Arts Archives - John Barr Poetry

Descant on a Herrick Lyric

John Barr

Bonsai Master

Mss

The Book

Dante In China

The Art Of The Fugue

The Dial Painters

Still Life

Dropped

Arts

To say or sing in two voices.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free O how that glittering taketh me.

•

The merest moment justifies the labor to perfect the song. Life is short, art is long.

Exactness captured like a bee in amber may endure even to eternity.

•

Whenas in silks my Julia goes The merest moment justifies Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows the labor to perfect the song, That liquefaction of her clothes. Life is short, art is long.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see Exactness captured like a bee That brave vibration each way free in amber may endure– O how that glittering taketh me– even to eternity.

The trick is not to neglect it just enough but to deny it just enough. Decades of managing the stresses of survival–the exacting balance of staying alive but only just; the importance of suffering to the sublime, against the inevitable grounds for remorse.

John Barr / from Dante in China

John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve

There is no Frigate like a Book to take us Lands away -Emily Dickinson

John Barr / from Dante in China

Exiled for life, he conceives the Inferno.

Had his wanderings brought him here–Take Bus 9 for the Red Seabeach– he might have been stunned to find Nature so unequivocal.

An endless flat grows nothing normal, while a weed–arterial red–unrolls a welcome mat to the unwell.

He sees the tidal river crawl through deep reversals, looking for the sea.

He walks the Bridge of Nine Turnings. Posted up ahead, warnings– in language he cannot divine.

Strutting cranes patrol the muck, stab for clams–their shells like voided efforts at immortality.

Flaring well-gas night and day, towers rise as if to say, "Pollution can be beautiful."

He cranes to see what all this will become, beyond the reach of naked eye, beyond what earth's receding curve allows.

Sooner or later the bay will merge with ocean swells, the only way he can imagine getting home.

John Barr / from Dante in China

The title of Bach’s last work, at the printer when he died.

1.

The left hand iterates, then waits for the reiterating right. Then together they expound in notes both single and in chord, constructions that exceed the sum of part and counterpart.

Invention is the word of art. Whether or not the fugal line, that cantilevered on its past never fails to fit off-center with itself, is in fact invented or like the statue in the stone is there already, who can tell?

2.

You do know this. Against entropy, lost linearities, the one-wayness of things a line of notes assays.

With plenties low, food stocks low, when there is death at birth, the lines exalt enlargement of the crazed, anastomose and disembogue.

Despite opinion's angularities, patronage–or not–of princely states, the teeter-totter paradox rejoices in the fitted key.

3.

So does the maple's double clutch wrest symmetry from earth from air that its empowered sphere may render pollen to the wind, then wait.

A great storm sheds the substance of itself that reservoirs receive, drought recedes. The new moon waiting for its light discovers, earth and sun rejoice in syzygy.

How can snowfields on the blackest night be so bright they give back light that wasn't there, if not to show the reach of inward radiance?

4.

You do know this. After the hands have worked their figures and stays, the silence of the room will close like water without seam. When said and done the quick decaying notes will leave behind an unaffected winter afternoon.

Nevertheless they play for us. The left hand iterates then waits

John Barr/from Dante in China

"Over the past two decades, the bodies of at least a dozen women who once painted watch and clock dials with radium have been laid out here for a final measure of radioactivity." –The Wall Street Journal September 19, 1983

Pointillistes, you made your points punctiliously (big hand, little hand, 1,2,3...) made faces readable on wrists, in bedside dark.

Chorus of good girls, busy bees, waiting for the whistle's blow you painted your toes day-glo, seeing the possibilities clowned circles on your cheeks, in jest

Egressed like wraiths, the best of spirits. From afar townspeople could remark the green fire in your hair.

Twirling in lips the radium tips, unaware your brushes were with death, how could you, hazarding a hair- line numeral,

know that you enlightened yourself as well? Seldom has artist been so taken by his work, seldom illumination seen

so unintentional or unconventional. Elgin ladies, your bones protest that marking time at best is hazardous to health.

