Missive For Darkness As Vocation, William Hawkins In Mind
[after viewing a film clip of the American
self-taught artist, William Hawkins]
How would he depict it, your
great sorrow now,
even a corner of it?
Perhaps
forge on, find a
photo, a horse
to paint, as in the film,
then busy himself with the making
of it, then see how the belly is too much,
needs to be thinned, a back haunch
trimmed to size,
a concise seizure of eye and paint
dependent upon hands,
a monumental concern which arights,
or at least, perspectives one's own suffering
amidst, against,
or, in the
teeth of daily concerns
taken on as ultimate-form,
gives visual commentary,
response in an image-horse
painted upon cast off wood,
backyard ruin put to good uses
with kindness extended in
the hammer's claw, crows near
the barred door, and, with meds
providing limit to dulling descents,
you may find again that desire to plunge
further/deeper, deeper still, into the muck
and magic of the shorter days
given in winter, in the long nights
generously dumped without
portion control upon the human.
Hawkins, elder of the American tribe, worn,
no, softened at edges apparently fortified,
fortifying vision and metal, painted on,
worked those objects of art making,
occupied himself with familiars,
and allusive smears,
serving now and ahead who
ancestrally will partake of his offering,
be held/healed in their beholding,
nuanced in cloud swatch,
land swath tumbled.
And you, too, do that,
still here, have helped bring
him out to me, to others,
an inner imperative; a torment,
it urgently insists that you continue on
within the maelstroms hopefully soon
to blow themselves out while tending
to your allotted concerns.
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
'seasons of dryness, ' in the bitter pitched midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe personally felt in that greater
perspective, making poems from orphan woe,
from ever furtive grace which eludes then surprises
in bleakest place, sudden, parses newly in the
greener green of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
The shorter light, the extended nights of cold and
star-bright questions, may cast clumsy net forward
into what it all might mean to fretted you, to me,
stretched, though I will not thrust these words any
longer upon your pen or paint but make offering
with thanks for your own work to feed us through
the eyes, perhaps time to mount that Hawkins horse
and soldier on or to fall off again, gain Damascus
perspective yet, from one's back watch vision
distort the massive horse into God receding into
necessary darkness foregoing image in order to
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
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Related quotes
I Once, Your Other Darkness
for two paintings, one by Caravaggio,
'The Conversion of St. Paul, '
the other by William Hawkins, 'Horse'
I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
of seasons of dryness in the bitter pitch midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe intimate, felt in that greater
scape - inner - making poems from orphan woe, from
furtive grace which eludes then storms, in bleakest
place sudden parses in the greener green,
newly, of things while pleading still,
'Lord, send my roots rain.'
In the shorter light, the extended
night, of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or pen but make offering for your own
work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
Caravaggio, (1571 – 1610) , Italian painter,
'in painting not equal to a painter, but to Nature itself'
- from his epitaph
William Hawkins, (1895-1990) , self-taught American artist
'His dynamic, artistic style was forged from his optimistic,
hard-charging, 'survivor' mindset.'
poem by Warren Falcon
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Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'The Conversion of St. Paul' At 4 a.m.
to George Elder
In the shorter light, the extended
night of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or palette but make offering for your
own work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,
see what may form in the spreading dirt,
what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Painted Horse
(blackmore/gillan/glover/lord/paice)
Child on a painted horse
Streams that will run their course
Gone to a far away shore
Ooh, ooh, ah
My painted horse is weeping
Days of another kind
Frost gets a bruising vine
Why did the carpenter die
Ooh, ooh, ah
My painted horse is weeping
Sweet as a rose so fine
Peaceful as a final time
How old could the lion man cry
Ooh, ooh, ah
My painted horse is weeping
Thoughts of a winter moon
Warm in a distant room
Why did I fall asleep so soon
Ooh, ooh, ah
My painted horse is weeping
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rockin' Horse
Guy Allison, Keith Knudsen
EarthWalk Music (ASCAP) K-KUAD Music (ASCAP)
Take me back to an easy life,
Robin Hood and Marian,
A lone ranger on a silver horse.
Make believe in a box of sand,
Bang, bang, we all fall down.
Just about dinner time
I'm eatin' bullets. Come on Fury - take me for a ride.
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Sun down with a chorus girl,
Ragtime and whiskey pour.
