Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts

Sunday, December 4, 2022

Of Art, and the Artistic Heart (new poem)

 


Of Art, and the Artistic Heart

Tim Kavi


a solemn work

there is something to see

I don't know quite yet

what will it be?


but as the notes play on

the fires of inspiration

burning perspiration

show the words that speak


they keep me awake at night

sometimes wrestling with angels

dangling across the abyss

so serious is this?

I am laughing laughing laughing

postwar blisses


on canvases of many

some are blank

and some are puny

but I will damn well say it


on a written page

a flickering screen

a dusty memory

of a forgotten sage


there is a history to be told

but most importantly

a creative burst of energy

as quantum moments unfold


I know what is seen

will be revealed

in the final scene

no longer concealed


a coherent whole

finally uttered

in the words that flowed

now uncluttered


there is only what the art

reveals, sad and contrite

happy and longing for


of words, senses, and bits

of trances

and ecstatic fits

the uttered cannot be brought back

the published is what is said

the last reel

the messy editing room

other words and images on the floor

images await for expressions more


are you a lover

or just a whore?

being or seeming

what's the score?

maybe only the artist will know


for in both cases you are

undressed before the world!


of art, and the artistic heart

of life, and limb

and pounding heart


of kisses in works of love

of meanings in the messages

concealed in stories told


of prophets shaking

peeing in the wind

of actors quaking

before the cameras roll


there is only the revealed

final work expressed

revisions done at last

where all is made manifest


you who imagines

as if an iconoclast

a historical revisionist

of things made past

speak truth if you can

that dialogue will last!


of the two made one

the collapsing waves

of art, and the artistic heart


Oh, be not forgotten

that not for a moment

lost and unbegotten

your words stand sure

it is finally clear


of art, and the artistic heart.



Saturday, September 25, 2021

What My Artist Says (new poem)

 


What My Artist Says
by Tim Kavi

there won't be any stopping me now
the words are flowing
the lamps are burning oil
the afterfires are burning

and it won't matter to me
because the fire is burning 
purging the blues away
no matter what time of day

what matters is the work
the flowing words that drop
like paint on a blank page
that bring a meaning I never observed

that brings happy memories
joyful sad juxtapositions of place
in the black-shrouded dropcloth
of space, there is only me in the void

can I bravely create?
no shrinking back? no holding back!
until the words are done
the colors set

destroyed by Siva
sands wiped by monk sweeps
in the morning of my next
existence, I will keep saying

words of the artist
painting painting painting painting
I don't care what you think
let me just throw paint!

damnit, help me
or get out of the way 
can't you see my tears 
are starting to flow?

to the spaces, and creases
I don't want to go
but when the work is finished
is it a work on me?

or something I needed to say
to help society?
I don't know, I just want to throw
to hurl paint

at the whispering wind
the canvas of Nature
catches it, as it is expressed
in my deepest heart!

and around the next bend
the curtain is pulled back
revealed for what the deeper 
purpose has wrought

until the sands of time
move someone else to say it again
and again, fooling transcendence
but never cheating the permanent void

there is the going, the turning
the burning nights, the glorious sights
of Her reveal, muses eternal
proclaiming what is to be read

because on Her lips it has already
been said, across the ancient skies
since time has been born
down below her hips

the birthing of all that is
in countless stories told, 
pages worn, heartbreaks torn
in the light of history's torch

frames of flickering images
burn my sand burned eyes now
tell more stories, with much 
more disguise, but still

flickering shadows reveal 
the cave wall, of artists' 
inspiration, in a great reveal
there it is! There it is!

now showing
no hiding what has been done
just the completed picture
until tomorrow's sun.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

My Grandma the Poet (Essay/Poetry) (repost with New Foreword)

A Younger Tim Kavi with His Grandma

New Foreword:

Today would be my maternal grandmother's 113th birthday.

I am reposting the following blog entry (an edited version) about her as a tribute.
(Originally posted here in 2008 & 2012).
I cannot tell you how much she means to me.
She was my earliest poetic influence
and taught me so much...
Happy Birthday Grandma!!


My Grandma the Poet

I never forgot her
her love was the most patient teacher

any grandson could have
and I often told her I loved her so

from as far back as I remember..
I have memories like this:

grandma would say Timmie
and was happy to see some of my first poems
scrawled in crayon
or pencil
so grandma and me would write poems at the same time
when I was little
and she was so big in my little eyes

her gentle ways taught me more about the
goddess than just about anybody
I know

I think grandma was a goddess

she would write poems by the hours
on sheets of typing and notebook paper college ruled
and writing tablets

all handwritten in very large letters

I was high enough to peek over the arm of the chair
to watch what she was doing

if I was good and asked real nice
grandma would read me some
out loud

she had a way with words

these were lyrics and fine ballads

born in 1900 on a homestead she was a country girl
grandpa was a sharecropper, migrant worker
later, a factory worker
they seemed poor
but rich in so many ways

but we were so happy

grandma liked reading romance magazines
in that rocking chair
songs of home, heart, romance

and her and grandpa were married for more than 50 years

you know grandma taught me
a lot

and every once in awhile
when I write a poem now
I think grandma sees it

I hold it up to her just like I used to and you know what?

she grins

and that still makes me pretty damned happy.

here's an excerpt from one of
grandma's poems:


Tomorrow's End
by Lura Newland 

My wonderful kids
How I love you so
I must know if there is a place
For me, or a home to go.

I won't need many extras
Just a bed at nite
A place to love my grandchildren
And my poetry to write.

Could I have a chair by a window
With the sun shining in
That would make me so happy
As my eyes grow dim.

I'd be all settled in comfort
Shielded from the cold
What a glorious feeling to know
Then I am growing old...


This Poet's Note: grandmothers can be terribly important. As you can tell, mine was extremely important to me. The poet "gene" certainly runs in my family...my grandma, my mother, and other family members write prose that inspires and moves me across all time.~~TK