ART & POETRY - ACCUMULATIONS
Mostly, I like thinking about The Mask, this face,
this too-pretty plaster, full, lip-parted
counterpart of a visage. I think
about it in red, red lips
parted, I think about
it in orange, orange
lips swollen, blank
eyes staring and
by the sun,
drinking of the galling
nectar of life, so sweet, so
vile, that God tried it just once
with scant success, then rose into the clouds
of a blank-eyed white-girl-- or boy -- modern lads
and lasses so identical no one can guess their
gender. A breed of flat-colored, flat-chested,
tattooed tribals seeking to do right --
at least some of the time --
some of the time,
who thought themselves
quite wild in their own youth,
seated on the edge, on a precipice
above a world of peace and prosperity,
a world not yet turned to death and ashes --
where more and more blood is needed to offset
the silence of the unresponsive newly terror-driven world.
"Stop!" you want to cry. "Stop! turning this peaceful
planet of birds, plant-life, soft footed animals into
your vision of wealth and war. Leave us alone!
Leave us alone!" cry the people, cry the kites
and the crows, cry the robins of spring.
"Leave us alone," sob the stones
"Don't dynamite us,
rob us, re-stack us into
dams, chop us into no-where
going roads, roads going up the side
of my sister's pain and down the length
of my brother's broken arm, blasted and removed,
dragged down into the gravel excavated from pits of despair."
Give blood, give blood, give your heart's blood. Let your
compassionate nature shine through your characteristic
need to uplift humans from the humiliation,
the pain of subjection to a nature given by
God -- without the leash to restrain
falling beneath estimates
of moral strength, guts, fortitude,
wile, projected to outwit one's nemesis,
without the power to spread wide one's wings
and flutter off to an eternity of knowledge well spent.
Here existence is a shallow cup for drinking away the blood
of the countenance lost to minds blithered by a world,
shallow and soothing, made of other minds. Drink,
drink deep, there is enough to wet your lip.
Let it satiate
your blood lust,
so you needn't
never meant you harm.
is hard to read, even when pure white and drained
of life's blood. We think the Greeks were pure white
and made of marble, but imbibe they did and, if scratched,
tall and upright,
dipped in the scarlet,
crimson, cerise light of
an early dawn and a
Rejoice with me in the blood of the grape,
the sunset soul lost in the cup of over-flowing wine.
Don't peek around to the back of the exterior, The Mask
will remain so long as you honor its impudence, its audacity
hard won, not necessarily noble, truth.
Be up front. Front the cause, Stay out front. Front them off.
the wound or
the sacrifice or
the pyramid on which
you tore out my heart -- root,
aorta, blood still pumping -- for treasuring.
THE MASK and The Synonym Poems, An Accumulation
Mixed Media: fired clay mask, paper, poems, Father's eye, Mother's crystal, leaves, glue, metallic thread
Dimensions: 9 x 12 3/4"
THE SYNONYM POEMS
Dimensions: 2 x 2 1/2", Seventeen Pages, Eight Poems, Two Images
INDEX TO POEMS
The Countenance, 06-13/7-26-03
The Facade, 06-13/7-26-03
The Face, 06-13/7-26-03
The Front, 06-13/7-26-03
The Mask, 06-13/7-26-03
The Mien, 06-13/7-26-03
The Physiognomy, 06-13/7-26-03
The Visage, 06-13/7-26-03
Copyright © 2003 through 2015 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org
BY JAN HAAG
ART & POETRY - ACCUMULATIONS
POETRY + MUSIC + ESSAYS + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART + INTRODUCTION + HAAG'S BIO
21st CENTURY ART, C.E. - B.C., A Context