Midnight in a rented room
With a key inside the bedroom door.
Bang, bang, we all fall down.
Just about out of my mind.
Come on Lily. Come on honey - take me for a ride.
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Last chance for an easy life
Double down and let it ride.
Lone ranger with a silver bullet
For the one arm man inside.
Bang, bang, we all fall down.
Just about run out of time.
Come on seven. Come on eleven - take me for a ride.
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Rocking Horse. Rocking Horse
Guest Artists:
George Hawkins, Jr. - Bass
Chris Thompson - Background Vocals
song performed by by Doobie Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What is a Horse?
What is a horse?
A horse has eyes as dainty as a mink.
The grace is interrupted merely by a blink.
A horse is beauty.
What is a horse?
A horse is a tree in a storm that never goes down.
A horse is a weathered rock that stays around.
A horse is ancient.
What is a horse?
A horse waltzes like breeze over rivers.
She curvets and leaps like rain shivers.
A horse is a marionette.
What is a horse?
A horse is determination, that never stops flowing.
A horse is fondness, that never stops growing.
A horse is poetic power.
poem by Lily Whittaker
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Poem Song
I like to call you my wild horse
(and feed you silver sage ? )
Id like to paint my poems with
Desert tongued clay across her back
And ride you savagely as the sweet and southern wind
Through green and wild kentucky
Id like to make you my secret song
Blaze and dark and red in the orchards
And I would steal away to watch the way
Your silver belly bends and bows beneath me
Id make you my wings in the foothills of montana
My lover in the oceans of the world
Id make you... of children
And I would scatter you across my green memories of home
Id make you my hungry valley
And sow your golden fields and wheats my own
If I were a painter
I would paint you with this note
Silver traces on your skin
And if I were a writer
I would write these words on your back
In desert tongue clay, deep in (your wind? )
Id make you my secret song
Blazing in the orchard
And I would steal away
To watch the way your silver belly
Bends and bows beneath me
Id make you my wings in the foothills of montana
Make you my lover in the oceans of the world
Id make you my calico children
And I would scatter you across my green memories of home
Id be your hungry valley
And Id sow your golden fields of wheat my own
If I were a writer
I would make you my wild horse
Id paint you silver sage and
Ride you savagely through green wild country
(? ? ? ) swedish verses
And you are the rose on my alter
I worship you eternally in flight
Like the wave ?
Ill dip you in these praises like cobwebs
And watch them....?
For your hair is the rain
And it soaks across the continents of my skin
These hands that worship you so completely
You see this woman standing before you
Naked and seared, true of intent,
I dont need you
I want you near
For you are my love
You are my flower of the sun
You are my lover for all time
You wake in the morning
For your sun(flowers? )
You wake in the morning
With your kiss
Ill be your hungry valley
And sow your golden fields of wheat...?
And you are the rose on my alter
I worship you eternally in flight
Like the wave ?
You be my calico children
Ill scatter you across my green memories of home
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paint Dimensionality Soul In Oils
if I painted pictures
I would draw you in charcoal
wash away drama tears in watercolours
paint dimensionality of durability soul in oils
span a universe of senses touch emotions thoughts
if I painted pictures
I would paint dream images
I would paint visions of inner mind's eye
I would paint life in veils swirling kaleidoscopic moods
I would paint canvasses imprinting fabric expanding universes
but I travel eons far
load canvasses are too heavy
I walk journey through many phase worlds
seasons landscapes in many climates beckon bled feet
I paint mind songs in words life haunting edges spaces
swallow flame words into soul at own risk
I paint distances between seen unseen at world's edges
I paint portraits above beneath mask as multi veils
I paint shift faces figures skin deeds intended done deeds
I paint poetry life in shifting kaleidoscopic images souls
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Verses On Night And Day
In the forest at night
my good old horse
has lost his way.
His head nods sleepily –
perhaps he dreams
of fields green by day.
The owls are hooting,
the night is cold,
the ground is hard,
but all night long
my good old horse
will stand his guard.
Daylight will come
to light the woods
at break of day,
and at that time
my horse will know
to find the way.
The night and darkness
are as nothing
to my old horse,
for he knows to wait
as time shall pass, and life
shall take its course.
poem by Rory Hudson
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Sunlight on white paint. For the New Year.
The house across the way is newly painted white.
