Monthly Archives: July 2011

Space B’s Greatest Hits: The Chelsea Years

John Sarra, throw it higher, oil on panel, 11 x 14, 2011

If you happen to be in New York this summer, stop by to check out Space B’s Gallery’s new location at 59 Franklin Street in TriBeCa.  On view is Space B’s Greatest Hits: The Chelsea Years, which  features work by Jeff Bailey, Conrad Bakker,  Daniel Caspera, Marc Connor, Randy Gilmore, Alex Menocal, Mary Anna Pomonis, John Sarra, Alex Schuchard, Patrick Smith, John Coyle Steinbrunner, and Erik Wicker.  The exhibition continues through the end of August.  Gallery hours: Friday & Saturday 12:00-6:00 and by appointment.  Call Alex at 917-518-2385.

summer reading

Need atmosphere? Just add local wild-fires, and you've got a great excuse to stay indoors and read.

We’ve had our annual time in the woods and at the beach, and here are a few highlights from my reading:

CROCUS

For months now I am bleak and primitive.

The congregation of crows refutes

the resurrection of anything.

 

I sleep all day, drink all night.

I believe only in certainty of equations,

the curvature of space, words used merely for incantation.

 

This cold wind I sway in, this continual lent–

But wait, the first crocus

throws dirt.

–Nancy K. Pearson, Two Minutes of Light

 

ARCHITECTURE

I peer into Japanese characters

as into faraway buildings

cut from the mind’s trees.

 

In the late afternoon a small bird

shakes a branch, lets drop a white splash.

 

In the wind, in the rain,

the delicate wire cage glistens,

empty of suet.

 

Poetry’s not window-cleaning.

It breaks the glass.

–Chase Twichell, The Snow Watcher

 

Anthology

That evening I was reading an anthology.

Scarlet clouds grazed outside my window.

The spent day fled to a museum.

 

And you– who are you?

I don’t know.  I didn’t know

if I was born for gladness?

Sorrow?  Patient waiting?

 

In dusk’s pure air

I read an anthology.

Ancient poets lived in me, singing.

–Adam Zagajewski, Mysticism for Beginners

 

Don’t ask us for the word to frame

our shapeless spirit on all sides,

and proclaim it in letters of fire to shine

like a lone crocus in a dusty field.

 

Ah, the man who walks secure,

a friend to others and himself,

indifferent that high summer prints

his shadow on a peeling wall!

 

Don’t ask us for the phrase that can open worlds,

just a few gnarled syllables, dry like a branch.

This, today, is all that we can tell you:

what we are not, what we do not want.

— Eugenio Montale, Cuttlefish Bones