Posts
Seeing Helga at the Museum
(for Andrew Wyeth)
In the valley of flickering lights
dancing – fireflies – tumbleweed of the sky
drift among gas nebula – angel-tossed
Cable cars – like horned beast pass by
in the city of lights and fog –
Lusty Lady – All Clothing 100% off –
neon-glows the sign – my son has found
a numerical pattern in the blinks
We are here to see Wyeth's Lady
clothed and unclothed – Helga in her incarnations
The waiter wears Groucho Marx eyebrows and glasses
Hear the sound of over fifty spoons and forks
the chatter of a crowd – my children's voices
We saw Helga floating on crushed velvet –
a black night sea
Little fish of light swam her body tide-pools
Her knees were raw – red from the winter
We saw her in her Austrian cape coat
standing for hours in the snow
We saw her with her braids – the nape of her neck naked
where spine joins brain in – Halleluja –
a white triangle exposed – holy peephole
We saw her smile lines and knew she smiled often
her blue eyes – like a slip of horizon over wild grass
and her hair – you could feel it – the oils – the texture
the softness – the neatness in those braids
We went home in dark and rain
the autumn trees lit our path
every leaf
a flame
in a lantern
Lucy Simpson, Seattle, 10/15/2009
A Pilgrimage to the Altar of Saint Helga
(for Andrew Wyeth)
But First Lunch
This room is a valley of flickering
firefly tumbleweed lights
between tall buildings
Lusty Lady – All Clothing 100% Off
winks the sign across the street
My son has found
a numerical pattern in the blinks
We are here to see Wyeth's Lady
clothed and unclothed
Helga in her incarnations
but first lunch
The waiter looks like Groucho Marx
Hear the sound of over fifty spoons and forks
the chatter of the crowd
my children's voices
Seeing Helga
We see Helga floating on velvet crush
her nighttime lake
Little trout of light swim
her body tide-pools
We see her in her Austrian coat
standing
for hours in the snow
with great discipline
We see her with her braids
the nape of her neck naked
where spine joins brain
a white triangle exposed
holy peephole
We see her smile creases
her blue eyes
slips of horizon over wild grass
and her hair
you can feel it
the soft order in those braids
We go home in dark and rain
the autumn trees light our path
every leaf
a flame
in a lantern
Lucy Simpson, Seattle, 10/15/2009
The Museum of Asian Art and the Greenhouse
I walk out of shadows
I walk out of light
in the valley of tumescent flowers
In the museum of piebald heirlooms
the checkered past breathes
in the silk kimonos
of straight-backed okusans
Outside the sun sets
through the portal
of a bronze sculpture
fraying at the seams
of petunias in an urn
beating the bronze doors
striking the green house
tiny peens of light
The greenhouse settles down
for the night
White waves of mums
close slightly inward
and cacti sing the water
in their flesh
wiggle their thorns
ever so slightly
and I dream in my bed
of white crested waves
like a thousand mums
curling on the blue
silken canvas
Lucy Simpson, October, 2009, Seattle
Leaving the Hospital
I am climbing the golden stairway of my hair
to the sweet hereafter
a flute is playing and I wonder if it is real
music of heaven and I am deceased
my legs somewhat numb
but no, I see the flautist in his tuxedo
I half expect him to have donkey ears
but he does not, so he is really here
my companion assures me of his reality
and the reality of the music
and that in fact I am alive
and that the baby in the car-seat
is our own baby with her thin patch
of red hair and her white knit bonnet
looking like a child of another era
an error of the anachronism the car-seat
and the shiny white hospital lobby floor
The flautist plays his Caliendo concerto
inspired by Corot's gypsy painting
I will lay in the night later
with no guitar
only the baby with her face
pale as a moon
Lucy Simpson, Seattle, 11/5/2009
No muy lejos
de lo que alcanza mi vista
veo el puente del Duero
y te veo a ti Paula
entre los reflejos de la
corriente añíl de mis ojos
al ver el arcoiris de los tuyos,
bebemos los dos
larga y tendida mente
de un sueño terco,lindo,
fuerte salido del mar
que equivoca nuestros sentidos,
Rompo con la fuerza de mis brazos
el costado pleno del agua
al salir desnudo
me encuentro contigo
y nos protegen pero aprisionan
los vestidos mojados de la piel
humedad del rocío blanco
limpio como el agua
vuelvo la mirada en mi
veo mi casa seca
vuela mi alma hacia ti
a tierra firme
un suspiro azul bonito
mi madre y tu.
