Poem of the Day from Pablo's Hood

On occasion I feel a conflict between my multiple selves. I thought I'd include one of my favorite Neruda poems titled We Are Many which contains such lovely words on this topic.


We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

deep-art.blogspot.com

I've forked off all posts related to my artwork and poetry onto a new site dedicated to these topics: deep-art.blogspot.com. If you are interested in these topics, make sure to update your RSS readers (I highly recommend Google Reader if you don't have one). The RSS feed is HERE and the atom feed is HERE. I may occasionally cross post for things like show announcements, etc. All other topics will stay here on good old Chalo Bolo.

I made this change mostly because I need a site dedicated to only artwork; I'm often handing out cards and pointing people interested in my artwork to a website - they seem to get confused at Chalo Bolo, perhaps due in part to the myriad topics. Also, I was excited to try out the new Blogger beta. One day I'll be migrating Chalo Bolo to the new Blogger beta, but so far, the G-folks haven't made it easy. The new site takes advantage of some great new features like labels, template based design, and inlined RSS feeds.

Have a look and let me know what you think.

happy baisakhi

sikh, poetry: just wanted to wish everyone a happy baisakhi. for those unware, you can read a bit about the history HERE courtesy of the BBC.

my cousin just emailed me a lovely quote that i thought i'd share here on CB.

Forgetting the truth there is no where to turn

Upon realization of love I witness the world as a friend

An indescribable singular thought meditates within my mind

Reflecting on love provides me with happiness;
no harm can come to me in such a state

What can I call good and what bad? I see the entire world as one

Love provides me with shelter, with support; it is the hand that protects me

All which realize this state are not attached to suffering

Peace provides the mind with happiness

Repeating the name of truth paints my mind, giving me compassion

As I pray, I realize that this body and soul do not belong to me

Nanak says the greatness of reality belongs to the indescribable;
for do not utter my name, “I” do not exist

Guru Arjan Dev

Guru Granth Sahib pg. 383

desert reflection

here's a poem i wrote about four years ago recently after the birth of my first child. i remember i had just gotten an old manual typewriter and was working on a painting based on a photo from a trip i took a few years before to visit some friends in jordan. i was clanking away on the typewriter, something i do when i can't concentrate on painting.



painting in my studio,
rachid taha takes me
back, to
another day,
sunnier,
no rain, just a slow
dry heat.

earth tones fill my
pallette. yellow ochre
paints petra in june.

sitting at a table well
recessed from the black
tar street, bowls
of zatar and oil.

a town built by the
king -- waiting for the
tourists of tomorrow.

it's just some locals from
amman, and their
american friend posing
as a long lost cousin
from yemen to
save some dinars.

freedom

poetry: ananya, our 1 year old, is obssessed with yanking books from shelves. she is particularly fond of an old journal book of mine, which has a long thread wound around a button. i picked it up, and while putting it away, stumbled across some journal scribbling i had written a day after my first child was born. here it is:

"I've been watching you. First
the house, then a beautiful
wife, a chocolate pup,
some art on the walls."

The urban hipster, divorce
progeny, coffee drinkers
individualized. We, they --
don't see the simplicity of
family life -- the wonder
outside the club. Obsessed
with the freedom of wandering,
city to city, scene to scene, style
to style.

The roaming bores me, and
the union of family
liberates me.

I look at my new baby and see
eternity, simplicity, fragility,
and my bones.

Last night the sun came out,
blessed me with life, returned
my mother to me.

another breath

poetry: part of the same journal i mentioned in my last post. another little snippet that captured yesterday.

little poems,
for little pieces
of paper.

no anguish fills my
heart today, just
the bliss
of domesticity.

a wet day,
a visiting friend,
a trip to the dog park.

a future of contentment

desperate for a new perspective - pick
up the bed, pop in a skylight, rotate the car.
talk about lawn mowers and real estate.

tots and toys control my view,
conservatism grows with wrinkles.
angst arrives in waves,
so do journal entries and paintings.

sitting in a belgian pub
in the spanish city on the bay - smoke
and glasses, grins and gaze,
16 years after highschool graduation
with my first belle, the conversation
shocks me. we were confidantes
basking in the radicalism of youth.
the foreshadow would have suffocated me,
despair in the materialistic, the selfish bore
of talks real estate and project management,
corporate context rolling out like breakfast.

i miss the absoluteness of a destination, my life
airy with greatness - i breathed consequence. now,
the embrace of roaming above the black sea
guides me, graces me with rhythm.

i know about cutting grass.