By the time it dawned on you that to ingest even a trace of these trace elements involved grave consequence, you were possessed:

Host to an unholy ghost who farmed your flesh for tumor's bloom, who made of your skin a palimpsest, who made of your bones a metronome that beat time to the stars.

Slightly to our chagrin you showed mere industry– punching out, punching in– can gain the immortality the rest of us quicken for.

Mute furies, interred in the circle of the clock, you roam as Greek as tragedies the stations of your zodiac.

Saints of our time, Mme. Curie's curiosities, to the leaden ark containing your phosphor skulls, italicized bones we come.

Alive with salts whose half-life is your afterlife, in university vaults you shine for thousands of years.

John Barr

Standing out of time, the

"porcelain bottle monochrome sang de beouf Kang Hsi, early 18th c."

does better than the bronzes whose verdigris comes

from a compromise with air,

than silver under nightfall of tarnish, or iron, fresh-cut the color of daylight,

but soon recouped to rust,

the cup the crack travels a millimeter

the millennium,

tapestries larvally tatterdemalion, the rest of this place losing its grip to

arms of the damp, acids of air, pell of the particulate.

The ceramic hull does better than the Liberian

charter whose economics preclude paint,

and the potter who, the story goes, unable to please

the emperor with more of the blood-red ware that occurred when a pig wandered into his kiln, himself jumped in, in despair, thereby repeating the right reducing atmosphere.

From sleep in the hill, long weathering, the levigation

of the basins;

thrown in a time of peace between pressures from the East

and pressures from the West;

compelled by the unlabored decisions of hands to bloom; it excels in the way it avoids excess: debased court tastes, self-imitation, virtuosity.

From its base it plums for an ordinary use, but gathering to the top of its round it turns, at the same time, into neck, continuing to rise and taper, and refuses, at the top, to flare.

From the family of reds found by copper

sacrificial red tea dust sky-clearing red souffle ox-blood liver rust coral

comes this bing cherry from the accidents of fire.

Displayed in a case made of Wisconsin molecules, assembled in Queens, it bears to futures that will welcome it or not red chemistry and a musical note.

by John Barr

Whenas in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free
O how that glittering taketh me.

The merest moment justifies
the labor to perfect the song.
Life is short, art is long.

Exactness captured like a bee
in amber may endure
even to eternity.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes
The merest moment justifies
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
the labor to perfect the song,
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Life is short, art is long.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
Exactness captured like a bee
That brave vibration each way free
in amber may endure–
O how that glittering taketh me–
even to eternity.

The trick is not to neglect it just enough
but to deny it just enough.
Decades of managing the stresses
of survival–the exacting balance
of staying alive but only just;
the importance of suffering
to the sublime, against
the inevitable grounds for remorse.

There is no Frigate like a Book
to take us Lands away
-Emily Dickinson

Had his wanderings brought him here–Take Bus 9
for the Red Seabeach– he might have been stunned
to find Nature so unequivocal.

An endless flat grows nothing normal,
while a weed–arterial red–unrolls
a welcome mat to the unwell.

He sees the tidal river crawl
through deep reversals,
looking for the sea.

He walks the Bridge of Nine Turnings.
Posted up ahead, warnings–
in language he cannot divine.

Strutting cranes patrol
the muck, stab for clams–their
shells like voided efforts at immortality.

Flaring well-gas night and day,
towers rise as if to say,
"Pollution can be beautiful."

He cranes to see what all this will become,
beyond the reach of naked eye,
beyond what earth's receding curve allows.

Sooner or later the bay
will merge with ocean swells,
the only way he can imagine getting home.

The title of Bach’s last work,
at the printer when he died.

The left hand iterates, then waits
for the reiterating right.
Then together they expound
in notes both single and in chord,
constructions that exceed
the sum of part and counterpart.

