The Indifference of Expression (revised)

What a lovely poem, Atticus.  This really spoke to me....:)

Thank you Cheryl.

storming the canvass is a powerful imagery,Atticus.Painters and poets have there own explainations and your words contributes their actions.No doubt, last three lines are my fav.

I appreciate the kind words Bhawana. They do, they do (have their own explanations)

An artistic double standard crafted to perfection. You already write poems that have the scent of cerulean blue. :)

Thanks so much for reading and commenting Nancy. I appreciate the compliment.

How true, how true..."I didn't say a leaper, I said I was a P O E T..." "Oh,yeah...what else you been doing?  and yes, I have felt the "ochre colored angst"...Atticus as you know, the true artist is rarely totally understood in this world of "solid reality" and steel traps... but can "gather" at the coffeehouses and bars of old and share a verse or two,huh?...Enjoyed

Ha! - Fair warning, I'll use that Richard. And indeed we can and do "gather" at the coffeehouses. Thank you so much for the comment.

Ooooooh!

That was my initial reaction. Tagging a spot to come back in for critique after I have some more coffee.

Hours later, coffee finished, boy tended, dishes still undone but I wanted to come back and talk poetry.

Responding in an informal manner, I have to say that I think the issue is that the perception of poetry is that any ol' person can pick up a pen and write, and that the same can't be said for painting. Not that I believe that perception to be true.

Onto the good stuff!

Wow, where to start. You've put so much beneath the surface of this, but it isn't a tarry surface-- you've struck a balance between clarity and subtlety. The color... ye gods, the color in this, the watercolor swirl of image and hue, the tendrils of creeping inspiration, the thundercrash of passion, the last three lines... you wrote this with a light hand and a deft touch, Atticus. Bravo to you.

The only thing-- and I do mean the only thing-- that gave me pause: the third line of the first stanza. "I know" is such a casual interjection, so informal and... plain. To my eyes, and my ears, it doesn't fit. That single I also detracts from the "you"s.

Never ever apologize for poems like this.

Also, I'ma feature this. Surprise!

Corinna, Thank you so much for your critique and all your kind words. I can see your group is going to be fantastically helpful to us all. I see what you are saying about "I know". I included it to be a semi-patronizing but empathetic expression to help the poem oscillate in perspective, reinforcing to the reader that I am talking to myself in the second person as well as an unspecified general audience. How would I know? I've been there. I had hoped the comma after "know" would clarify the use. Perhaps it would be more effective like this:

"You may not have the heart, I know"

I did not really want it at the end of the line though, because I don't like it modifying the next line by virtue of proximity.

I'll think about this. It's a good point. Thanks, your perspective and intelligent criticism is really beneficial

On rereading, I think just removing the comma entirely would work. Without the comment, I get much more of a patronizing tone, rather then... well, somewhat sarcastic. ;)

Without the comma, rather. Yeah, coffee's worn off.

Yes I think you are right about that. I does read better. I'm going to sleep on it and re-read the poem sans- comma in the morning. Thanks!

This is just where it needs to be! What a terrific poem, Atticus. Thank you for sharing it with us. :)

Corinna,
Actually it's true - any ole person can write or paint...just most of our stuff looks like we're 10 years old (on a good day), when we're done. ;)

From an any ole person perspective. lol

Excellent.  It can be so hard when we try to share our process with non-artists, or anyone who measures the finished product by anything but internal considerations.  The first part of the poem which speaks of a breakdown in communication sounds like that moment when the raw self is bared only to be broken.  (Small typo - "canvas" is the noun - "canvass" is the verb.)  Oh - I also loved the title.  Are we mad to think that we we do is important ??

Thank you Stirling. I missed that "canvass". I'll be back to comment on your comment. (I'm at work right now just stealing a little browsing time.)

Stirling, Thanks for the comment, especially the last sentence. This poem pokes a little fun at myself as well as the difference (and indifference) of acceptability in the arts by the layman, friends, and artists of other disciplines. I'm glad you saw that. I like your analysis of the first part of the poem. There is a personal sore spot underneath. It fits the intent.

Atticus - your poetry always resonates with me and/or pulls at my heart.  I loved your use of color.......

As does yours with me Little Red. We share that intense love of color. Thanks so much for coming by.

A late professor at Lawrence University was a poet as a college student, saved by the fact that he was also a star football player.  Yes, poetry still carries baggage of prejudice not "enjoyed" by other art forms.

