Claudel's Hands

She refused for once:
this fist, that,
a forever stance:
fingers curled
into the palms,
fingers delicate as plaster
& as marble strong:
the jade of clay
hidden as a secret
where the folds
turned further up
as though pressed
against a knob
to shut some door
quite tightly
& then place
her back there:
the fury of genius
returned to tenderness
before lifting skirts

& stepping on.

 

In My Heart I

kneel down
stripping masks
to the paraffin thin
forgiveness asking
for itself
through each face hated
for its prejudice,
its bullying,
the Tyrannical
sensitivity deems
while magnifying
the magnificent facets
of derisive fangs
& malicious eyes
& scheming stomachs
that digest these bones

turning the other cheek

 

Meditations On Sister

Age

M.F.K. knew,
stumbling upon the gold leaf
flaking away, that antique
painting of a peasant saint
time made iconic.

So my art ages
with corrosion already set in-----
the crackling chips, the bubbling glue
all an accident closed for Minor Repairs,
& room enough do I have
enough space to make right,
preserve, the craft of decay?

Oh brushes, what a diary
thief is in your whisperings-----
the bristles falling out,
the stray cat hairs which stick
to the canvas itself
even while it peels…

Each surface cries for varnish already,
a remedy, thirsty with pigment
under dust & smoke.

Every panel is a Sunday,
the slow, sweet, melancholy moments
knowing of school, of returning to work,
of the effort it takes to get up.

Help me let them go as far as I want
life to not ever perish
in this frame of passion
our play breathes.

(thanks to M.F.K. Fisher)

 

Tug

back to back, it’s
a sort of duel, this,
only at High Noon,
refusing to pull apart,
the arms are laced.

The shoulders are red sands
of matador energy
against an equally bloody heat.

Here, striations of
the bull-ring scene are ivy.
Yes, upon that wrestling flesh,
their leaves dangle Christmas lights.

Over rippling torsos
they gentle like lightning bugs
any straining muscle.

What lock keeps
this enjoined heart captive
by the pumping, bumping chambers
of hips, legs, buttocks?

It is all the hypersensitive
self-consciousness & suicide callings
of youth vs. the scrapbooks of the spirit
age makes albums of:
time capsules of photos
in the mind’s flickering eye.

Listen, if there is a warto that passion then let it turn
sky blue as letter paper,
turquoise clear
as the gaze of a Siamese.

Artist-Poet’s Statement

In the early 1990's Stephen Mead's poems began appearing in such
journals as Onionhead, Bellowing Ark, and Invert, but upon moving to Provincetown, Mass., Stephen decided to concentrate more on visual work.It was in the year 2000 that Stephen started seeking publication again for both his writing and his art combined. Since then, thanks to the wonders of the World Wide Web, his work has appeared internationally both in cyberspace and hard copy. Often the writing has appeared along side the paintings, and at other times with the text superimposed.

In 2004 Stephen began experimenting even more with these poetry/art hybrids creating a series of e books, including the award winning "We Are More Than Our Wounds". From there Stephen began experimenting with his art and poems as films, at first creating slideshows with captions, and then doing his own soundtracks and voice overdubs.

In 2006 Stephen put this technology to use releasing a CD of poems set to music Safe & Other Love Poems, as well as two print editions of his image/art hybrids, Selected Works and Tree Companions, a fractured fairy tale for adults.

Finally, in June '07, Stephen released his first dvd, "Quilt Suite", an homage to the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

Editor's note: Catch a clip of his film at Indie Flix.