At the time in a child’s mind, this was a game, a game to find words that would rhyme with each other-time, dime and climb. My Mother taught my sister Margaret and I in the kitchen, I found it very amusing until the second part of the game was to make a sentence that ends in that word. She made it seem so easy but that’s what any good teacher does. They trick you slowly and then without knowing you love the game, you become the game, it’s another way to find your voice-now you are able to express how you feel or see. But, it started out as a game and that was my introduction to poetry. I was ten years old.
In Pittsburgh you don’t talk about writing poetry, it’s a sports city and that's fine. Save your poetry for those few and special people. Things have not changed, it’s a misunderstood craft too abstract and concrete for the masses-which also is just fine. I finished my first collection of poetry when I was sixteen, at the end of English class I gave it to my teacher and asked her to read it, “let me know what you think”. The following week she did, she was surprised I wrote a small book and surprised with its content and asked, “is life really that bad”? In my eyes it was, every night at 6:30pm we watched the Vietnam war, assassinations, riots and my Mother and Father were not of the same faith-this was my background, my text to write on.
This body of work combines poetry and photography, it’s a slow moving project, sometimes I photograph more than I write or vice versa-it’s a quiet and conceptual work. The series is titled “NudePoems” and quite simply involves the writing/photographing of models with hand painted text or symbols. I ask the models to read the text, and try to portray the general image of the poem-sometimes they laugh, or don’t understand it-at that point I take over and tell them what to do. At the moment I have more poems than images, here are just a few. JPN
THE HOSTAGE
I was once like you
then woke in a chamber
of corridors
doors, walls both sight
and sound
changed, arranged as
time was redefined
in both sight and sound
I, was once like you
in fragrance and light of foot
moving easily in the path
placed before me
then I woke
Doors, walls both sight and sound
now alone in a series of confinements
time was redefined before me,
I sleep not well for fear of
sleeping
I was once like you
in the early hours of a spring rain
as putrid soil gave birth to fragrance
I was once like you
then I woke, changed, arranged
and redefined
I was once like you.
AS THE PAINTING ON THE WALL
As the painting on the wall
bleak and still
there I stand
my mind, loose and free
from islands of confinement
walks briskly in search
of birds that haven’t sung
As the painting on the wall
all is finished
all is over
oil, once fresh in thought
bleeding it’s canvas
as dried parched skin
over brittle bones
there I stand,
As the painting on the wall.
NORTH
Somewhere north, locked into a blue horizon
beyond the reach of the arctic rain forest
south of the arctic sea,
lies a field of poets
there in this field, tongue’s do converse
in past, present and future tense
of noble, romantic, fearful warnings blessed upon blades of grass
as any scribe would chart
it can be seen from here, a slight mound
a blemish fraught with thought
there, embraced in a boiling exchange
of verb’s, noun’s and adjective’s
back again to action verb’s and all their tenses
in all their tongues
of present times, of ancient times
Old, to Middle English
Latin to Roman to Roma
Celtic to Scythian
here lies a field of poets
below it’s sensuous vocabulary
past the method of pronunciation
deep in it’s soil of expression
lies a soul, in a field with poets.
Newtown
We had just decorated our first tree
Ornaments hung gently from the pine branch
Some were my favorite, others my brothers
He liked cars and action figures, still they hung
ever so gently in a flickering light
my parents began to sneak presents into the house,
but I knew, I couldn’t wait for Santa.
Dad would pound nails to hang little lights, I was
His helper-hand a bulb-hold the flashlight
Ever so gently, it looked pretty just like you see on TV
Somehow, Santa would land here-reindeer over there
Stockings on the mantle, each one with a name, filled with surprise
I just wonder what it will be, all those little stockings row
after row.
Ever so gently, row after row
Nameless little souls in flickering light
Ornaments hung on heavy hearts
It was our first tree
Santa would land here, reindeer over there
Ever so gently
In the flickering light.
This project began with film and will end with film, shot with a Mamiya 7 or Mamiya C330F, 65mm, 80mm and a 150mm lens.