Van Gogh
Van Gogh
looked at the sky
and the world
through water.
He painted
night or day,
self portraits of
swirling blue
formed
by the eddies
of wind on water .
His work,
like star light
on the water ,
reflected
through
the flowing liquid
of his eyes
and soul . .
From “Eyes of the Artist” by PWChaltas
Endymion Song
The moon
is a group
of bright white
cross hatched
chevrons in blackened water,
like the shine
of sweat
that glistens
between
a woman’s
breasts.
A finger print
sings to me
sweetly.
In pure white.
it greets me
and comes
ever closer,
entreats me,
to look past
the milky glow
on the water’s
naked, dark
and navy flesh,
far past the horizon,
up to the
hanging
pendant laughing
in the evening sky ..
From “No Subject Here Just Light” by PWChaltas
Photo credit : charmingthebirdsfromthetrees.blogspot.com
Child Behind the Curtains
Watching Rain
A small child
In a double breasted
velvet vest
with four
mother of pearl buttons
and in shorts,
Is eating almonds
behind the curtain.
He leans his
chin on the window sill.
He watches the
rain falling from the sky
landing In shiny
wet and dancing greyness
in hopping drops
and ringlets
on the surface of the asphalt
and in tiny bubbles
siting on
the blades of grass.
all so wonderful
and new .
He knows that
just a short walk away
there is a whole lake
of this stuff,
much bigger than
the puddles
forming in the street ..
He cracks the almonds
In his mouth vertically
at their seams in two
as the smooth surface
of their polished
marble insides
slide and fall down
either side of his tongue
to be crushed
into delicious ground
almond paste
that he swallows.
Why does it rain he thought.
It’s so beautiful and so sad
and I love to
watch it from this window.
The clouds part,
the sun comes out
and the child’s
tall thin Mother
with her falling
raven tresses
comes to part
the curtains
In her long
and shining
silver robe.
She finds him there .
He smiles and laughs
and looks up
at his mother.
The round orb
of the sun reflects
on the clear
and shining glass
In the rectangular
window,
that’s now full
of new lines
and gradations
of other
outside reflections,
As the room fills up
with bright 60’s sunlight,
the child knows
the solitude,
the almonds,
and the rain
are now
all gone away .
Perfect Silence
The monstrosity
Of man made machines
Violates a perfect
Silence .
Nature is spoiled .
Peace disconnected .
The servants must
have their masters
and The Masters must have
their due.
The time is made for killing
and kill is
what we do .
There’s no time left
to hear our breathing
or feel souls intact
and made whole .
No time left
for given mercies .
It’s the taking that we
must do.
And so our meditations
are flat
our hearts still and frozen ,
turning shades of blue .
We all simply
must continue
and do
what we must do
We prey
for the perfect silence
of simple aggregates ,
to come once again :
Those that we gather
all on our own alone
stone by single stone
and those gathered together
that are thrown
upon us both
by handful
and by a final spade .
Thus is the silence made .
Song of Andalusia
rolling over hills
and mountains
to Granada,
breaking light of
madrugada
first in Seville,
and among
the solitary palms
of Algeciras.
Moonlit gutteral cry
deep from
belly of
of Gypsy, Arab, Jew,
a slow arrival from
Cordoba and Cadiz,
a fusion casting Spain,
a song that revives
the sleeping dead,
resounding deep throughout
the useless times,
over plains and night.
Strains of exile, pain,
longing and disgrace
are peering out from black
and lovely eyes
of lover’s face.
Somewhere Lorca
Is lurking in the moist
and creeping soil
lost in his duende,
tasting the
sweetened sadness
of the deep song
and now
inside it.
It no longer needs
to be inside him,
except in written words
on the white
and spread out spaces.
Hands like graceful
birds are flying round the fire
In the forgotten places.
The hungered Gypsys and
Gitanos dance
and sing deep down
from the well,
like flowing water
around the burning flames,
Proud heels are beating
into dust
and flattened earth,
waking passions of the dead .
Guitarras strum
and
soundless claps of hands
burn deep Into the palms
of Moorish lovers arms,
lost In the embrace
of black duende.
From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas
The Patch
Water falls hard
grey mud
asterisk splash
Aging streams
of different directions
Place where
the young man fell
sad remembrance
drops
now washed clean .
