tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post6834601045389490918..comments2024-01-28T03:56:39.351-08:00Comments on TOM CLARK: Blue DressUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-39808194210462150542011-11-30T05:20:55.670-08:002011-11-30T05:20:55.670-08:00You can't ever make it tight enough to suit th...You can't ever make it tight enough to suit the Muse.<br /><br />I've always figured people who think they need second homes must have been unhappy in the first.<br /><br />Zinga! My favourite idiot word for the day!TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-79616109092964367222011-11-29T09:57:52.926-08:002011-11-29T09:57:52.926-08:00Tom,
Yes, the offstage action never stops, nor is...Tom,<br /><br />Yes, the offstage action never stops, nor is the play over (yet) -- that seawall is still there, more or less as you remember it, "that old beach-house" too, but now owned (I'm told) by the guy who started Zinga (which made Farmville, whatever that is), one of his many "second homes" no doubt (O Temps, O Mors). . . .STEPHEN RATCLIFFEhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12339481653546188412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-67943865352325557172011-11-29T07:13:35.707-08:002011-11-29T07:13:35.707-08:00Both these poems and the accompanying paintings ve...Both these poems and the accompanying paintings very evocative. <br /><br />Muse<br /><br />She'll always say<br />'An inch tighter.'<br />While getting<br />measured<br />for a new stitchadityahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16078144194220301083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-5106344921707295402011-11-29T04:03:03.040-08:002011-11-29T04:03:03.040-08:00Vassilis,
You've led me over here.Vassilis,<br /><br />You've led me <a href="http://tomclarkblog.blogspot.com/2011/11/conversion.html" rel="nofollow">over here</a>.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-79294521034233582712011-11-29T00:01:01.474-08:002011-11-29T00:01:01.474-08:00What
a creation--memory
blue, your muse
and yo...What <br /><br />a creation--memory<br />blue, your muse <br /><br />and you.vazambam (Vassilis Zambaras)https://www.blogger.com/profile/14515165428574974933noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-76617141282975765142011-11-28T23:55:42.347-08:002011-11-28T23:55:42.347-08:00Few words could fit better here than:
"We a...Few words could fit better here than: <br /><br />"We are as unique and fleeting as clouds. And when we are gone no one will ever see our exact likeness in that time and place ever again."<br /><br />Makes me sad, too, Ray. That vast grand cañon, the past, peopled with all these ghosts...<br /><br /><br />Steve, this<br /><br />“return”<br /><br />scene of figures, as actors<br /><br />of course occupies a stage with which you are probably familiar. That old beach-house. Though then again -- over all these years, and stormy winter nights, across the yawning interim of time, perhaps the waves have broken down that stone breakwater, along with all the other remembered monuments?<br /><br />(The off-stage action never stops, though the "play" itself may be long over.)<br /><br /><br />Brad,<br /><br />"One never knows what or how another will create for us. Muses, not unlike love, sometimes like lust, are so accidental."<br /><br />How terribly, heartbreakingly apt.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-17059142982141240182011-11-28T12:14:36.409-08:002011-11-28T12:14:36.409-08:00"Space we can recover; time, never."
Na..."Space we can recover; time, never."<br /><br />Napoleon Bonaparte<br /><br />Beautiful poem. It makes me a little sad though. The passage of time always does. We are as unique and fleeting as clouds. And when we are gone no one will ever see our exact likeness in that time and place ever again.u.v.ray.https://www.blogger.com/profile/02866397025200956617noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-10576839148763727962011-11-28T09:50:04.783-08:002011-11-28T09:50:04.783-08:00Tom,
A dream vision "in the Sharon's pic...Tom,<br /><br />A dream vision "in the Sharon's picture gallery . . . ocean roaring against the breakwater" (!) -- oh my, that girl in the blue dress. . . .<br /><br />11.28<br /><br />light coming into sky above still black<br />plane of ridge, bird chirping on branch<br />in foreground, sound of wave in channel<br /><br /> meanwhile by means of, form<br /> organized by “return”<br /><br /> scene of figures, as actors<br /> in these seemed, from<br /><br />orange of low sun in cloud above ridge,<br />shadowed green pine on tip of sandspitSTEPHEN RATCLIFFEhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12339481653546188412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-68844899734433730232011-11-28T09:45:58.889-08:002011-11-28T09:45:58.889-08:00The play of creativity in this poem, for the retro...The play of creativity in this poem, for the retrograde academic like me, one who has likely studied more aesthetics than he has created anything particularly aesthetic, is a wonder. I like that it builds dreamily to that waking jolt: "in this bewildering recurrent / intensified mind garden / I call creation / because you created it for me". Before progressing to the poem's final line, I clung for a moment to its penultimate neighbor, "I call creation" -- each word seeming to require the other, so tightly wound, they, as to be nearly indistinguishable. Well, indistinguishable, that is, until "you," that lady in blue, is recalled, reminding us that walled gardens of our mind, those of the isolate creator-voyeur, are rarely (if ever) our own. <br /><br />One never knows what or how another will create for us. Muses, not unlike love, sometimes like lust, are so accidental.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-43557551098098974122011-11-28T06:45:23.670-08:002011-11-28T06:45:23.670-08:00Michael,
The Irish -- my favourite clan!
They...Michael,<br /><br />The Irish -- my favourite clan!<br /><br />They're so... Viennese!TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-37059954383989564312011-11-28T06:20:37.015-08:002011-11-28T06:20:37.015-08:00Oh man, what a lovely poem, so lyrically concise a...Oh man, what a lovely poem, so lyrically concise and yet richly evocative. And the complimentary Schieles seem pleasant, even sweet. Not adjectives that usually come to mind with Schiele. Even delightful, which applies for the poem and the juxtaposed artwork. Altogether brilliant, as the Irish say.Lallyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05310472614196384595noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-13409624908598017492011-11-28T05:13:44.871-08:002011-11-28T05:13:44.871-08:00Thanks very much, Nin. They're both my favouri...Thanks very much, Nin. They're both my favourite colour!TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-40601110055855301262011-11-28T05:10:19.398-08:002011-11-28T05:10:19.398-08:00Beautiful . . . Both the red and the blue.Beautiful . . . Both the red and the blue.Nin Andrewshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12643167108589844026noreply@blogger.com