I Have Picasso Hanging in my Bathroom

I introduced the idea of writing such a poem in this blog the other day. Not being ready to actually put any of the poem on paper, I decided to put bits and pieces of ideas and thoughts in what I think of as a sort of stewpot of creativity. And there they sit roiling around until they begin to form some relationship to one another. When that happens the poem will begin to emerge and show itself to me. Maybe a line or two will come up in finished form - if I am lucky. I take what has come up and work with it a bit, attempting to keep trying and the ego out of it - never easy to dol And then back in the stew pot goes everything and the process continues until there is a sense that the work has completed itself.
When I said the title sentence to Martha, she laughed and said "That is the title of a poem!" And I laughed. Recalling this has given me the feeling that this is not to be a serious poem. Since I tend (it is my Leo nature) to be very grand scheme, over-the-top and serious, writing something light and funny will be new for me.
It fits in however, with how I am looking at my life right now. I have always loved change and challenge, the future rather than the past.I am thrilled by possibilities. Monday is my favorite day of the week because it presents a blank canvass and I am excited by what might appear on that canvass. All unknown - all a mystery.
As an elder I am consciously asking my brain to take on the new, move away from the safe and familiar, to dare, stretch and grow.
The stew pot is bubbling - something is coming up. I will share it with you.

First draft: I Have Picasso Hanging in my Bathroom

I took an art course when I was in college.
We learned about artists, their methods, schools
and techniques.
We also drew and painted.

I remember being embarrassed when
my effort with oils was shown to
the whole class
to show them "how not to do it".
But I did get an A+ on
a silhouette.
So there, you snickerers,

I discovered then that I liked my
art to tell me a story or bring up
some feelings.
I haven't changed.

Today I find modern art to be
obscure.
Sort of into itself.
Like the artist is teasing us
by giving us a riddle with no key.

It makes me cross - like he or she
is smugly putting something over
on me
so they can feel superior
and make me look dumb.

But I have the last laugh.
I have Picasso hanging in my bathroom.
A lowly place rightly suited
in my mind
for modern art.

And then again perhaps the joke's
on me.
I have Kandinsky hanging over
my fireplace.
But maybe that's
another poem.

Doing My Part

I have been letting the two ideas for new poems bubble in the stew pot of creativity and today it is time to do my part. This involves looking into the stew pot to see what is there. I will only find bits and pieces and I will then experiment with how to put them together so that they begin to look like a poem. So then, let's see what is in there this afternoon. (they are going to have to go back in the pot in an hour because I am going to watch the Cards play the Giants at 5:20).

I will begin with looking at the poem about Martha hiking in the Preserve. Let's give it a working title of "Spirit Moves Me".

The Bits:

John Muir - nature as church
Martha identifies
how is nature church for her?
she walks
she does not brouse or stop and take things in
she must keep moving
Spirit is in the moving
Jordan speaks of change - everything changes
everything is in a state of flux
Spirit is in everything
No attachments -just constant flow
The desert is a flowing of Spirit
Like the dust is ever moving
The cacti are moving
The clouds are moving
One blossom is everything moving everywhere



I Have Picasso Hanging in my Bathroom

The Bits

Modern art is obscure
I don't get it - most of it
Some of it has an energy that stirs me
My Picasso has recognizable figures in motion
Moving again
Maybe these two poems are just one poem?
In the bathroom? Very basic
We clean up and clean out in the bathroom
He is there because he matches the decor
I like the subject - it is about peace
There are doves
There is whirling
Modern art makes me dizzy
I sense some comedy here
Not a serious poem perhaps
The bathroom has a mirror - as a mirror
What is funny? What is being cleaned up?

Back in the stew pot - all the above - get to know one another better - I will call in on you again soon.

Brain Ferment

Last Saturday I had a very lively conversation with my daughter Marth. We were seated at her dining room table having a very leisurely breakfast following my havng spent the night. Out of our conversation emerged ideas for two poems. It never fails to amaze me how the Muse materializes from unexpected places.
In my view Marth has a brain in ferment - she is quick, clever, imaginative,literate and so witty. Talking with her is like taking my brain to the gym and trying out all of the equipment. Muscles develop and I feel myself on the way to a Jack LaLanne brain.
We were talking about John Muir and how he experienced nature as his church. Both of us had watched some of The National Parks series on public television and Muir was profiled in one of the segments. Martha said that she could identify with his realization of nature as church. She hikes in a Preserve near her home and she said something intriguing about her hiking experiences as related to nature as church for her. She said she could not just saunter, stopping here and there but that she had to keep moving for the spiritual energy to be sustained. The uniqueness of what she was feeling caught my attention. "There is a poem here" I said. I want to talk with her more about this moving before I begin.
Then we talked about modern poetry and modern art. I have a friend who is a gifted artist. He began painting again after he retired. For quite some time his work was representationl and I enjoyed it. But the last show he mounted was almost one hundred percent modern art. It was so abstract I could not relate to it. I missed story and emotion. I belong to the Academy of American Poets and they seem to bestow most of their honors on abstract poetry. There is no question that the world of abstract art and poetry is a valid one. But I seem to lack whatever is required to be a fan. As a sort of apology to the modernists I said to Marth - "But I have Picasso hanging in my bathroom.' She laughed and remarked, "That is the title of a poem!"
So I have my work cut out for me. "What is it about moving that evokes and sustains Spirit for Marth?" And "What about Picasso hanging in my bathroom?" My brain is in ferment.

This and That

I have just a couple of minutes before an arranged phone call. I want to share a few lines

from Michael Ondaatje's poem "Light" that can be found in a collection of his poems entitled

"The Cinnamon Peeler."

The speaker is sitting on his front porch watching a thunder storm. In a lightning

flash he is reminded of family photos that he has made into slides. One photo is of

his grandmother. He writes: "My Grandmother, who went to a dance in a muslin dress,

with fireflies captured and embedded in the cloth, shining

and witty. This calm beautiful face."

This gets me through the day along with a glowing bouquet of yellow gold roses given

to me last night by my daughter Amy. And the garden wall outside my window blazing

with showers of Queen's Wreath hearts, shouting their pinkness among the quiet pale

blue Plumbago.

Clouds of glory indeed!