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Tag: metaphors

October 31, 2008

upon being asked to make a poem out of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”

                  “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”, c.1558

                            Pieter Bruegel, the Elder

                                    (1525-1569)

                                     __________

                                                                                                                                                                      upon being asked to make a poem out of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”                                             

                                                                                                                                      what is a poem, the question came up around my earlier errant composition, was what I’d written a poem, though one could be made out between the, dare I say, ivied even cracks
 
something that rhymes, my mom answered when I asked, which mine of course didn’t
 
though mellifluous and rhythmic maybe, and peppered here and there with inventive and artful devices – metaphors, alliteration, onomatopeia, the like, the meat and potatoes, the very stuff, I think, of poems – I still didn’t rhyme, don’t rhyme, and run a sentence on mostly much too long for a proper pentameter
 
like, I guess, a prose poem 
 
or maybe even just prose
 

but about the Bruegel

 

at the back a radiant sun dominates the picture, sheds not only light but life on everything, the sky is thick with grays and blue and takes on actual dimension, whereas a more silken application of paint to the sun makes that orb evanescent, a portal into heaven, a source instead of a force, an opening instead of an engine
 
in the foreground a farmer ploughs his field, another tends his sheep, life is going on despite the splendour 
 
no one notices Icarus either, the flailing figure in the waves, bottom right, drowning, despite the might of the myth, the potency, the poignancy, of the poetry
 
but who notices even poetry 
 
 
across a stretch of water to the horizon and to at its edge the resplendent sun, ships with sails, indeed medieval galleons, sit in the placid harbour of a city in the blue crook of, upper left, a range of mountains, the City of God of Augustine maybe for its iridescent pastels, for its sunlit gold maybe the gilded Greek Atlantis  
                                                                                                                                                                       above the flailing Icarus a ship is setting joyful sail out towards the promise of the blazing sun, the way seems clear

there will be other, it appears, Icaruses

                                                                                                                                                               medieval caricaturization and perspective inextricably of course obtain throughout

 

 

           

 

   

    __________________________________________

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February 5, 2008

blogging, first steps

January 31, 2008                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

with little more than the word “blog” at my elbow I headed out this week to my first blogging class, the night was mostly clear, the sky was black already at seven thirty in the evening, I imagined spring and comfortable jaunts under the late afternoon sky instead of this artificial and edgy glitter of neon street lights along, for me, a more guarded way, night time is for less restricted activities, the fray of people who are younger now than I am

a couple of unlikely snowflakes suddenly crystallized, dully twinkled and duly danced before me to my surprise, I hadn’t counted on winter

I went into the class, tucked away in some corner I had to ask about, full of computers, of course

I sat at one

slowly not quite a dozen maybe others followed, found places, including the teacher

I hope this is going to be fairly elementary, I said to spark the air, classroom energy, with a question, I thought, from everybody

absolutely, she said, or something no less peremptory, no less categorical

we were all, I think, well satisfied, I certainly was

we all stated our reasons for being there, one of the few last I declared that I was, I am, a writer, in my, at least, heart, I write like others organize flowers, setting my metaphors to otherwise barren phrases, alliteration, onomatopeias for lilt and delight, synonyms sometimes maybe for variety, in a bouquet, I imagine, of words, I like to offer them as letters, communications, to friends and people, I thought I’d try to enlarge on that, confined as I am to my address list right now, my “captive” address list, an uncle of mine once said, a curmudgeon, who called the patients I hoped I was serenading with my still novice flute at the palliative care unit where I volunteered then my “captive audience”

he had a point, though an ornery one

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  it’s like stepping into traffic for me right now, I expressed about blogging when I was asked, the rube in the big city, I need some help to get around, what’s a blog, it was more or less what I thought it was, a web log, she said, a web diary, now I had a road map, next we started one, each one of us individually at each our computer, I got stage fright immediately, couldn’t find a thing to say, couldn’t find a word to write until just now, three days later

this is my introduction

welcome to my space    

                                                                                                                                                                                                               outside, the two snowflakes, that dully twinkled, duly danced, remember, had become a wonderland, snow like down fell, my path crunched and glistened, I thought of poetry, of course, enchantment, my literary aspirations, noted my leaving clear and crackling impressions in at least the snow, like metaphors, I thought to myself, crisp, stark metaphors, all the way home     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        richibi                          

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