Jackson Pollock
by Alexandra Isacson

Incandescent clouds

roll with ochre and charcoal,

visions of Holy Men—

before the nightshade is drawn.

Pollock sifts the primordial sands

in Jungian therapy,

branding his consciousness

inside the earth’s canvas.

He kneels and anoints with oil

in Rorschach splatters—

swings paint from the ceiling

with umbilicus chord splashes.

Into the night, he drinks spirits,

blesses with smoke and ash,

inhales and exhales

gives form to his breath,

only shadows on cave walls.

 

 

Pink Dusk

i rub his back—

flames of words

release from

my fingertips,            

transparent birds

diffuse in sweet oils.

talk resonates

glows with color,

drifts to mexico.

painting spells—

distilled alembics

and egg tempera.

remedios varo’s

inspired hand

writes automatic

words wax in smoke;

leonora carrington

paints music

vibrating with colors.

i kiss his neck,

in the garden

seed pods burst

pink dusk—

an open hand.

 

ALEXANDRA ISACSON loves art and gardening. Her work appears or will be appearing in such places as Scapegoat Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, PANK, and DOGZPLOT. Visit her at alexandraisacson.com.

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