Saturday, May 15, 2010


My friend Dan Gerber just returned from
NYC with great enthusiasm for the play
RED and its evocation of the ways of
Rothko, painter of profundities, and
this caused me to recall an early
poem of homage of mine:


Past Egypt's dead he made his way,
past shards and pipers, fragments of kouroi,
smiles on lips of archaic stone
in the humming tombs of the basement galleries;
to preach the righteousness of color,
the plainness at the life of things,
like warmth in food, like hearthfires
in deep caves.

In a suit and tie he painted this:
a meadow where a thousand birds
have gathered in their distances:
an apple that no yearning eye
has gazed upon: a light that comes
from itself, a light from itself alone,
no distillate of shade.

How like a snail a man bequeaths
a hole: a solitude: a cup.
And some a cup that pleasure fills
and overflows, and some a wound
that will not stop, that will not shut
its mouth. Here's driftwood, seasawed down
to honesty. Here's salt, once rock.
Here's silk, spun out of leafmeal
in a worm.



At May 18, 2010 at 7:51 PM , Blogger Theresa Williams said...

Barry, I just read your new poem over at Barnwood. (He published my poem "The Night Boat" a few weeks back). Then I found your blog. Love the Rothko poem, too. Rothko is one of my favorite artists.

At June 10, 2010 at 6:59 AM , Blogger paxcanfield said...

Mr. Spacks--heard your poem "Judges in Summer" on The Writer's Almanac. It's terrific. Just wanted to say thanks.
Patrick Files
Canfield, Ohio

At June 23, 2010 at 11:48 AM , Blogger S.L. Corsua said...

Each line is packed with something new to see. Such rich imagery, and no line wasted. Oh, and I love the line breaks in the last stanza; I read it aloud and relished the musicality of the lines.


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