Invention is the word of art.
Whether or not the fugal line,
that cantilevered on its past
never fails to fit
off-center with itself,
is in fact invented
or like the statue in the stone
is there already, who can tell?

You do know this. Against entropy,
lost linearities,
the one-wayness of things
a line of notes assays.

With plenties low, food stocks low,
when there is death at birth, the lines
exalt enlargement of the crazed,
anastomose and disembogue.

Despite opinion's angularities,
patronage–or not–of princely states,
the teeter-totter paradox
rejoices in the fitted key.

So does the maple's double clutch
wrest symmetry from earth from air
that its empowered sphere may render
pollen to the wind, then wait.

A great storm sheds the substance of itself
that reservoirs receive, drought recedes.
The new moon waiting for its light discovers,
earth and sun rejoice in syzygy.

How can snowfields on the blackest night
be so bright they give back light
that wasn't there, if not to show
the reach of inward radiance?

You do know this. After the hands
have worked their figures and stays,
the silence of the room will close
like water without seam. When said and done
the quick decaying notes will leave behind
an unaffected winter afternoon.

Nevertheless they play for us.
The left hand iterates then waits

"Over the past two decades, the bodies of at least a dozen women who once painted watch and clock dials with radium have been laid out here for a final measure of radioactivity."
–The Wall Street Journal September 19, 1983

Pointillistes,
you made your points punctiliously
(big hand, little hand, 1,2,3...)
made faces readable on wrists,
in bedside dark.

Chorus of good girls, busy bees,
waiting for the whistle's blow
you painted your toes day-glo,
seeing the possibilities
clowned circles on your cheeks, in jest

Egressed
like wraiths, the best
of spirits. From afar
townspeople could remark
the green fire in your hair.

Twirling in lips
the radium tips,
unaware your brushes were
with death,
how could you, hazarding a hair-
line numeral,

know that you enlightened yourself as well?
Seldom has artist been
so taken by his work,
seldom illumination seen

so unintentional
or unconventional.
Elgin ladies, your bones protest
that marking time at best
is hazardous to health.

By the time
it dawned on you that to ingest
even a trace of these trace elements
involved grave consequence,
you were possessed:

Host to an unholy ghost
who farmed your flesh for tumor's bloom,
who made of your skin a palimpsest,
who made of your bones a metronome
that beat time to the stars.

Slightly to our chagrin
you showed mere industry–
punching out, punching in–
can gain the immortality
the rest of us quicken for.

Mute furies,
interred in the circle of the clock,
you roam
as Greek as tragedies
the stations of your zodiac.

Saints of our time,
Mme. Curie's
curiosities,
to the leaden ark containing your phosphor
skulls, italicized bones we come.

Alive with salts
whose half-life
is your afterlife,
in university vaults
you shine for thousands of years.

"porcelain bottle
monochrome sang de beouf
Kang Hsi, early 18th c."

than silver under nightfall of tarnish,
or iron, fresh-cut the color of daylight,

tapestries larvally tatterdemalion,
the rest of this place losing its grip to

arms of the damp, acids of air, pell
of the particulate.

the emperor with more of the blood-red ware
that occurred when a pig wandered into his kiln,
himself jumped in, in despair, thereby repeating
the right reducing atmosphere.

compelled by the unlabored decisions of hands to bloom;
it excels in the way it avoids excess:
debased court tastes, self-imitation, virtuosity.

From its base it plums for an ordinary use,
but gathering to the top of its round
it turns, at the same time, into neck,
continuing to rise and taper,
and refuses, at the top, to flare.

sacrificial red tea dust
sky-clearing red souffle
ox-blood liver
rust coral

Displayed in a case
made of Wisconsin molecules, assembled in Queens,
it bears to futures that will welcome it or not
red chemistry and a musical note.

Released the pieces of the porcelain vase
depart on paths they've waited to pursue
since first enjoined to hold a shape in space:
shrapnel to its own ballistics true.