Category Archives: Poetry

Latin and Contemporary Art

Spring                                                      Awakening Moon

Had our Latin session with Greg at noon today.  I asked him if he thought my trying to translate Ovid now would hurt my learning.  He said, no, go for it.  But.  Get a latin text with a commentary and work out your translation to your satisfaction before you compare it to someone else’s.  So, I went on Amazon and found a 2-volume latin text with commentary.  They are on their way.  I’m excited.  I know I’ve got a long way to go before I’m a competent translator, if I ever make it to that level, but I can punt away at it.  He said to expect frustration.  Oh, I do.

(from the Metamorphosis, Ulysses men turned into swine. 1591)

After that into the Art Institute for the first of two lectures on the upcoming spring show, Until Now.    The lecture was excellent.  Docent training leaves out huge chunks of the world’s artistic tradition with a necessary focus on the art history of objects in the museum’s collection, but the biggest lacuna was contemporary art. I found the guest curator’s lecture very informative, a good background for an aspect of art history in which I feel very weak.

Until Now is contemporary art in a large show and it combines with Art Remix which features museum contemporary works placed at provocative or evocative locations. David Ryan, curator of modern design, said years ago the museum would only purchase works of an artist who was dead.  This was to ensure that whatever work we purchased represented an important and/or mature example.  That policy ended a few years ago and the museum has begun collecting living artists.

We have a new contemporary art curator and her initial job was to figure out how contemporary art fits into the MIA’s mission as an encyclopedic collection.  At the MIA we can place contemporary work in context, the art historical context which informed and informs artists working especially since WWII.  The Art Remix is an attempt to draw on the museum’s historical examples and use them as conversation starters about contemporary art as it has evolved out of the older works and how the older works can be illuminated, seen in a different way when viewed through the lens of later artist’s work.

(a work by Kara Walker, African/American, 1998)

The last hour of the day was a conversation about the Art Remix.  I found Liz Armstrong’s rationale for the Remix strong though I felt this first effort was uneven.  Some of it is very provocative, like the photographic panels in the Korean collection and the TV Buddha, which features a bronze buddha watching television, a television screen filled with a video camera turned on the Buddha statue and especially the Chinese Ming dynasty chair carved from a single block of marble and placed in the Wu family reception hall.  The works put in the Egyptian and African galleries (not the Shonibare, which I love) are not as effective for me.

A day with a lot of learning.

On Not Celebrating St. Patrick

Imbolc                                        Waxing Awakening Moon

St. Patrick’s Day.  I’ve always felt that the Irish celebrating St. Patrick’s day is much like the Dodgers celebrating a Yankee World Series win or maybe more like Native Americans celebrating the coming of Christianity to the New World.

Why?  The snakes St. Patrick drove out of Ireland represented the takeover of the ancient Celtic faith by the invading dogma of Roman Catholicism.  Not only did the R.C.s finish off the auld faith, but they did in a native Celtic version of Christianity that had a close relationship to Mother Earth and who offered to the church, Pelagius, a theologian who believed we were born good.  Augustine, yes, that Augustine, set out to crush Pelagianism and he succeeded.  In fact, Augustine was so successful that Pelagius rarely comes in church history at all.

What I know of Celtic Christian spirituality would salute this poem by e.e. cummings that Scott Simpson quoted at our last Woolly meeting:

O sweet spontaneous

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty     how
oftn have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)

A Bit of Metaphysics for the Early Afternoon

Lughnasa                                  Waning Harvest Moon

“There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval..” – George Santayana

Could have come from the mouth of a Mexica poet.  I can’t find the poem but I keep coming back in my thought to their metaphysics which makes life the puzzle and death the pregnant, vital reality.

In another view life is a momentary interlude between a sleep and a sleep.  This is a line from a poet who interested me a lot years back:  Charles Algernon Swinburne.  The line comes from his Atalanata in Calydon:

…In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.

Machado, The Pathmaker

Lughnasa                                Full Harvest Moon

At about 8:00/8:30 pm I drove over to Than Do to pick up some take out.  At the end of our cul de sac, a bit above the tree tops, was a golden harvest moon.  It stopped me.  The moon always catches me, draws my breath  up from deep within, a rush of exspiration.  Many of us have it, a mystical connection to the lesser light, its waxing and waning, the crescent moon with venus nearby, the full red moon of a lunar eclipse, the outsized floating golden orb of an October full moon, even the dark sky of the new moon, pregnant.

Many of my friends in the Woolly Mammoths devour poetry books.  I’m not a regular reader of poetry, more episodic, sometimes in binges.  I get onto poets through odd routes, like Antonio Machado whose poem, Pathmaker, now occupies the upper left of this webpage.  Paul Strickland has a mentioned Machado many times.  Machado is one of many non-English language poets Robert Bly has translated.

Machado, whom I had not read, appeared in an article I read about attempts to name the crimes of the Franco era in Spain and the strange reluctance of Spaniards to talk about the Spanish Republic which Franco overthrew, then destroyed with brutal force.

Machado is a poet/saint of the Republicans, buried in exile across the northern Spanish border in France where many of the Republicans fled when Franco defeated them in Spain.  The author of this article, a resident of  Barcelona, wrote of a moving celebration at Machado’s grave, a remembrance for those who fought and died, lost forever to their loved ones by burial in mass graves.

A single woman began chanting this poem, the Pathmaker, and all the others joined in, there at Machado’s tomb.

When I read it, I realized it was the perfect poem for Ancientrails.

Pathmaker, the path is your tracks,
nothing else.

Pathmaker, there in no path,
The path is made by walking.

And turning the gaze back,
Look on the trail that never will be
Walked again.

Pathmaker, there no path,
Only the wake on the sea.