Isn't that funny John. It's always the ones you don't suspect. ;-) Thanks so much for the comment. I should have a little more time starting soon. I'll be by to check out your fine works.

Atticus, I am not sure what to say. I have read through your poem twice and then read through the comments then again read your poem. I think your poem is wonderful. I see what you are saying about poetry is very true. My grandmother was a painter of some note in her circle. She could have been more well known, but chose not to be. When I show people her paintings the general reaction is 'huh" and if they are very polite they will look at more. Maybe I will photograph them and publish to Gather so you can see. I think your average person is only marginally more interested in painting then they are in poetry. Sorry, alot to say for someone who is not sure what to say.

Hey Chana, I would love to see your grandmother's work. Please do post it and send me a link. I think you are right about the general public. I'm really using the complaint as a framework on which to hang some more general thoughts and some deeply personal feelings about poetry, painting and the arts in general with this poem. Thanks so much for your comments.

We write and we paint, we photograph, and we play our instruments because we must. Something inside us needs expression. Someting enters, and overflows.

Thank you Debbie. What you say is so very true.

It is much harder to share poetry, that is the truth. I think that artists who produce more abstract art might share in that but I understand the frustration.

Thank you Peregrine. I appreciate you coming by to read my poem. I look forward to reading some of your work.

what an electric push and pull between the lovers~the colors~the poet and the poem~

thank you for posting to gutterGirls~soooo featured =)

Thank you Purrrrrrrrrr. I owe you many visits. I'm sorry, I've been preoccupied and haven't been commenting on your gorgeous verse to the extent it deserves.

 What u say  reflects what ur as a poet I like this short poem

Thank you so much for your kind comment Dr.

Poet's live for comments like yours Jan. :-)

oops, I mispelled cerulean.  Thanks for your encouragement.

This is a sensational poem, Atticus.  I can see the painting: the hot colors, the ragged brush-strokes, and your exquisite "twisted... black crows" that make me think of people fighting over the carrion of a relationship.  More impressive is that I can see the creative process of poetry, too; the subtler, but arguably more searching and profound, work of ivy in the cracks and the ocean moving with the moon.

I can't recommend much to improve.  I paused for a moment on "ebb tides / swelling from the moonrise / on shorelines of memory," because I think of spring tides as "swelling," but perhaps you mean to suggest something that recedes from memory, the way an ebbing sea recedes from the shore?  If so, great, and either sort could be said to respond to the moon.   I also can't say that the last line was as striking for me as your others, but perhaps that was your point as well: that the kind of bang people get from painting, and may expect from poetry, just isn't possible.   Is the "cerulean blue" a sort of halfway point between the hard sun of painting and the moon-work of poetry?

Otherwise, I thought this was great.  My questions might be nit-picky as well.   Good on you, Atticus!

(Review submitted for Honest Poetry Critique)

James I am honored by your response and your generous critique. What you suspect about my use of "ebb" instead of "flood" is correct. I sought to portray the movement of the water and the pull of the moon, away from shore before the moon rises over the horizon but approaching the shore as it rises in the sky. I felt that the contradiction would reinforce the movement. I knew I ran a risk with that. Also I wanted to express the idea that memory is fluid and though it recede, it returns in flood. I think I see how to correct this though, and it seems obvious:

They are heedless of ebb tides
swelling toward moonrise
from shorelines of memory.

What do you think? I know this doesn't solve the basic problem but does it pass the intentionality test? It's a complex idea to put into one sentence. I could use two but I think that would ruin it.

You are also dead on, straight up, spot on about the intended meaning of "cerulean blue". But I have to say I love the way you put it. "The hard sun of painting and the moon work of poetry" I love that. To me Cerulean Blue is the color right before sunrise or at the sky opposite the sun at dusk.

I'll have to think about the strength of the line. I was aiming at a homecoming to a place you never left feel. Forgiveness

Excellent points all James. Thank you so much

Thank you for your reading, James.  It added to my appreciation of this poem.

I think your first revision clarifies the situation, but at the expense of the complexity you wanted.  Your second-- the one you have in the poem now-- is both clear and true to your original intent, and therefore the stronger version.   Good work!

Thanks James I appreciated your help on this poem!

One of the prime works of our time. I would say as far as the above statement. This poem is a quick emission. It slips out of the heart and reaches for ours. James is right.

