Birth

1.

In the beginning,

born out of the emptiness

of dust and red dirt ,

Kukaniloku appears at 4AM

like an oasis

reinforced through the reverence

of royal births for centuries

the energy of extreme duress

focused and juxtaposed

to the serenity of natural forms.

Breathing in and out

of a circular grove,

the nocturnal breeze

animates the eucalyptus trees

as it always has.

Bearing witness

to what remains conduit,

initiating internally,

the way scent

is directly linked to memory .

The tingling of the fingers,

as it feels for release,

pushing hands with the silence.

The sequence of stones,

smooth and inanimate,

rise from verdant fields.

A woman’s profile,

in the latest stage of hapai,

her dark ridges swollen on the horizon

soon giving birth to the sky.

Deep within the

island’s center,

far from our gaze

comes the cries of strays

feral cats, wandering roosters

those sheltering under tent flaps

sound off and give way

as the last gasp of night

turns into day.

2.

In the recesses of

disassembled words,

from out of the rubble

where art is born

and trauma is transformed,

comes the point of release,

and the gradual changes,

no longer fully dark

but understood by degrees.

In the east

light fills in the cracks

like a paint that is applied

to father sky’s canvas,

the first rays of insight.

From the understaining

comes a vision, manifesting in

patchwork images and plucked lichen

that through the sea mist

stressed photosynthesis

changes color

on maritime gravestones.

It textures the illumination

beneath track lights and

on subterranean walls

the picture becomes clearer ;

a verdant field, a pastoral scene

as you step away.

3.

The Cape

was on the edge of

the distant past.

Absorbed in the fog,

disappearing into the landscape

of wood and bog

wandering like a coyote

past Chatham light at dawn.

Beyond the last clapboard cottage,

our eyes meet

as they did across the fire

in the earthen structure of the Wetu.

Wooden benches

facing each other

and in that space you imagine

all that came before, those

surviving in the face of nature.

There was no separation,

until one day we’re scattered

and the gatherings fewer.

Greater is the distance traveled

to celebrate birthdays and origins,

a mother a grandmother,

the sun which warms us

and from whom all have grown

to appreciate each passing moment.

Each time the light is

a deeper hue of gold

as it begins its descent through windows

until absorbed into the sea

and in our eyes

verdant fields grow darker

and this cycle replenishes endlessly

the sense of collective identity

on the edges and in the spaces

where most things

begin and end.

Bottom image is the painting entitled “Ispica 6” by Dominick Takis Sr.

acrylic oil lichen sprayfoam branch media in silicone caulking on canvas.

To view more of his art please refer to this website:

https://dominicktakis.com/

Imagination, A Point of Entry

1.

You know that feeling well,

when incomprehensible streets

greet your first steps

and a breath of woodsmoke and foreign leaves

awaken various states of disorientation.

Under the strange sheets of temporary homes,

getting off the road, a coffee’s respite

awaits those who roam through the element’s assault.

Arctic Terns and the road seems to go on and on,

each vista eclipsing the last gasp

from the sea to the snow capped peaks.

There is thought, there is action

and on a fog blurred ridge line

they become entwined

in a swirling yin and yang with the sky,

how each can obscure and direct the other.

2.

The imagination was a point of entry,

in Kjarval’s studio

where a tenuous reality meets fantasy,

the canvass becomes an extension of nature,

a weathered glimmer behind the mind’s eye,

a shifting moodscape of faces

in rock formations and lucent turf.

This sudden shift can unearth

from the inanimate a movement

that gazing inward

reveals and gives shape to.

3.

Folk tales lead us through Horgadalur,

where half wild horses are prone to majestic pauses

by the swollen rivers of lore.

The regal falls, the rush of water

through clefts in penetrable moors,

completes the jagged unity of rock and valley.

While we in our tiny vehicle

become merely a pebble

in the volcanic masonry

of landscape and now memory.

4.

At the inlet of Kista

the sea recedes back centuries

to reveal the unspeakable cruelty

done to those condemned for sorcery.

