Wednesday, December 16, 2009


Oh, what a beautiful--
Remember that time when we--
I'll never forget the--
We had the most--
My God, that was so incredibly--


Pigments won't sleep on the canvas
We can't stop touching them
No mountain of rags will scrub the paint away

Our            fingers      stain         the      wave     of
And    smear             every       portrait      of


awareness said... seems more so at this time of year.

we straddle the "then and now" hemisphere while we continue to keep the ever changing canvas alive and breathing....

Your poem is very thought provoking. I like it a lot.

Karen said...

That's a beautiful painting and a perfect poem to accompany it.

I really like these lines:

Our fingers stain the wave of
And smear every portrait of

(Sorry I can't make do the italics. For soem reason, the HTML tags don't seem to work for me.)

Shadow said...

your last paragraph is astounding!

Four Dinners said...

Got to admit I've done my share of smearing......

Deep old bean. Very deep.

Bernita said...

I understand this.
Thank you, Jason.

Tabitha Bird said...

"Our fingers stain the waves of time." O, I loved that line. Amazing writing Jason.

Atrisa said...

Wow. I can't explain how I feel right now. I can totally relate to it :| Beautiful beautiful work.


SzélsőFa said...

this one comes alive as a good painting. I had to reread it some more and again - as with a good painting.

Nevine said...

You've got my heart skipping beats with all the pauses, that are all in the right places, by the way. I love the certainty carried within the very last statement.

Anonymous said...

Awareness, I liked the way you described it. I suppose the poem was about compulsion. Even if we try to push back against past, it keeps re-asserting itself.

Karen, that's another one of my heavily photoshopped photographs. :) I snapped it on the Pennsylvania turnpike on my way to Pittsburgh.

Shadow, much appreciated!

Four Dinners, I think most of us have our hands all in it.

Bernita, I've thought about what a tremendously hard year you've had. I hope thoughts like that can lend a little strength.

Tabitha, I'm glad it resonated with you. :)

Atrisa, thank you slipping inside this vision and feeling it so completely. And I should also say, welcome! :)

Szelsofa, the poem hits like the raw colors. A bit messy, but hopefully very present.

Nevine, I saw those final lines as little paintings, just as impulsive in their placement as fingerpainting. And yes, I do feel that the present shapes the past. Our evolving understanding changes what was.

Aniket said...

Raw is the way it should be with the paint and emotions. This goes way deep.

PS: Did you change the name of your novel to The Clock? Or is it a new one?

the walking man said...

We never seem to be able to not have the impulse to try to re arrange the canvas...even though the paints be well dried.

Ji said...

bright way of poetry, this is very impressive to me, I mean your style of writing the poem,,
Keep it Up!
Welcome aboard!

Anonymous said...

Aniket, yeah, raw is right. Regarding THE CLOCK, yes, I changed the title. The other one was different and unique, but I'm learning that different and unique is a problem.

Walking Man, we always find a way, don't we?

Ji, thanks!

Aniket said...

I know. It was a title that would make one curious. But THE CLOCK seems better for promotion campaigns, etc.

Since "The Mystery of the Screaming Clock" was the first novel I ever read, I'm not complaining. :)

Catvibe said...

Nice job Jason. I love the way it turned out. (Even if the fingers are actually mousing instead of getting dirty. Hey, all's fair in love and art, right?) The last stanza is perfect.

Vesper said...

I too must quote this:

Our fingers stain the wave of
And smear every portrait of

Beautiful poem, Jason!