Cancer
and remorse
old
remain
alive and well
Occurrence on Bloor
Kiss erotic kiss
of darkness
where lips and Eros
meet
In the milk mist
of evergreen
evening
where ladies walk
with arched eyebrow
and people talk
and mouth the words
of secret revelations
as Sirens sound
to emergencies so loud
that they leave an ox
blood red glow
In the misted evening .
R5 AND triple 3’s on Huntley
as smoke seeps
into moisture
and yellow figures
light the darkness
of the grey
and shining streets .
The hooded lick their lips
as death comes calling
in the 3’s
of uncle, aunt,
and stranger.
Night music in the Parking Lot
A freestyle Calypso
steel band plays
in the In the corner
of the Shoppers drug mart
parking lot,
Illuminated by lot security spots,
and surrounded by
red Rogers
Bundles vans,
and by a lighted
chain link fence.
The music echoes
freely off the underbelly
of a freeway stage and stand,
as the steel band practices nightly
for a coming Caribana show,
with lined up arms
all swinging
in a row
on stainless steel tin cans.
Ringing tin music
bounces off smooth
grey concrete walls
and ceilings
and off the pillars
of the slightly lonely
freeway stand,
and the music takes us
to the brilliant whiteness
of the island sands.
And as I stand there
with my MacDonalds coffee
and the rest
of my bystander clan,
with their Blackberrys
clicking pictures,
and recording music
all in hand,
along with all the other
random stragglers,
and some other Shoppers
parking lot club fans,
I’m reminded of my
friend Jamaican Island Wayne ,
with the palm trees
that wave and flutter in his eyes,
as my good old friend Ben
had once described.
And that palm tease makes
the ladies all excited
from the tips of their
Philip Traecey hats
and down
to their polished knees.
Their Marc Jacobs skirts
sway in the gentle island breeze.
It makes
their Hermes hearts
all flutter,
and oh how he knows,
right down to
the tingling tips
of their luscious,
red underbellied,
Louboutin toes.
And I sit in my beige Lincoln
and think
how can paradise
be described ?
Is it name brand heaven
that makes us all alive ?
Can we survive
on the islands without
Dolce and Gabbana
and without Todds?
Are we all so invested,
that we just can’t
be divested,
of all those brands,
without losing who we are,
or for fear of being someone
that no designer knows.
Perhaps it’s just Ma Bell,
who is always listening,
that only really ever knows.
The calypso steel band
is still playing.
and it’s so real and so alive,
and it’s so not even Bose,
And I think of my
little two year old
nephew William,
who would now
be clapping,
and a dancing,
and taking off his clothes,
to the ringing island jive.
Where is naked, natural, beauty
with unemcumbered eyes,
free from all the Maybeline
(that’s now even worn by guys),
and all stripped down in its beauty,
and free from all designer clothes ?
So drink your one fifty one and coca cola,
and polish your Manolos too.
It’s just plain good for you
and stylish too,
or so we’re told,
as all of corporate America,
Europe and China knows.
So make sure
to wear your Calvins,
underneath your Gucci suit,
and hop into your Mercedes
for display
on a circling Yorkville toot,
as the music of the islands
still wafts across
the evening sky,
and the white sand meets
generic salty waters
across a brandless evening sky .
Worship at The Temple
At the corner of Boissy D’ Anglais,
and Faubourg Saint Honere,
the faithful come to worship
at the Temple of Hermes .
Devoted in their worship
of leather silk and brand ,
the pilgrims journey to worship
to be cured and healed
from all manners of disease
and from the bourgeois
well heeled malaise .
They come with votive
offerings for their token
brightly coloured
squares of temple cloth.
And the priestesses
circulate upright
and solemn
with smiles
in simple black
clean lined temple garb
with black hair
and Egyptian eyes.
And the High priests too
have orange Potiron ties
elegantly placed
with poise
and clean lines .
At the altars ,
with relics finely made ,
the devoted hunch over
and pray silently,
lovingly to the god
of Couture
and Design .
And there are sacred places
at the tops of stairs
where only
the utmost devoted
can enter
and commune
with rooms of precious
religious artifacts
and jewels,
which can be theirs
with payment
of massive
votive offerings
and fines.
