Tag Archive: museum of fine arts

Murakami at the MFA

Day 8! Inspired by a recent trip to the MFA in Boston and their amazing Takashi Murakami exhibition.

 

Murakami at the MFA

In 24 hours, I can paint your dragon
red – see? – reflected in the shining,
low-reclining Buddha with a thousand
wide-mouth flower smiles lying all
around us, superflat. Do you grimace?
Have you learned to love your mutants yet?
Throw your back out climbing tiny
ceramic rainbows to the moon but
can we get there? Can we pull our roots
through the lens of time and farm us
something fresh? If you leave them,
do they fester? If you love them,
do they find you? Have you ever felt
a hot and glistening breath like
lineage on your neck? And then
(you see!) my whirlwinds wind
my eyes like cloud-specks over every city,
and then you gasp in all the blooming
cardinal directions, and then you bring your
hands to mine, and then in bleating blasts of
color, and we call the Earth to witness.

NaPoWriMo? Sure.

Every year, I think about participating in National Novel Writing Month, and every year I am confronted by the fact that I am borderline incapable of writing anything but dialogue when I start to write a prose story. Regardless, I’ve been looking for some kind of excuse to start writing more again – lately, I’ve been pretty exclusively writing code and D&D scenarios – so I’ve decided to participate in NaNoWriMo in my own way! By not writing a novel… But! By writing a poem every day and throwing it up here for some semblance of accountability. We’ll see how far I get. This poem was inspired by my first trip to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.

 

Sleep, Sleep!

Recumbent mountain sheep – head resting
on the crumpled ice and tender green nails
reaching upward. Dream of your hands held
in a wisdom fist, transcendent, declaring
I have always held my whole heart open
to every passing whirlwind! Of course you have,
in the moon glare, thought yourself a dragon
wrapping ’round my walls. And I have felt you
in the silver-cold ashes of my wall-to-wall smile.

Sheep, you are Achilles and unable to hide
your power. Wrap your brocade curls tight
on all sides and reject their aggressive simplicity.
The ones who tried to feed you through their sound holes
could never make you sing for them – no. We turn
our gaze, altar-forged, heartward, and leave
the lolling heads of angels scattered on the ground.