Posts Tagged ‘ visual arts ’
Every once in a decade and a half or so, probably longer, an original artist, poet, or musician comes along, and in between the timebreaths little else but formulaic copies for profit and / or celebrity move down and off the conveyor belt of our contemporaneous world and memory. There seems to me a link of these originals to the mystical, the soulful, that imo arises from human interconnectivity, from our instantaneous enfolding of a poet, a musician, a visual artist, among us and within us. I think of Bashō and Bhanu Kapil, Bach and Nina Simone, and Goya and Ellen Carey. They are originals for all time.
Today I am adding the name of Maxwell Clark, a young poet, musician, and visual artist from New Haven, CT whom I have had the honor and multi-faceted pleasure of seeing, hearing, and being with, since first meeting him at Infinite Well in New Haven, for a recent poetry reading. Here follow some links of importance:
– Donna Fleischer
The talk proper after all introductions, begins around the 13′ point.
by Donna Fleischer
faded colors . . .
the drug store’s
Let’s face it. I was 1A. Being scheduled for urine samples while muttering I don’t even want a job. While the recruiter refuses to look at me I imply outloud that I’m just another commission to him. “Well!” he runs at me with a roar, “you’ll get nowhere with that attitude,” his disembodied voice a slamming door.
I feel my fear avalanche — when instinct tells you to run, but you can’t feel your feet — and my landlord’s bleating cries he needs the new Benz this year. A mushrooming mob pursues me through the streets in my ears. How many others need me to get a job? Then I get it. Yep, this is where I sell my Bill of Rights for a paycheck, my native freedom for some kind of dream.
I slide into reverie. Of when I was ten. My favorite aunt, Ann, is buying me my first pair of nylons, Round the Clock, with pale pink slip and garter belt accessories from the sixth floor of G. Fox & Company. I gawk at the saleswoman as she deftly stuffs money into the hollow flank of a stainless steel cylinder, turning its top counterclockwise until the side closes, silently, like espionage; as she balances it upright beneath the lip of a narrow portal until suction snatches it upward into an apparently labyrinthine vacuum-tube system of cylinders rattling by each other in a continuous exchange of energy and currency.
O, Houdini, show me that false wall between company and country. Slip me through this packaging, of me. For I have fallen through the safety net spell of belief in this marketplace of trickology. Please help, help us all, Harry.
the thinning trees . . .
Exit Strata Print! ii:2
In February 2013, the Exit Strata editors launched the new Print! Volume 2 magazine. L-R, Editors Ben Wiessner, Lynne DeSilva-Johnson, and Douglas Wright.
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keeping in mind the words of the poet Pierre Joris, ". . . I make the arrogant claim that the poet is possibly the last, in Robert Kelly’s words, ‘scientist of the whole… to whom all data whatsoever are of use.’ . . . The prerogative of the poet is to steal directly whatever is of use, without needing to theoretically kowtow via analysis, explicatio, critical cloning or proof of pc allegiance."