The Buddah

The Buddah, by Odilon Redon. 1905

Odilon Redon was an amaz­ing artist. Few have cap­tured the Symbolist moment as well. Few artists por­tray mys­tery, the ambigu­ous, or the debris of night­mare and day­dream with as fine a touch as Redon. You can get a good sense of his oeu­vre from this online exhibit from MoMa.

 

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I was dig­ging through some of my old writ­ings from the 80s and found this poem. In a sense, it fits Redon, and it doesn’t:

 

Integration at Two


Horses in gallop-​​frenzy with poets in trans­la­tion
Breach the walls of the money-​​men
Sink with­out a push from any­one extraordinary

… Climb back if you let them
You who cease for cen­turies and
Reappear like someone’s Prodigal
Like someone’s Nietzsche cov­ered with dust
And choral-​​sounds

This echo this error is for you and yours
The trou­bles solved by fic­tion and bad fic­tion
The sounds recov­ered with­out any Master Tape

We who wor­ship what you could be
Scream
Into its mike its depths
Tie urges and jokes to mus­cle and con­crete … once

Walking around I am walk­ing
Around a cen­ter that holds my eyes to the hard-​​wood
Floor
And she speaks to me of real things of cars
And office hours and red-​​tape flap­ping in the wind –


Brittle is a man who lies
About his motives
To her and for her because she
Has him and all answers break



 

– by Douglas Pinson


 


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