Driftwood fires leave black marks on the Strandir,

the impassible cliffs

where Basque ships

strand sailors to unforgiving coasts,

where power mad hosts wrote edicts

and pursue them like wolves,

leaving bodies bloodied on an isolated shore.

In the Westfjords, the pastoral eloquence of sheep

give way to a violence bubbling underneath.

In its history it is much of the same.

Fleeting is the light in a narrative

that is dark more often than not

but we never saw it this way,

catching Iceland’s capricious rays

in the sky, like a precious

sigh of relief,

knowing this time is brief,

this travel only temporal,

lives soon to be fractured again,

like the land beneath

that makes room for the new,

though it may assume physical separation,

it leaves us with an indelible impression,

pictures and letters to draw on

to complete a path back.

 

 

The Clouds Hold the Past

1.

From a hidden source

somewhere in the mountains

clouds burst forth

as if fed with fire.

A series of slow glowing embers,

supple the clay mutations

that render fully formed figures

connected by luminous wire

and hung from a window’s edge

unveiled in transparent attire

that catches the light

before it strikes the abyss

and is undressed there forever.

2.

The artist conveys the unconscious

visibly in the sky’s mirror

shifting imprints on a wet sidewalk

where dreams stalk the waking

and interpretation is ever-changing

on an ink blot palette.

When a mouth of cloud gapes

to consume the half moon,

there will be one fibrous fingernail

scratching against the darkness,

a sharp talon piercing the mass

while light escapes through the cracks.

Nothing is static nor remains for long

on this borderless screen,

tragic scenes from the past

are replayed on this landscape of glass,

coils of inner state recreate the loop

and you’re held in thrall

while contorted images crawl past,

even here sorrow can find you.

3.

Sifting between the wavering bristles of Cook pine

casting shadows on the rock wall’s sacred design.

Curiosity steals a glance

until pursued through the cloud’s expanse,

seeking refuge, a silky balm

to move across the calm dimensions

and into the waiting arms of the sea.

Disappearing into India ink

like memories set to sink into insignificance,

those fleeting moments disintegrate

into roseate plates

that were the scales of some exquisite snake,

shaking free from the coils,

the clouds now steady

floating feathers in an offering of serenity,

a balancing act over the buoyant sea,

an older me, isolated yet integrated,

our history is one in the same.

Clear Isle

For those who the beacon was a beginning,
coffin ship sailors,
for many it was simultaneously an end.
You’ll have to decide
letting the unseen guide
and manage the rest.
Even amidst the trials of travel
one is blessed.
With wind in the hood
and rain dripping from a pack,
pause in your tracks
above coves and inlets
and behold this wayward stroke,
the road making its way
through a grove of spring gold,
this draft of the unknown
is told to the sea
rippling below Baltimore
where thoughts foam
where momentum of will
can roam all the way to Clear Isle,
where not much is said
between the whisper of wind in the grass
and the hush of the calm sea
beneath the tranquility of its landscape.
Distraction seems shaved from shear cliffs.
The spirit remains to walk bends in the high pastureland,
known to the sheep and their wizened expressions
of pastoral eloquence,
the quiet, immediate to access,
to ask “Have we changed or receded backwards?”
Towards this backwoods in time.
Time, that stood still as a Yew tree
the steady boughs
through which the wind at night manifests itself in howls,
where nothing determines or obstructs
the land from the sea,
where the Fastnet Beacon decrees its light
to flash across the sky in illuminated intervals
like lightning enlightening utter darkness with caresses,
furtive expressions of something haunted and otherworldly.

Clear is an island of amorphous green,
seeming to punctuate the extremes,
thatched stone and endless sky,
scenes to include the migratory
who thrive along edges,
beyond walls and expectations
we anticipate crossroads and come and go.
The essence of our nature is continuous, eternal,
but parallel paths seem choked with doubt,
muddled by pursuit
of power and influence,
it is a river running red until drought,
it is the ego’s omnipresence fed the marrow of dreams,
its shadow is larger than it seems,
constructing its fascade,
wall by wall,
we’ll rebuild it,
brick by brick
after every fall,
nothing remains permanently
whether completed
all will dissolve,
all is cleared here,
in the wake of impermanence and dissolution,
I cast a clear eye on Clear Isle.

