The Dancer: Purgatorio

The Dancer: sculpture mix and copper wire, pit-fired.

25-30-minute exercise with model.

New Mask: The Painted Man

The Painted Man (Math-theow): 
sculpture mix; denim, stormy blue, green, and transparent brown glazing, layered; leather strip.

Considering Hrothgar

In the original Beowulf, Hrothgar is both a good king and a king beset by woe from outside. I like that situation, that model, better than the newer versions in which King Hrothgar is complicit in the woes afflicting him and his people. Understanding how someone can be good, excellent to his people, and blameless . . . and yet also understanding how that someone can suffer, and how his people can suffer, through no specific fault of his or their own is powerful and compelling to me.

Such riddles matter.

A Whale of a Tale

Moby: sculpture mix, unglazed.

Thanks also to the artist of the Penguin Books Deluxe Edition of Melville's Moby Dick, foreword by Nathaniel Philbrick.  Book and book cover used here with respect.

(I can't find any reference to the actual artist of the cover, so I will need to conduct an image search in the near future.)

The Journey

Sculpture mix, unfired.

I am yearning for kelp.

Required Reading, Say I

Windfall and Bird

Yard-Pal

Seals in the Creek

Pony Up!

Sculpture mix.  Ready for the kiln.

Moody Blue

Autumn: The Old "Young Boar"

Young Boar: Navajo Wheel clay; brown glazing, layered.

Foreground: The Pict

Background: The Merman's Head.

Alternative titles: Not Hadrian; Deep in Thought; or The Painted Man's Grasp.

Two More From Brendan Kennelly

UNION

When salmon swarmed in the brown tides
And cocks raised their lusty din
And her heart beat like a wild bird's heart,
She left her kin.

A black ass brayed in the village,
Men ploughed and mowed,
There was talk of rising water
When he struck the road.

Words stranger than were scattered
Over the shuttered dead
Were faint as child-songs in their ears
When they stretched in bed.


THE SINGING GIRL IS EASY IN HER SKILL

The singing girl is easy in her skill.
We are more human than we were before.
We cannot see just now why men should kill

Although it seems we are condemned to spill
The blood responding to the ocean's roar.
The singing girl is easy in her skill.

That light transfiguring the window-sill
Is peace that shyly knocks on every door.
We cannot see just now why men should kill.

This room, this house, this world all seem to fill
With faith in which no human heart is poor.
The singing girl is easy in her skill.

Though days are maimed by many a murderous will
And lovers shudder at what lies in store
We cannot see just now why men should kill.

It's possible we may be happy still,
No living heart can ever ask for more.
We cannot see just now why men should kill.
The singing girl is easy in her skill.

--BRENDAN KENNELLY


P.S.  I feel I am going to, in Wordsworth's words and Heaney's echo, "singing school" with Kennelly.  And glad I am, indeed.

Brendan Kennelly: "Remember What Marina Said?"

REMEMBER WHAT MARINA SAID?

You'll never do it.

You know you'll never do it.

Admit you know you'll never do it.

The teacher said so.

The doctor and the priest agreed.

They know you were born to fail.

So did everyone at the Cake Sale

And the Book Sale.

Xavier Mulligan TD, not famous for his candour,

Told you to forget it

As did everyone at the Annual General Meeting

Of the Ballyspanner Football Club.

Wise Tynan swears it's totally beyond you.

Wise Tynan knows the story inside out,

He's got the whole thing sussed.

And when you say that you can do it

You fill wise Tynan with disgust.

And now, for the first time,

After long thought, and then some more,

Let me tell you what I've never told you before.

I who supported you

From the day that Clifford beat you

Up against the classroom door

For your stammering and your left-hand writing,

I tell you now, my friend of a lifetime,

You'll never do it.

Remember what Marina said?

Failure is your daily bread.

What's this?

I told you to lie down,

Cover your face with your hands,

Keep your mouth shut.

Be seen, I said, not heard.

What's this?

God in heaven, you're up,

You're opening your heart, your mouth,

Wild flower, you're doing it,

I can't believe it, it's impossible,

You're the most impossible man I've ever known,

You won't lie down,

You live as if you don't believe in right and wrong,

You're out of your mind,

Your mind feels good, being rid of you,

No right, no wrong,

Just you,

The most impossible man in the world,

Song.

--BRENDAN KENNELLY

P.S.  Consider Kennelly's skillful use of end-stops vs. enjambment to make the poem itself act out the move from being bound to being free.

Autumnal Reprise: Brecca

Minotaurish II

Autumnal Spirit

Kennelly: "A Singing Wound"

WHAT?

'What is my body?' I asked the man made of rain.
'A temple,' he said, 'and the shadow thrown
by the temple, dreamfield, painbag, lovescene,
hatestage, miracle jungle under the skin.

Cut it open.  Pardon the apparition.'

'What is my blood?' I dared then.
'Her pain birthing you and me,
the slow transfiguration of pain
into knowing what it means to be

climbing the hill of blood, trawling the poisoned sea.'

'Where have I been when they say I have returned?'
'Where beginning and end
combine to make a picture, compose a sound
reminding you that love is a singing wound

and I could be your friend.'

--BRENDAN KENNELLY,

from "The Man Made of Rain"

Collected in
Familiar Strangers: New & Selected Poems, 1960 - 2004
Bloodaxe Books Ltd.

Once A Boy

Memory Alley . . . .

Dreams and Shadows -- Robert Graves' "Theseus and Ariadne"

Amazon: sculpture mix; cobalt carbonate oxide.

THESEUS AND ARIADNE

High on his figured couch beyond the waves

He dreams, in dream recalling her set walk

Down paths of oyster-shell bordered with flowers,

Across the shadowy turf below the vines.

He sighs: "Deep sunk in my erroneous past

She haunts the ruins and the ravaged lawns."

Yet still unharmed it stands, the regal house

Crooked with age and overtopped by pines

Where first he wearied of her constancy.

And with a surer foot she goes than when

Dread of his hate was thunder in the air,

When the pines agonised with flaws of wind

And flowers glared up at her with frantic eyes.

Of him, now all is done, she never dreams

But calls a living blessing down upon

What he supposes rubble and rank grass;

Playing queen to nobler company.

--ROBERT GRAVES

TGIF: Two Views

North Berkeley pit-stop.

A little albacore on the grill.

A Little Mermaid Sighting . . .

A different sort of water-fox . . . . 

Mergatroyd, Mermaid: 
sculpture mix; denim glazing, layered; copper wire.

Queequeg: "As Cool As An Icicle"

But as for Queequeg -- why, Queequeg sat there among them -- at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle.  To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding.  His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him.  But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people's estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

--Melville's Ishmael on his new friend

from "Chapter 5: Breakfast"
of Moby Dick