Right now, that’s all my being seems to need:
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,
the morning sunlight pours across white paint;
contains a thousand messages, in me
interpreted.. or simply left to be..
this moment, that’s as much as being craves:
this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..
even as I write, I watch the sun’s
white paint brush move across the house’s front
and tell the eye of reason that this world
is turning, basking, in this morning sun;
already sparkling on the Bondi waves
as if the world had just been washed anew;
cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal
as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty;
Italian villa forecourts just hosed down,
the air all fresh to meet the warming day;
the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now,
will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew;
as every carefree holiday yourself
recall, as proof eternal of pure soul..
and here - the witness of my silent mind
needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find
its very self, this moment without taint:
immortal sunlight shining on white paint.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Am I a master
I am the master, master of art
have painted true pictures,
of rising sun, mountain, sea
through jungles flowing rivers,
shining stars, birds, cloudy sky,
can paint anything and everything.
insects, lions, bear and deer.
just like the living things.
I am the master, master of art,
can make my own paint and brush
Alas! but cannot create raw material
of any of paint, brush or canvas.
Oh! can not paint these seven
which are made only in heaven:
smell, touch, look, hear and taste,
emotions, thought and breathe.
No, I am not the master, master of art
can paint uncountable things yet not.
Not possible to paint love and laugh
I have to go again and again to learn
to the supreme master, who painted
the universe, stars, moon and sun
(C) S. D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Sign-Board
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard-
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathsome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word-'lost,'
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Signboard
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother’s pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses a chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him –
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard –
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathesome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling’s side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin
Labelled with one word – ‘Lost’
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know
But I’ll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Deeper Shade Of Gray
A Deeper Shade Of Gray
Date: January 12,2012
With every piece you take away
I paint a deeper shade of gray
Someday the canvas will be filled
My voice unheard, my passion stilled
Locked away in caverns deep
The embers glow, in twilight sleep
Never once to breathe the air
Nor dream to life, what isn’t there
The flames are stifled by abuse
Though I fight, there is no use
Too many days, I’ve wondered why
To chase so hard, what you deny
But I won’t plead or beg of you
I made a vow, I’ll keep it true
And when you look into my eyes
What you’ll see, is clear and dry
Cause, I see through the flattery
Falling snow cannot touch me
You shut me out, and left me cold
I’ll find some other hand to hold
My emotions, you picked apart
Came picking, picking at my heart
Until I had no more to give
Your hurtful games, I won’t relive
As, I know there is no magic here
Behind the cunning puppeteer
And hidden in the songs you sing
Are candied words, wrapped in strings
I’ll stand no more, filled with doubt
I’ve locked it down, won’t let it out
And in those deepening shades of gray
My fond desire fades away…
************************************ *********
Copyright © 2011 Leria Hawkins, All Rights Reserved
poem by Leria Hawkins
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A Work of Art So Great
I’m going to prepare for a work of art so great,
exceeding all I’ve ever tried to create.
Way beyond that of the usual and what is real,
surpassing the contemporary, and surreal.
I’m going to paint my mother before she was born
and my deceased father in his next new dawn.
I’m going to show my enthusiasm and love for life,
and also my idiosyncrasies, which I do dislike.
The paint will flow with my love, which is so strong
and my devotion, which is eternally long.
My determination of which there is none stronger
will follow my fortitude, which will last even longer.
I’m going to paint my energy, the mighty force within,
and then my endurance, I will never give in.
The swirls of paint will portray the thin air that I breathe,
and the phenomena I find so hard to believe.
Perspective will show a vision of width, length and depth,
and a larger, greater vision of life after death.
I’m going to paint all the lost souls in the spirit world
and how life began and how it unfurls.
The peoples’ struggles, their problems and strife,
and then heaven, a new beginning a better life.
I’ll show an invisible cloud for everyone to see,
the depths of the oceans and the saltiest sea.
The colourful gases on the far side of the Milky Way,
the depths of hell, on a lost souls’day.
I’m going to paint the beating of my anxious heart
and the passing of wind with a smelly fart.
The complicated process of an invisible thought,
and the split second a dream is caught.
A happy and sad teardropp before it has formed
and a cold, cold heart before it’s warmed.
The buzzing, thrilling sensation of that first ever kiss,
and the last one, which I would much rather miss.