I faced the similar experience with life as Richard has depicted.

sense and sensibility

Thank you for your thoughtful and generous comment Kushal. I will check out your poem.

Atticus,

You've illustrated the dilemma that I've always known writers to struggle with.  I'm closely related to writers, many within my family, all who marvel at the level of interest taken in the work of the potter, blacksmith, woodworker, painter and dancers of the clan and community. That the poets and story makers have a tough time getting feedback on their fine efforts (unless it's shared as performance art).

The writers then are always thrilled to find family members and community who are Readers; that is their identity. They Read; and are likely those who maintain a position even further beyond the center of the hive.

Perhaps valuing audience in a keener manner is sorely needed in all areas of artistic expression.

Your poem is a bright and beautiful catalyst for thought, Sir.

I'm so excited to see process explored and critique offered.

A delighted student.

Thanks for your comments Adrian. I agree with you about audience in the arts. And I am totally thrilled about the rebirth of critique on Gather! It is really exciting! Much Thanks to James and Corinna for starting Honest Poetry Critique.

What you say, Adrian, about performance art -- I have been aware that what people tend to want from art is performance, entertainment.  We more introverted artists I suppose are better to learn to be content with quiet acceptance and joy in our own creative activities.

Indeed Laurie.
But writers need to be read, or at least have a perceived audience they're aiming their work towards and feedback.

Even the mystics personify the 'other' perceiving their creative endeavor.

...though a good round of thunder, hailstones and sidewalk steam as applause probably aces the wine and cheese reception after, or some prefer.

Poetry speaks to a soul that some are afraid they do not have. Such a biting truth in your poem, Atticus.

Kathryn, thanks so much for your perceptive comment. It does speak to a certain fear doesn't it? You are so kind to feature my poem.  

Featured in the Triple Name Club.

I think this is excellent!

Thank you Lisa

Oh wow. More than painting with words.

Thanks Sheila!, I do appreciate you taking the time to come by and read.

Atticus, this poem makes me chuckle.  I envision the painter in a tryst with his colorful, mercurial muse while the poet scribbles in solitude in a garret.

Ha! I love that comment Ann! You've boiled my poem down to me complaining that the painters get all the girls! just kidding I know you don't mean that. But it is funny as hell. If only I were that shallow. I'd write limericks for Playboy and make a fortune.

You got THE girl! ;)

Excellent and o-h-h, so true!...

Blessings and best wishes - S.

 

Thank you for gracing my poem with your comment Svetlana. I appreciate it very much.

I paint, but I'm a writer first and foremost(I think. lol)... I have noticed the difference you speak of here...

Yes, it's easy to dismiss poetry by feigning comprehension, or interest, but the truth could be that maybe some people really don't have the capacity to let the words speak and show pictures of something that applies to them?  If it's not two lines long with a link and a picture to spoonfeed them, they don't want it.  And I don't want to give it to them either.

With a painting, so much more liberty can be taken with interpretation, and is an easy out for someone who can't interpret words beyond their simple definitions.  And if they lack that amount of imagination, then it is impossible for them to know how we come in and out with the tides, sometimes getting sucked under in a riptide.... and they will never how heavy the vines are that lash us to the floating raft on the cerulean sea of inspiration...

Hey Ferosh, Thanks for the intelligent and thoughtful response. It is true what you say about liberty with interpretation. I think both or any art form can have just about as much depth as an artist wishes, or is able, to create. To my mind it is indeed much easier to paddle about on the surface of painting though. And bear in mind, I am not in any way shape or form knocking painting or painters. I am one, and it was my first love. I took up poetry because I am fascinated with language as an artistic medium. It seems both more pure, and more fluid at the same time. My taste in painting runs the full gamut. But there is something utterly enthralling to me about the clarity of expression in a well written poem. I just wish more people had the patience to develop a taste for it.

Pop Quiz

What is more useless than a poet, and why?

Encloistered in my artist's garrett, threadbare garments more holes than whole
Paint spattered, unruly and unkempt
Barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air
Entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.

Writing words on paper, I am merely effete,
Despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, expressing deeply true emotion
They are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.

I am the real deal -- the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey's fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by accolytes at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
Incense of my magesty.

Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
Unadorned by idolatry.

 

*gets on knees, bends over to the floor with outstretched arms*

I humble myself at your feet, Laurie....  I'll be the first to admit your worth as a poet, and bow down to you.  I am most sincere in my words to you....

