in hindsight—

I can fully appreciate,
the window glass between us...


VIII.ON CHARACTER, CONSCIOUSNESS, PERCEPTION, POINT OF VIEW, THE FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE AND GEOGRAPHY

Wednesday morning, December 26 at 9: 10 a.m.; Thursday evening, December 27 at 6: 22 p.m.; Friday morning, December 28 at 7: 57 a.m.; Saturday morning, December 29 at 11: 51 a.m.; Sunday morning, December 30 at 10: 37 a.m.;
Tuesday morning, January 1,2019 at 11: 45 a.m.; Thursday morning, January 3,2019 at 10: 22 a.m.

You had pressed your nose,
the right side of your face

against the window glass,
your head curving outward

into space—you were older
than your years yet youthful,

kind, beautiful. You liked me:
used me. You were too fond

of yourself, your own vanity—
you told me so—so you used me.

Self-aware yet small-minded—
you guided yourself too much

by what is useful rather than
by what is noble: so the house.

Though life was a bad business,
you were out for gain—you had

gained me—and that's all that
mattered. I understand now.

I saw you for who you are,
this complex mix, someone

who knew herself, knew what
she wanted, but could not bear

to acknowledge certain actions—
neither to herself nor to me.

Consciousness is what it is:
it does not judge, it does not

reflect or self-reflect—morality
is an after affect. In public,

you were against war, against
injustice, you spoke of nobility,

but in secret, like almost everyone,
you preferred your advantage always—

you showed me this secret
side of your heart too often,

and I proved much too discerning—
the truth mattered, but perhaps

only to me. Thereafter, privately,
I tried to get you to admit that

you had lied and manipulated me,
but my efforts were useless—

you are who you are. (Had I
gone too far?) Even now,

I struggle to write these things,
but I have thought long about it,

thought these things through,
and need write them—if only

to set the record straight
for myself, from my viewpoint;

I lacked the confidence before.
(Vide Aristotle The Rhetoric, Book II,

Chapters 13 & 23 on human character,
elders, and lines of positive proofs.)

I don't dislike or hate you;
It's just the opposite— I don't

regret one minute of the time
I spent with you. I strive to see

things more clearly, fail to
do so. I read somewhere that

nothing is more difficult to get
into perspective than the present;

while true, nothing is more difficult
to get into perspective than the past

in the present moment. Let's talk
about this, shall we? Oh, I forgot...

you don't talk to me anymore—
this failure to communicate

drives this poem. (It took reading
another poet, only minutes ago,

to finally make sense to me.
I'm all about books. All in—

this failure. You can't live in
a library, or in a museum either,

for that matter. Sooner or later,
you gotta go home—) As I write,

in the background, there are sounds
in a language I don't understand,

but the context is clear: the tones
and pitches of the actors' voices

in dialog: a comedy sketch.
But even as they communicate,

I sense a deep-seated insecurity
in their utterances, the speakers

situated between giants:
China and Japan. の間に


IX.THE HUMAN FIGURE AS A SUBJECT FOR SCULPTURE

Saturday afternoon, December 29 at 12: 01 p.m.; Sunday afternoon,
December 30 at 1: 56 p.m.; Tuesday afternoon, January 1,2018 at 12: 15 p.m.;
Thursday morning, January 3,2019 at 10: 29 a.m.; Saturday morning, January 5,2019 at 8: 55 a.m.

The point, it seems to me,
is to be able to move

in relation to the figure,
to view it at a distance

and close up, to interact
with it—to dance with it,

even in the midst of pain
and sorrow.Especially then!

(To be like Odysseus then,
having just escaped death;

having been washed up
on shore; and along that

shoreline—what he saw,
thought and felt: Nausicaa...)

What beauty! What virtuosity!
Behold, I exist in space with it!
Because space is a symbolic
extension of being, perhaps

this is how a dancer came
to mind.How else explain

this conception of the beautiful,
this movement—eye, mind and hand?

Energy, constant motion—
art catches up with science, reality.

Face to face—
we want to be noticed,

not to be forgotten,
know that we're missed—

these icons tell us this.
Eye, mind and hand...

Sculpture is diary then.
What was the sculptor

thinking, feeling while
at work? When? Why this

particular curve, that slope
so painstakingly rendered?

The chisel, stone, hammer,
the promise of the human form,

its potential, so much more—
the first time I beheld Blue Dancer...


X.TAKING DOWN THE INSTALLATION

Tuesday afternoon, January 1,2019 at 12: 26 p.m.; Thursday morning, January 3,2019 at 10: 47 a.m.

Time to take this down,
to say good-bye, to exit.

The installation has served—
I sought a theme...

We moved freely,
into and out of it,

interacted with its parts,
close up, paid attention—

the point, moreso than
the installation itself.

Multifariousness. Life.
Experience. Soundless

shall be the footfall light
in all men's ears...