I am gong and cotton and snowy song... Michaux & Carracci

I have really become hard only by thin layers;
If anyone knew how marrowy I am at bottom.
I am gong and cotton and snowy song,
I say so and am sure of it.

Henri Michaux - I am Gong

details; Annibal Carrache (Annibale Carracci) (Bologna 1560 - Rome 1609); Pietà avec saint François et sainte Marie-Madeline. Vers 1602-1607; Louvre, Paris (originally in the Mattei chapel in the Church of San Francesco a Ripa, Rome).

Annibale Carracci, an exemplary Baroque painter, along with his brother Agostino and cousin Ludovico, combined Florentine draughtsmanship with Venetian use of colour and texture to create an emotionally charged colourful core. Baroque painting - coinciding with the Council of Trent and its reformulation of the Catholic Church's representational style - emphasised exaggerated emotion, theatricality, expressive lighting, and clear intention; painting, and art in general, should become the literature of the illiterate, conveying story and moral in their stylistic vernacular - simple, direct, powerful. The restraint apparent in the Renaissance's sculptural and architectural influences gives way to dynamism and even sensationalism. Competing contracts and wealthy patronage saw ever more fabul-ist/ous works being produced inside a similarly aggrandising architecture. The modern pejorative use of the term Baroque, as anything with excessive ornamentation and sensationalist dynamism, derives from this development, as well as the Baroque's transition into Rococo.

you have crouched too long in the bruising darkness...

A Conceit

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

On the Pulse of Morning

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom. 

Passing Time

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
sure beginning. 

The Vale of Rest - John Everett Millais // poems - Maya Angelou

tambourines in the dark ditch of the night...

Bergman's Through a Glass Darkly

The Storm

Les princes n'ont point d'yeux pour voir ces grands merveilles,
Leurs mains ne servent plus qu' à nous persécuter . . .†                                                    

(Agrippa D' Aubigné: À Dieu) 

The storm that trickles its long March
thunderclaps, its hail, onto the stiff
leaves of the magnolia tree;
(sounds of shaking crystal which startle you
in your nest of sleep; and the gold
snuffed on the mahogany, on the backs
of the bound books, flares again
like a grain of sugar in the shell
of your eyelids)
the lightning that blanches
the trees and walls, freezing them,
like images on a negative (a benediction and destruction you
carry carved within you, a condemnation that binds you
stronger to me than any love, my strange sister)
and then the tearing crash, the jangling sistrums, the rustle
of tambourines in the dark ditch of the night,
the tramp, scrape, jump of the fandango. . .and overhead
some gesture that blindly is groping. . .
                                                           as when
turning around, and, sweeping clear your forehead
of its cloud of hair,
you waved to me—and entered the dark.

// Eugenio Montale, trans. Charles Wright
† (The princes have not eyes to see these great wonders,
Their hands do not serve but to persecute us)

For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.
But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child,
I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

// 1 Corinthians 13