Splatter
for Jackson Pollock
Tell about the demons you archetyped
into those paint splattered canvases, Jackson.
Clattering paint cans and feet ablur,
you whirled around your emerging images;
a shaman.
The wind couldn't pace you.
Now, art critics fractal your paintings,
see equations in your shifting Scheherazades,
your Rorshachs for 1001 nights.
Their theories impress Berkenstocked art lovers,
confuse curious tourists up from Orlando.
Your dance was cut far too short.
Unlike you, I hold my own dark dreams close.
Short-shadowed by the noonday sun, they puddle.
You were the brave one.
You flew headlong into treacherous skies
where not even Superman could save you.
Pris Campbell
©2008
Jackson Pollock died at age 44 in a car wreck. He
was with his girlfriend and one other person, though still married at the time.
Alcoholism had plagued him most of his adult life. Accounts by people observing
him painting have described his rapid, almost random , movements around his
paintings until he declared them complete.
Photograph: A blur of Pollock painting.
Published in The Cliffs: Soundings, Winter
2008
Return to Poetry Index
II
Return to Homepage
|
