A BLOG OF IMAGES AND POME'S.... ISINGLASS Reading Elizabeth Bishop, the poems blur Like looking through as she says: ’ isinglass’ Everything becomes translucent, mapped out On the page. Her rhymes aren’t just rhymes but Fixtures of life, they find their own form. Wow, I wish I could write like that I don’t even have any form but I’m searching For her sequence in the inlets of Donegal At the Fishouses along the Ray River I saw them somewhere before. Going through old poems to find sea shore I hope this poem moves in and out And reflects her sense of belonging I’ll never get the old man and the sea. Not now that I’m here all alone but I can read a master in my own seal-skin.
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THE SITTER For Vincent Blue and golden, red and brown your flesh color shines through. Translucent like those piercing eyes that look from you. Vincent this is for you, my painted words. I hope this shows you in a light That you are used to, Van Gogh Van Goff how we pronounce is Nothing to do with you, the light Encircles your eyes like Pools of water you seen through A spyrol of existence, shining you. I want to paint your picture but In words. I hope I can do you justice Like the pleasure you gave to me. Tone and tone on shadow like you Used to portray, this is not a canvas Just a clean white space filled with Strokes from a brush stroked blue. I have no memory of my own so You will have to do, dead I hope You don’t mind being the sitter.
CAN-NOT I was trying to reach beyond my stroke But I don’t think I can, my memory was Shot to bits like torn photos can- Not bring my memory back. No detail comes to mind, stroke is like My birth, the day date and time. These words are my memory In a deep vein thermal image man. I can’t go to another level, be- Cause there isn’t any. I sit here All alone of many, many a day I done this and that without clarity. It’s clear that I can’t find a way through So, I’ll just have to settle for, I haven’t Got a clue?

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