All the Pieces We Scattered, Haphazard

We’re shaken from sleep,

from the momentum of exhaustion’s steep grade.

The endless buses that pave the way,

finally halt to let us relieve

in fields of purple quiet

over the Peruvian desert.

East and West are forgotten signposts

hobbled in the salons of dusty depots

strewn amidst shabby cities of sand

barely able to stand against arid hillsides,

parched of water.

There is barely a breath,

or an oasis within the depth

of an immeasurable sea,

where the sun, balanced on ridgelines

would walk across a great expanse for me.

It’s inconceivable how a journey through this landscape

could culminate at Macchu Picchu

and its lush well of mist.

Where you can grace an ancient wall and gaze out

over the breadth of the Andes,

into the secret depth of rivers.

Always transitory,

life’s beginnings and endings

for worse or for better on paper

swirling together in vapor

lifting like a luminous breath

deep from within the mountain’s chest

to form along this rift an embrace,

what we built time will replace

with or without significance.

Yet to move through these portals with fortitude,

along passages and over tracks

where the speeding train attacks

the boredom and the repetition.

Another bus pulling out of a tiny plaza

towards that final position,

where the road finally falters

at four in the morning

and leaves what we’ll offer

upon Santa Maria and her broken alter.

All the pieces we scattered, haphazard

to form the forgotten places we’ll share

when looking back,
there was a harmony to the unknown,

though perilous when undefined,
it’s the only home we’ve ever known.

 

Mexico, 10 Hours from Anywhere (a Montage)

In the middle of nowhere,

a dusty taco stand.

The hush of high desert chaparral,

the silhouette of a field hand

near where Cassady walked his last tie,

in the place where American cars go to die.

Rusted sculptures in vast lots,

trash rot borders,

pristine expanses

vultures descend on dead dog carcasses,

pastoral expressions of the lurid and strange.

Low range storm clouds stacked against San Miguel,

10 hours from anywhere, it rests on an epicenter of quartz.

 

On a tin roof in a thunderstorm.

Modern signal fires in the distance of night sky,

vertical bolts and slanting rain.

Faces watch from under the arcaded frame.

Features illuminated in the interval of flashes,

police cars and further lightning.

Mariachi smoking in corners

with no one to play for,

moments congeal

like wax sculptures in cathedral candles

sealed under statuary.

The pews speak of vacancy,

while walls hold all the reverence and sorrow.

 

Through the highlands you follow

the satchel gathering,

wheels awash over roads,

between these arroyos

weave witness to a primitive sacrament.

Ramshackle transport to a tiny miracle,

the bus, like a slow procession.

Is it a funeral or a wedding?

All is seen in this setting,

hills green from seasonal rain,

the kind that sweeps tiny towns away,

leaving makeshift alters in their wake

like scars on the fertile landscape

carved into the curves of what nature misshapes.

The voluptuous land lay in waiting

for an azul sky to transform to an ancient lake,

for a barren land to become fields for maize.

 

Another morning disoriented.

It could be anywhere but it is Mexico.

See the dilapidated bell tower in the distance,

smell the fumes, hear exuberant tunes

from persistent stereos,

Mexico, a cheap hotel where anything goes.

Roaming the debauched streets

undistinguished from the other gringoes.

Going from town to town,

restaurant to bar, cab to club

to rub shoulders with your illusions.

Cash in a money belt, looking for a good deal.

What goes on here?

In this black market, meat market of the surreal?

Mexico, from the cracks in the wall of a dingy room,

you see whatever you choose,

a muddy river, Our Lady of Guadalupe.

One last impression

before your senses regroup.