And the faithful circulate
up and down
the temple stairs,
sometimes
in familial groups ,
sometimes
in pairs,
but the truly
most devoted
go there all alone,
to clearly divine
what they must own,
and to determine
the will
that the Gods of fashion
that reside
at the temple of Hermes
have for themselves
and for their own .
From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas
The Great Gatsby Why ?
My guts were eating at me tonight . It was Just one of those nights that compelled me to make a choice .
The choice was between either heading home to watch the 7th playoff game between the Toronto Maple Leafs and Boston or to see “The Great Gatsby” on a night when the theater probably wasn’t crowded . Well Gatsby won out . I paid my 16.00 admission and 11.00 for a small bit of plain popcorn with a pinch of salt and a pint sized diet coke. Guess what …the theater was practically filled on a Monday night at the Manulife building . My wife and I tried to see the movie this past Friday but all the theaters playing Gatsby downtown were sold out . What is it that draws one to this movie besides the promise of the glorious 20 ‘s motifs, decor & dress ? I think it is something else other than that visual appeal . As I settled into my theater seat, put my 3Dglasses on and began to watch ,I realized I had seen the last Gatsby movie made with Robert Redford in 1974 on a week night as well, and that it too was packed at the time. (DiCaprio vaguely looks like a thinner young Redford in the movie) .
What is it about this story that makes it so popular ? Is it the symbolism of the green light at the end of the Harbour, the mystique of the author Fitzgerald & his wife Zelda , the splendour, excess, optimism, and excitement of the Roaring 20s ? I don’t think so, even though they are all relevant and have particular appeal especially in our times . As asserted in a recent newspaper article Fitzgerald wasn’t I think a stupendously artful or impeccable wordsmith . Hemingway in my opinion was a much more powerful wordsmith and a more technically elegant and simple writer. Hemingway’s descriptions of Fitzgerald and his wife in his novel ” Moveable Feast” were very interesting and revealing vignettes of Fitzgerald’ s character . Regardless Fitzgerald has deftly portrayed through the various twists and turns of his story line, the power of love and essentially has unfolded it as a 20’s morality play happening under the bespectacled eyes of G_d as well as thorough the eyes of the aspiring capitalist narrator Nick Caraway . Carraway unfortunately displays a moral sensitivity that propels him into depths of depression In the story , although he appears to be healed by a therapeutic return to his first love of writing. ( I’m sure a there are a good chunk of aspiring and established authors that can identify with that therapy ).
It is in Fitzgerald’ s skillful weaving of many storyline threads of love ,infidelity, and loyalty, into one thick and unbreakable cord that he achieves the memorable. On the completion of his work “The Great Gatsby”, he must have felt an emotion akin to what Hemingway referred to as the silent secret joy that a writer keeps to himself initially, guards jealously and possessively in recognition that something good has just been written. The joy is in the author’s recognition of something truly ,unique and relevant.
The movie itself was visually exciting and creative , the casting unique , the acting so so , but the storyline is what carried it off and made it memorable once again. Gatsby is in love, deluded, dashing , desperate , dedicated , and a pathetic victim all wrapped up into one well dressed package . The layers in the story are peeled away one by one like veiled curtains but no one gets to see the whole story except for Nick Carraway , with the spectacles of G_d and the eyes of the reader watching over him. The layers are fascinating and as they are peeled away the revealed story becomes smaller , more compact and concise. One of classic lines quoted in the movie of course describes how Daisy and her Husband Tom were careless people who in the end receded into their money and carelessness , as Carraway sinks Into to depression and Gatsby into a hopeful final oblivion.
At the end of my movie experience almost all of the viewers stayed in their seats for a while watching the credits roll . It felt as if they didn’t want to quite let it go . I felt that way as well, just as Gatsby did in the story: He clung to the past, blinded by love, regret, and desire, not wanting to realize that things had changed and that there was an ending .
The symbolic light at the end of the pier that Gatsby clung to was green. The colour green is typically symbolic of vibrant and constant love ( Greensleeves and all ) , but change and the many ways that it is dealt with , seemed to be the only relevant constant in this plot , as it is often in real life . Perhaps coincidentally or not , the colour green is also the colour of money, envy, and of forward movement .
PWChaltas 