Mandy

I respond most gratefully.  Rise up, dear one, let me embrace you!

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com

paintings and poetry

Thank you.:)

libramoon, your comment is a masterpiece. Thank you for choosing my poem to post it on. It deserves a thorough critique in its own right. I think we all make sacrifices for our art, but only few end up with acolytes. It is a good thing that we don't do it for that reason. We would all be sorely dissapointed.

Atticus, I read this today and thought of you. Whitman's with you on cerulean as the color between day and night. From "To the Man-of-War Bird":

Far, far at sea,
After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,
With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,
The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,
The limpid spread of air cerulean,
Thou also re-appearest.

Hey James, It's always cool to find out you have a powerful ally like Whitman. Thank you so much for sharing that. It is beautiful.

Wow...your strength in words and the imagery, holy cow!

After rereading this work several times as well as reading comments from others, there is so much I would like to comment on. Writing and fine arts have never been exclusive to me. Painting is a form of speaking and writing is a form of painting a picture. When you do both you feel both. When writing a poem you can feel yourself massage the words as if it was charcoal in your fingers trying to perfect the curve of a muscle. When you paint an emotion you feel the words crashing through your brain as if you can not speak and all you can do is let the color explode through your hands.

You tied the imagery of a painter to the words of a poet and the common thread is EMOTIONS; it is beautiful.

And you bailed up the reasons,
under heat of the sun; yellow
in fields of ochre colored angst,
you twisted like black crows
storming the canvas.

This rocks me, hits me hard. I beg to differ from others, to me with the use of the words “bailed”, “you twisted” “heat”, “angst” and “storming” you did not paint a watercolor, you painted a torrent of emotions using colors of yellow, ochre and black with thick oil paint; it is the type of image that you have to step back from otherwise it will draw you deep and make you dizzy. This level of color and depth of words is only created by layers of pain and paint used in a raw frenzy.

And the irony of this is that the intensity of color matched with the technically sound way you used grammar and wording creates a contrast of emotions in the reader way deeper than the battle between the arts. “you twisted like black crows”, parallels the intensity of the line “I know you may not have the heart.” Do not ever change theses two lines. The absolute stripped down raw edge that these two lines have, leave me bruised. Then these two vocal challenges which are almost insults matched with the beauty of “yellow/in fields of ochre against angst” fantastically play on the readers emotions.

I love the way you use, “I”, “you” and “her”. To me “I” and “you” become the same person. It becomes almost a challenge and chastisement to the same subject. You set this up in the first few lines in the first stanza. Now you slide gently into the “poetry” stanza. The imagery is much softer, more subtle, darker AND you dropped that use of “I” and “you” until these last lines:

Maybe you’ll be forgiven
when you can write a poem
that smells like cerulean blue.

And then all of the sudden the reader is reminded of the previous emotional torrent that were in the first stanza and suddenly I felt like saying “oh, my dear, you are forgiven, you smell of cerulean blue.” The torrent is gone but there is still such an emotional drive and with the word “maybe” there is a touch of bitterness that hits and begs the reader to respond back in tenderness.

The first read I thought about the challenges of poetry vs. fine arts and how society perceives the differences and acceptance of those arts. As someone who grew up with art, music and poetry, society has a hard time accepting any of it; all three are seen as an indulgence regardless. This misconception of the validity of the arts is a reason that the arts are being taken out of our schools, and live music is next to impossible to find. All these thoughts were my first response to this poem but when I reread this poem and allowed my mind to flow I just keep coming back to the emotions. I come back to the betrayals, the hurt and the need for forgiveness.

Thank you for this poem. Thank you for the images your words painted for me, and the emotions it brought. Thank you for writing a poem that I felt compelled to show you the emotional reaction that your words had on me. Like you I will make no apologies for the need to write a chapter on what thoughts your poem inspired! *laughing*

Job well done!

Ellen, perhaps you would enjoy Corinna and James' new group: Honest Poetry Critique. You seem to have a real gift for digging deep within the meaning of poetry. Your voice would, I'm sure, be a much welcome addition. You might also like Mindful Poetry and Gather Writing Essential for the writing prompts and explorations of poetry. Thank you so very much for your in depth evaluation of my poem. As you read, there is a lot of pain under the paint and a lot of peace under the poem. I'll look for you and your poetry in Honest Poetry Critique.