The sizzling red hot burning passion that I have for you
and with it the love, and desire to be endlessly true.
And I’ll finish with what my soul has to offer you
and display it in sensations, and emotions too.
Several lifetimes this picture would take to paint,
It would be the greatest work anyone could undertake.
I will have to think how large this canvas should be
so that it can show everything that I see.
Perhaps I should begin it on a grain of sand
by using a microscope and a steady hand.
When each grain is finished I could place it in a glass jar
so that people can see my progress so far.
But if for some reason I cannot see this masterpiece through
the critics will say that I bit off more than I could ever chew.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Horse That I Am Riding
then finally, the horse that i am riding,
the black one with long hair and
long feet, flying without wings,
speed nearing the speed of light,
has taken the lead, and the rest follow
tirelessly still,
i do not look back,
i do not beat the horse with a stick
i keep on riding making the horse
feel confident that i am still
supporting its cause, to be first,
to be famous
and then my horse wins,
the owner gets the real buck,
and i the jockey,
merely receives a little name
and a little commission.
the horse gets nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Horse of your Heart
When you've ridden a four-year-old half of the day
And, foam to the fetlock, they lead him away,
With a sigh of contentment you watch him depart
While you tighten the girths on the horse of your heart.
There is something between you that both understand
As it thrills an old message from bit-bar to hand.
As he changes his feet in that plunge of desire
To the thud of his hoofs all your courage takes fire.
When an afternoon fox is away, when begins
The rush down the headland that edges the whins,
When you challenge the Field, making sure of a start,
Would you ask any horse but this horse of your heart?
There's the rasping big double a green one would shirk,
But the old fellow knows it as part of his work;
He has shortened his stride, he has measured the task,
He is up, on, and over as clean as you'd ask.
There's the water before you-no novice's test,
But a jump to try deeply the boldest and best;
Just a tug at the leather, a lift of the ear,
And the old horse is over it-twenty foot clear.
There is four foot of wall and a take-off in plough,
And you're glad you are riding no tenderfoot now
But a seasoned campaigner, a master of art,
The perfect performer-the horse of your heart.
For here's where the raw one will falter and baulk,
And here's where the tyro is pulled to a walk,
But the horse of your heart never dwells or demurs
And is over the top to a touch of the spurs.
To you who ride young ones half-schooled and half-broke,
What joy to find freedom a while from your yoke!
What bliss to be launched with the luck of the start
On the old one, the proved one, the horse of your heart !
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Dark Man
I was in deep, profound sleep,
Suddenly, I heard a quick knock.
I got up and rubbed my eyes.
And oh! it was a great shock!
In thin darkness, I saw a horse-rider,
stood near my semi-dark door.
Who are you and whom do you come for?
'I came crossing the ocean's shore,
to take you there, to king's court.'
The thunderbolt voice replied, then.
Out of sheer fear, I reclined to go.
'I'm at my days end, nothing to gain-'
Told I but, no reply from his end came.
He turned back, and signaled to follow.
Mesmerized I leaving everything
rode on the horse, and bore the wallop.
How long the horse galloped,
I could not tell you all...
The night fell to days lap,
and at last the waning moon did fall.
I heard the sound of ocean's tide,
stopped the horse on its coast!
We, got down from the horse's back-
I saw his mouth's part most.
He was death, and none else,
the dark man took my hand...
A boat came, sailed us away from
the shore lagging behind dust and sand
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Red Dirt Cowgirl
Nature grows the weeds and grasses
The wind whips the horse's mane.
They travel, horse and a pretty cowgirl
Through a land that starts with Maine
There is no trail that they follow
No red dirt roads to be seen
Here they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless fields of green
Is this real, or is this make believe
The horse glides on through the night
Searching ever searching for red dirt
With a neon moon providing the only light
Is this real, or is this make believe
Will a red dirt road become a reality
We look toward the western sky
And feel the sweat as the wind rushes by
There on a distance horizon... Wow!
Is that fabulous red dirt road ever so proud
Just across a few more fields and streams
Is that ultimate answer to our many dreams
poem by John McCornack
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Paint my eyes in flowers
paint my hands in dragons
paint my back in windings
paint my arms in lightening
paint my neck in anks
my forehead intricate lines
paint my shoulder butterflies
paint my heart in henna
in henna of red in henna of black
body paint my heart
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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