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Last Revision: October 11, 2011

Background:
I use the Brooklyn Rail newspaper as collage material in many of my paintings. I underline words and phrases within the articles and arrange them into poetry. Much of the poetry gets covered by the painting, but you can generally see remnants of the poem when looking at close up photos.

Below are a few of my favorites from 2011

 

Piles of Non-technical Things Not To Remember

People talk about moving through the void
I started to think about people no longer here

Dancers are like ghosts
Yes they are
A presence of form set on fire

Influenced or changed?
If you get to know somebody,
It triggers a movement

An idea of a movement,
Otherwise colored

Lines going up into the sky,
An image I knew
It goes on forever

Things disappear
Think memory or balloons
Well that's interesting

Is the water on fire?
A natural opposition between
Not to be obvious,
If not obvious

Fire and water,
On fire.


 

Departing Gradually Into Tomorrow

See the writings on the wall?
The delicacy of an adjective is intricate.

We tell ourselves repeated phrases.
Mental poems of traumatic experiences.
Absorbing pain through time.
Illusions fill the void.

Caught halfway through a dream.
The night is blue.
Painting bizarre landscapes.
Until the morning turns to orange.

A new intelligence brings clarity.
Sleeping feels good.

Today or tomorrow,
Beautiful is still beautiful.

 

 

Quoting Nonsense With Exotic Tea Leaves

Wake up from a dream.
Unable to speak.
Misfortunes on the downtown F-train.
Feeling the complexity of perception.

You said to imagine.
I would have liked to.
Imagine the sound. 
A tuning fork under water.

Experimental poetry is essential.
Stop to follow the footsteps.

I hear laughing.
Is somebody on the phone?

Erased to expose history.
One minute, five minutes.
I sat there dazed, thinking deeply.
The study of wall paneling.

I felt a mild sadness.
Shed a tear.
Time to see a psychiatrist.

Sitting in a rocking chair,
Next to the elevator.
Organizing weirdness is nearly impossible.

Can I be excused now?

 



© ERIK VON PLOENNEIS 2011