Turning home, your mind muddled

but content, that is enough for now.

Dead End Gestures

Towards cloud windows of windward beckoning,

a subtle change in lighting

sees shapes manifest out of shadows

entranced

while spirit and reason

moved together and danced

across the ridges, up the range’s spine,

sharp contours carved in the sky,

mirrors vast sea floors

in an ancient design.

 

In fields of vision,

notes are getting overgrown.

Scenes wet gesturing to the sun

smooths this continuation,

where you’ve only just begun

to see beyond dead end details,

revealed out of the corners of the eye,

those hairpin turns that conceal grave outlines.

Leaves awaiting new wings,

appeal to the wind.

All is just out of reach,

simple gestures

that teach of a transient patience,

until the mist on the peak speaks

through the moss-hewn pages

of a weathered book,

through the placid passage

of a wizened brook

maneuvering over stones,

the ancient fire’s bones,

to sink into waters that hold

the buoyant unknown.

 

Like the ink that slowly drips from a hand,

it slips into oblivion,

where most poetry appears to be living.

Seems the finest thoughts

were the ones we’ve lost to moderation,

as if to curtail that wellspring

from bubbling to the surface

again and again.

Father of fragments broken from the whole.

The moon, as if dislodged, moves into the window.

Full of primitive etchings and a glow

that is more than a simple guide

but a halo of strange origins

whose light seems to lord

over the landscape of the soul.

We gained an entrance within

through loss of control and intoxication.

A moment’s fascination

gives rise to chicken skin,

before follicles fall away into crevices,

subtly witness the metamorphosis

of line into line, choice word into rhyme,

until buried under flimsy layer

upon flimsy layer in time.

 

Somewhere Swallowed

A Stranger here.

Growing out of strangled remains.

Once native, now hybrid

alien and abominable

almost beautiful.

A living sculpture of contorted bodies

camoflaged and hidden

amongst the thicket.

Some believe spirits descend it,

through limbs burrowing

as if legs dangling

longing to re-root

in some deep mystery

characterized by swaying,

transformed from out of the decaying

transposition by angels,

arms praying to the sky.

Absorbed in time,

in the scrutiny of its shade,

sedentary and watchful portal

causing slight shudders of uneasiness

to this passerby, unable to resist

 feeling there is more

than the eye and the mind

can entwine together.

It’s best not to confirm with a second glance,

that which should not be there,

that which compels you to penetrate deep.

From roads to unpaved paths

unmarked trails into the lapse on maps.

Going with a combination

of curiosity and apprehension

into a lush invisibility.

Confronted by vine

 too vague for fear,

a danger with no identity.

Something seizes your senses.

The path grows smaller

the strain to follow

the last vestige of order,

all straight thinking

is drowned out by the deafening stream

of sinking into it lost.

You’ve slowed,

steps more difficult,

all is obscured

by the green forgotten greeting

to the unseen shapes

of the unexpected,

shivering through

the unfamiliar setting

of somehow audible breathing.

Heartbeats betray your position

to eyes seemingly everywhere.

Everything within you freezes

as curiosity squeezes

through the banyan’s limbs

to mount fear and go where

the jungle resumes its

untrampled and unkempt conquering

of all around it.

The jungle,

capable of anything imaginable

and going beyond it.

 

The imprint remains visible

in the hillside, a recess,

 a seizmic crack

like a wound that is as fresh

as a sudden flashback,

like trampled grass

this landscape is

deformed and precious.

Left with a probing, 

  a seeking of direction,

resolution, solid safety.

No bandage can cover

the unspeakable remnants

scratched from an immeasurable darkness.

There is a pitiful light

in the valley of ink,

a jaw sinking its teeth

into TI leaves

meant to ward off evil.

Drawn on

Breaking that barrier.

Not knowing where to step,

how to stop?

A worm on a knife’s edge,

haven’t we all been there?

Alone and wandering

on the far side of the rail.

Did they ever fail to find you?

Out there somewhere swallowed.