Como una gota de rocío menguó,
y tengo que aceptarlo,
amiga mía.
La estrella boreal,o de bóreas,
se replantea en este crudo mes,
salir con el frío,
yo tengo a mi mamá,
que se levanta antes,
para darme calor y...
abro las ventanas de aquí,
la única salutación al sol,
y recompongo mis situaciones,
antes del agradable café, amargo
y el zumo de la naranja apreciada,
que corre por mi cuerpo sano.
....Soy un corcel,
a veces indomable,
pero en el sentido...
que mi alma es como buena...
y de gran tamaño...
Quiero contarte amiga mía algo...
nada mejor que decirte que te quiero...
por que me incorporas donde puedo...
te juntas con mi alma,
de recadero y me sacas de paseo,
donde yo a veces muero...
Me iré siempre a otro lugar,
quizás nunca más te veré,
pero quiero que sepas,
que amo mi corazón,
cuando estoy contigo...
y sueño que todo,
está bien a tu lado...
amiga mía,amiga,amiga,amiga.
In Rembrandt van Rijns' (1606-69) historic painting "the raising of the cross" c.1633 he has painted himself in the scene as Christ's executioner with his trademark artist beret. Not as a solider following orders from his commanding officer or as a lowly roman subject of Prefect Pontius Pilate assisting in the slow and painful execution called a crucifixion; but as someone in command of his own role literally at the "center" of this epic depiction.
It is a quiet piece that is voluminous. It tugs at the core of the Christian message. It is a role that one does not view him or herself in. It is for introspective thought, contemplation, reflection and even just mere appreciation of words, color and form...beautiful art...beautiful poetry.
'Tis not the Jews who crucified,
Asimétrica fachada,
la casa Coilliot,en Lille,
con forma y caracter moderno,
me recuerda las casas de muñecas,
de estructuras arabescas,
maderas recubiertas con mogate,
como usan los alfareros y...
Trato de hacer una alabanza,
a los poetas,
iniciativas renovadas,
partieron de América y...
se extendieron hacia España...,
Este es el ultraísmo de Bacarisse,
incorporar ideas y corrientes,
de vanguardia,
esto, todavía,a mi me llena,
diría que cada vez más,
y este es mi modus operandi,
para conseguir el fin deseado...
Sentir,la creacción,del poema,
como oro y esmalte de una perla...
se precian como broche,
en el cuello de una mujer...
y así disfruto modestamente,
del módulo del poeta,escribiendo...
de vanguardia europea.
Hace tiempo que no hago poesía.
dar en la lata no es difícil,
está a tiro de piedra, y........ok
Tiene que ser a la primera,
en mi caso es sencillo,
tengo fuerza y puntería.
Juan,Pedro,Javier y yo,
lo intentábamos,en nuestro
pueblo,muchas veces....
Ellos no retrocedían,
casi nunca,
yo buscaba una piedra.
Siempre daba es el clavo....
ellos lanzaban lejos,
fuertemente
rebasando la lata,
que resplandecía
sutílmente...........
..............................acaeció..............................
y esta sonó,una,dos y tres veces.....................
la mía la cuarta.................................................
...hoy me cuesta escribir el poema......................
...pero la lata está a tiro de piedra,
lo voy a intentar,
y sonó la poesía,una vez más.
Her Auburn Spiral Staircase
I have waited
for birch-wood fingers
to unclasp taciturn bun
and auburn steps to fall
loose with flame-fish
swimming the dull light
of a dirty-shaded lamp
where she sits
brush clutched in hand
torturing her scalp
with one hundred strokes
till hair shines
her eyes narrow to jade slits
caught in last light
of day’s fiery end
I am left wondering
if her hair was something
that needed
to be tamed
to become the spiral staircase
to the Hagia Sophia
of her domed forehead
Lucy Simpson
Seattle
2/25/2006, revised 10/2009
