Working Towards
A Centennial

In Covid time, one has little to do but to observe.
For me, the sparrows at the backyard feeder. 
and their capture on paper became an obsession.


In Covid Time the sketching of birds
led to the sketching of place. 
Charcoal to watercolor, to acrylic, to oil. 
Daily practice became an obsession as well. 
Soon , the work of the moment became the daily narrative.  .

In Covid time when deciding which art to imitate 
Of course for me it was certainly about place 
But when asked I would tell you “I know what I like”. 

But discovery knows no boundaries. 
I’m not sure if my likes have changed 
But I’m more willing to say I like everything.

In Covid Time, yes still in Covid Time 
The tension on the string of life reverberates. 
One asks “What ya doing?” 
I reply “Another day”. 
observing.  

Theresa Bernstein suggested
that artists who answer Gloucester’s call 
Remain to record the residue Of the pioneers. 

 I agree, but suggest the residue is not only paint.
They are words.
 They are sounds.
 They are performances.

And forgive me If I’m wrong 
But I believe that the pioneers 
Would ask artists who answer the call 
to make some residue of their own. 

Painters say there’s something about the Light on Cape Ann. 
Poets say so too! 
The Hues, the contrasts, the intensities, the shadows.
And then theirs the interplay of  things on the Canvas 
The Birds, the buildings,  Ships, Sailors and the Sea, 
Roses and Dogtown. 

 So Painters paint paintings 
And Poets write poems 
All while Sitting under the Light of Cape Ann.  

“Fellow artist?” I ask. 
If you say “no” 
I  think you are mistaken. 

There are many different artistries to life 
Perhaps you haven’t yet discovered yours. 

A Poet’s paint is of course their words. 
Words, like paint, come in different hues. 
Some shine bright like a diamond 
some dank and grim. 
But it is not just the words, its how there applied
the brush skills of Poetry. 
Rhythms, yes. Rhymes, perhaps 
but with Expression, Compassion and Invention
in every line and stroke 
purpose and meaning are left reflected 
on the canvas and the page
but you need to know when to walk away 
and just let it dry.  

When I met the artist in me 
The first thing they did 
was demand that the poet be released as well. 

Nurture and practice 
and the words like the paint 
squeezed from their tubes
are once again  left starkly 
on the page.  

There is a strange sensation 
When I try to paint a copy of a historic painting. 
Trying to catch the vision of the original artist .

 Its not in the brush strokes 
There, I’m on my own. 
The frequent miscues and off shades 
dry on the canvas is a testament

Its somehow in the experience. 
I don’t dare say that I’m feeling it like they did 
But there are moments when I feel connection
 perhaps not as Soul mates but as Kindred Spirits .

 They urge me to tarry in the moment 
As time goes gushing by.  

In Covid Time, I noticed that my mind while painting
 was just like my mind when poeting. 

A slight disconnect from the moment, 
warmth, contemplation, and then expression.  

Plein Air Poetry for J Jeffery Grant "Seascape"

Sky, Horizon , Stone. 
the oceans swells in anticipation.
Repeating this ritual longer than man has been here to see 
The shore readies invisibly steadfast.

Mardsen Hartley in his “Salutations to a Mouse” 
Tells of how a mouse made a nest of his written words. 
He was flattered 
And didn’t expect that his words would be such worth against the cold.

Sometimes I think the only thing
Protecting us from that cold Is expression itself. 

Life, at least for this human Is expressed in colors. 
Collections of these colors and their shapes 
Are the structures of concepts 
and corresponding objects of which I Interact.

Using these colors and shapes 
Or with words and sounds
 we may recreate, god like, the past the present and the future .

Dreamt I was painting.
 I tend not to remember my dreams. 
But I was seeing shapes 
Seeing colors  
Seeing shapes.
Not a word was spoken. 

In College I got the opportunity to meet Ginsberg 
And I asked sophomorically for his  autograph. 
He obliged quoting William Carlos William first.
I misremember it as “no meaning without words” 
And I marveled that in painting I was creating meaning Without words. 

 The actual quote was “No ideas but in things”. 
And I marveled that the things I create on the canvas 
Are ideas. 
And so are the words I put on the page. 

Diderot, yes Diderot, once said 
that “poetry must have something barbaric it". 
I prefer the term primal. 
Artistic expression is a primal urge.
One that can discovered by any one.

The Canvas, the page, the stage it matters not. 

Longfellow said 
That Art is to man 
As Nature is to God. 

 Create your worlds 
And look after them. 

Vera Andrus spoke of sea dust. 
What she said artists called the drifts of loveliness 
that scalloped the sand of Cape Ann.

It made me chuckle. 
I’m seeing sea dust everywhere. 
Let me capture it in the light.

When I stare at a painting I’ve done
 I literally and figuratively can say I can go back in time. 
I can think back to when I did the painting 
And I feel I’m also brought back  to the original artists moment as well.

Sometimes it’s move that to the left.
Sometimes its the colors are all wrong .
And sometimes Its a captured moment of beauty In time.  

Do The paintings of Gloucester tell a story?

They tell story, a narrative if you will 
Of stones and times and ships 
Of fish and men 
Of our workplaces
Of our homes 
The Sun and the Moon 
And the Beauty of it all.

There’s a moment when I Paint 
When I resolve to let it dry. 
I don’t feel that when I’m writing a poem 
Though I often should. 
Working and reworking can fade what’s there out of existence.
What makes that resolution ? 
An Eye  
A Ear. 
A smell,  a taste,  a feeling? 

I felt another odd sensation today 
A convenient day off from work. 
In my mind the eyes and determination for
The  beginning of a book 
In passing I glance at a canvas 
Torn, for a moment
 I sit and write a poem. 

From the outside in 
or From the inside out.
I discovered there are different ways 
To construct a painting.

I wonder if I can do the same In a poem?