Goya

Goya from The Disasters of War

Goya

Of course not!

Of course no one that ever cracked open a head

has seen a symphony pour out.

No executioner has seen the flow of an amber fireside

with its intimate and tangling caresses 

drain from the split skulls of lovers 

 nor have soldiers who shoot dark holes 

 seen rafts of memories spilling, 

 carrying the children, the birthdays, the orchards, 

 the dances. 

 When they shot the poet, Lorca,

 the bullets sailed in a universe, 

 yet when the blood spurted it was only blood 

 to them.

A dog called Goya

A dog called Goya.

That oh so normal expression

mired in what?

The morass

in which, everyday, I cannot find my legs

and ominous shadow

that lurks, always, beyond reach;

the equivocations

designed to drown.

Saturn devouring his son

Even by Game of Thrones standards, Rubens depiction of Saturn devouring his son is grotesque. There is a matter of factness in the way Saturn is going about his business that is chilling. Ramsay Bolton would be reminding us of his jaw-dropping barbarity, but this guy is just doing it. And he has reason, knowing that among the deities, sons usurp their fathers. Then there’s the ripping of the flesh off the chest; it’s not the usual “off with his head” approach, but more the way one might eat chicken (without cutlery, I mean ). Saturn with an old man’s dishevelled grey hair, bushy eye-brows, loss of body-tone so wonderfully achieved; it’s a realistic impression, and it’s an impression that stresses that all is being done with the utmost (albeit depraved) sanity.

Goya’s Saturn , on the other hand is comic-book; he looks completely  ‘out of his tree’; whichever end of the carcass was  topmost would, of course, be the end that got chewed off first. And since the headless body seems to be of adult proportions, this Saturn is a giant. As regards which Saturn I’d prefer to bump into, I suppose I’d take my chances with the first; on the other hand, since he looks like any old man, I might well run him and not recognise anything different in him; and that’s serious menace.

It helps me to use images like these to spur ideas in my own writing. The various different interpretations of Goya’s painting (time devouring the young, Spanish war efforts devouring its youth, deaths of Goya’s own children, relations with his son)  are prime fodder for poetry and the images can prepare the stage. But isn’t it intriguing how completely different the poem would end up if based on one or the other of these two images?  

Nothing Learned, No Enlightenment.

The strength of Goya’s contempt is palpable in his ‘The Disasters of War’ and ‘Los Caprichos’. 

The absence of humanity, not just in war, but in society, particularly the institutions of society is still as plain today. Plainly visible to all, except it would seem, the leaders of society, (or how brazenly they portray themselves oblivious). Rife in Ireland now, in Europe, the U.S., despite the never-ending rhetoric; rife everywhere corridors of power exist.

Nothing learned, no enlightenment, and apparently no wish for enlightenment.

These and many more short videos on the works of famous artists can be found at http://www.youtube.com/user/artvideosYT/videos

Contemplating Goya

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Plate 36

 

(referring to plate 36 from THE DISASTERS OF WAR

 by Francisco Goya) 

Contemplating this corpse,

you lean back on your elbow. 

A heart not pumping,

blood not coursing. 

Is that not a corpse?

Is it not dead as a snail's shell? 

Your eyes fixed on his face;

composure. 

There, that's where you recline;

beneath his composure  

trumping the handiwork

of the hangmen who thought, 

(as they always do),

that death was the final transaction.

Over-reach youself

At the moment I can’t just decide to send poems to publishers and that’s been the way, give or take, for three or four years. Well no, I do decide, but then I change my mind. More than before I want to wow myself. And that’s not happening.

I think I should over-reach myself. In fact, I think everyone that’s involved in creative arts should want to over-reach themselves. Those who don’t, flirt with smugness and that’s a quick route to bland average work.

I have managed it a small number of times: to write better than I’m able to, and it’s a great but very rare feeling (for me at least). But I think it’s the measure to keep at the back of one’s mind.

Goya is one of those poems in which I think I've written beyond myself. I suppose good luck is involved: the right words, images etc come to mind on queue.I suppose that's the difference: great poets don't rely on luck.


Goya.

Of course not!
Of course no one that ever cracked open a head
has seen a symphony pour out.

No executioner has seen the flow of an amber fireside
with its intimate and tangling caresses
drain from the split skulls of lovers

nor have soldiers who shoot dark holes
seen rafts of memories spilling,
carrying the children, the birthdays, the orchards,
the dances.

When they shot the poet, Lorca,
the bullets sailed in a universe,
yet when the blood spurted it was only blood
to them.

Wonderful Goya

Inspiration

Amazing how inspiration can be cultivated from visiting other forms of art. I’ve turned to music: classical, eg Bach, electronic, eg Eno, Sigur Ros; painting, eg Bacon, Goya; photography, eg McCullin, Minihan.
When you feel you’re open to inspiration it’s worth checking the arts listings. Last night it was jazz in JJ Smyths: a Bill Carrothers composition entitled Peg unlocked a long- standing difficulty with a particular poem. So thanks to him, and a very enjoyable gig from the Kevin Brady Trio.