Thanks Atticus. I joined the groups you mentioned. I am definitely looking to be challenged, encouraged and taught when it comes to my own writing, and it sounds like these recommended groups and people in them can help with that. Of course there is no better way at becoming a better writer than reading others works as well.

As as far as digging out a meaning...I am not sure...I may miss the point sometimes, but your poem caused a visual and emotional reaction and most importantly compelled me to share. I look forward to discovering that balance in use of words in my own writing. I look forward to reading more.

Atticus, I've only read through twice and need more time to focus. I smile wryly at the truth I see in this piece.

More later...

Hi Susan! Thanks for reading!

Well written Atticus. I'm looking forward to reading more of your literary works.

This is FEATURED in Artistic Minds®.

Thanks so much for the feature Rene'. I appreciate it very much.

HUGS Atticus ~ You're welcome! I LOVE THIS!

I hardly know what to say about this one, Atticus. It's a treat to read. You are more right about attitudes than most of us realize.

Like James, I'll nit-pick. The second part of the first stanza is not as cohesive as the second stanza. I don't understand your point of reference in the first stanza after the first two lines. The twisting black crows however can not be deleted. They are perfect.

Also, I prefer to add a hyphen to this: ochre-colored angst.

Hey Susan. Thank you so much for reading. I am so glad you liked it. I consider your praise a high honor. As for the first stanza, You need only to spend the afternoon in any painter's studio or just hang around an Art School at any university. You'll see what I mean, at least part of what I mean. ;-)

Actually, I really hesitate to explain since I choose such an obvious icon in the first stanza to model the passion of painting after. Melded, of course, with my own experience and feelings. Also, I think a poem should more or less stand on its own and I don't feel that you are asking for explication.

I will gratefully consider your words.

This is lovely and authentic, Atticus. It is also filled with beautiful and colorful imagery. I love it.

Thank you Anne. Good to see you!

Anybody would forgive you for writing this poem.
Excellent.
What an impressive string of comments, too.

Thank you so much Mike. The comments? I am astounded by the generosity of my friends.

Atticus,
It's been quite interesting to come back and read again the poems shared with Honest Poetry Critique these last two weeks. Your poem, 'The Indifference of Expression' stands well on it's
own two feet, a clear sign of good nurturing.

I also loved reading your reasons for choosing this work to be featured within the group (and thanks for assisting members to stay active, it's appreciated). It's been fun to read the comments here; people thinking together about the craft of writing and how it affects the end results.

I love it Ade! I am really psyched about improving my craft through honest dialog about each other's work. Thanks so much for revisiting.

Beautifully penned and resonates with me because poems crawl under my skin even while I am sleeping just like ivy. My grandma was a painter. I wish she could have read my poetry and yours! One of your best, Atticus! Thank you.

Thank you so much Jennifer. I wish she could have too!

I tell my friends I'm a painter, they want to see the freshly painted room I just finished. (They are correct in assuming that, too.) You ARE a poet - and I saw it as well as I saw Vincent's painting. Don't have his angst, despite having his artistic ability already.

You ARE a poet.

You ARE a poet.

You ARE a poet.

You ARE a poet.

The day you no longer trust that is the day you need to drop those friends, who won't hear of it!!!

(Rinse, read and repeat as needed on those days you worry.) ;)

And, truly, I would love to see more of what goes through you like ivy in the consciousness. I am NOT a poet.

A politician once said, after being asked exactly what pornography is, "I cannot tell you what it is, but I know it when I see it." I am not a poet, but I know one when I see your poems. I think you might just end up being one poet that can show me what it is to do it. (There are others on Gather that might also help, but you are one that I think can actually show me what goes on in your brain that makes you a poet. I'm not sure you could ever make me as good a poet as you, but that doesn't matter. I love the hell out of Vincent's art, but that doesn't mean I can be him either.)

What a wonderfully thoughtful comment Lynn. Thanks Indeed.

I feel that I have entered into the Arlesienne paintings of Van Gogh, were ochre may have served him as an expression of angst; but we, who have been invited to enter, are subdued by the golden essence of a summer ending in Arles. We, who have been invited to enter, are standing on the banks of the Rhone at night with the stars and the moon reflecting on the water’s surface; and, yes, we are all enveloped in the cerulean fragrance of a poem.

Mustafa, I thoroughly enjoy your comment. Thank you for your beautiful reaction to my poem.

Oh wow. That's true, isn't it?
Wonderful imagery. I really like how you use colours to express feelings.
Well done!