“The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.”
from Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
acrylic ink drawing by clinock
Posted in Art, Drawings, The Inner Path
Tagged acrylic ink drawing, Be Here Now, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the moving finger writes
ask ancient question,
Is everything OK or not?
and Trickster appears
photo and haiku by clinock.
Thanks and credit to unknown dumpster artists.
‘The 100′ series was initiated by my 100th Post in April 2012. As text and images are the essence of my blog my intention is to present 100 pieces of textual art from historical and contemporary artists and from my own hand. To view the series to date click on ‘The 100’ in my Category Menu.
Posted in Art, Photography, poetry, Street Art, Text and Art, The '100', The Inner Path
Tagged dichotomy, dualism, dumpster art, haiku, OK or not?, philosophy, The Trickster
mirrors
can be
windows
too
through which we catch ourselves
in the moment of seeing ourselves
in the act of meeting ourselves
catching the moment of
seeing ourselves
caught
in
the
act.
Poem and photo by clinock.
Posted in Art, Photography, poetry, The Inner Path
Tagged art and poetry, light, looking and seeing, meeting oneself, Photography, reflections, urban illusions, windows & mirrors
There is mystery here
induced by light,
not difficult or rare,
a pedestrian sight,
yet magical
none the less,
drawing the eyes
deep into dream.
It’s a sleight of vision,
a riddle of the gods,
solved by
a gazing child
who can’t let go
of this sunlit puzzle.
Lost in this tableau
of reflected thoughts
he is found in wonder.
Poem and photo by clinock.
Photo: Store window. Main St. Vancouver.
Posted in Art, Photography, poetry, The Inner Path
Tagged art and poetry, light, looking and seeing, lost in a dream, Photography, reflections, urban illusions, window art
Joan Margaret Clinock. 1915 – 2004.
In January 2004 I was in my mother’s house in England. She had recently died, age 88, and being a single child I was sorting out her home alone. I sat at her dining room table, the same table I had sat at so often as a child, and wrote this for her. I post it today in love and memory of love given without limits for so many years. I will always miss you mum, always.
The cyclamen still blooms
on your windowsill,
in colours of a Canadian sunrise
covered in tears of rain.
I want to tell you how beautiful it is
but I can’t find you.
I suppose that I am an orphan now,
an old gray child crying for his mum
in a house empty of you.
Yet I embrace your life in me
as once you embraced my life in you.
I am who I am because of you
and who you were.
And all you gave to me
I now give to my sons.
And they, in turn, will pass it on.
And so the circle is unbroken
and you will live in us.
When I was a child
you dispersed my shadows
with your light
and my sadness with your smile.
And after every storm
You were my sunshine.
You hated cold and dark,
loved the sun and long summer days.
But although it is winter
on this windy coast
you would like it here today
because the warmth and brightness
of your dearest friends
and their flowers of farewell
have touched this place with spring.
Soon you will join your husband
under the wild Cornish sky
that you both loved so much,
and your spirits will be free
to wander the ancient sea and hills
in the wind that lifts gulls
above the rocks and heather.
And I will think of you
there together
and be still.
Posted in Photography, poetry, The Inner Path
Tagged Mother's day, Poetry, remembering mum, sadness
You appeared, as cats will,
out of nowhere,
years ago, adopting me
with gentle persuasion.
Today you returned to nowhere,
unless there is an afterlife for you -
- mice filled basements
with catnip deserts
and Bastet, goddess of cats
to caress and protect you.
You gave so much love,
and lived only to receive love
with such purring joy.
No bold adventurer you,
preferring a fence
in the sun,
greeting all who passed,
hoping for and always receiving
an ear scratch,
a neck rub,
a nose kiss.
You will be missed my friend,
not just by me
but by the many
you have touched
with your gentle ways.
The empty blanket on the bed
is your headstone
and these words
and tears
your epitaph.
Your empty dish by the door
won’t be filled tonight
nor will my empty heart.
Farewell Mr B.
sweetest and dearest
fur ball of love.
Posted in The Inner Path, Uncategorized
Tagged death of a pet cat, epitaph for an animal friend, Mr Bunbury RIP, sadness, tears
The Waiting Room Drawings #4 – mixed media – by clinock. April 20. 2013.
Thinking And Waiting by clinock
in the waiting room
you might observe
that we lack what might be termed
Modern Conveniences
our dimension is
carved from space and decorated with
intimate meanderings
of images and breath
this is enough to satisfy our present needs
and as we wait
we pass the time
by thinking, imagining, postulating,
slowly opening
each and every door
to each and every possibility of thought
but only time
will tell
“Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell……………………………”
‘The 100′ series was initiated by my 100th Post in April 2012. As text and images are the essence of my blog I will post 100 pieces of textual art from historical and contemporary artists and from my own hand. To view the series to date click on ‘The 100’ in my Category Menu.
Sitting quietly
Doing nothing
Spring comes
Grass grows by itself
painting by clinock – acrylic on drift wood.
Posted in Art, Paintings, poetry, Text and Art, The '100', The Inner Path
Tagged acrylic on drift wood, Clinock's art, Spring, zen poem
Ghosts pass by.
Abandoning their armchairs, stubbing out cigars,
swigging the final drop of vintage port
they leave by the back stairs
hanging a sign on the closing door
as they go:
“See You At The Parade.”
Ghosts pass by
evicted from my pineal penthouse,
no longer welcome.
Long squatting ended
they join the Felliniesque fandango
and pass on by – animals, sprites and
crying phantoms in wheelchairs and on stilts.
Ghosts pass by
and turn their eyes my way
but no longer have a claim on me.
In wide hats, feather boas
and cloaks of stars they pass, but no longer stay
cluttering dreams for days and years
with swirling mists, droning gabble and icy threats.
Ghosts pass by
the darkened windows of my night and I
watch their two dimensional ambling
with eyes of dawn. The parade is long and filled
with fascinations, fears and the magics of moon.
But I have cut the chain
and am exorcised by love.
Painting and Poem by Clinock.
Painting: 20″ x 30″. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 2013. Click on image for more detail.
For explanation of this series please see Mexico Redux 1.
I wrote this post just before leaving for an extended painting trip to Mexico in January 2012. I have edited the original for this redux. I talk about Huichol art because the high desert surrounding San Miguel De Allende (the town I paint in) is home to the ancient peoples and rituals that give birth to this art form. Huichol art has always been cloaked in a veil of mysticism — probably one of the reasons serious collectors seek out this form of artesanía. Colourful, symbolic ‘yarn paintings,’ inspired by visions experienced during spiritual ceremonies, characterize Huichol art. In the ceremonies, shaman artists ingest peyote, a hallucinogenic, which induces brightly coloured visions; these are considered messages from their ancestors. The symbolic and mythological imagery of these visions influences the art, which encompasses not only yarn paintings but also fascinating masks and bowls decorated with tiny colored beads. ‘Yarn paintings’ are created by patiently and sensitively adhering hundreds of strips of brightly coloured yarn to a solid background to form images such as are seen in the artwork above.
I purchased this ‘yarn painting’ from Antonio, a Huichol shaman artist in San Miguel De Allende. Despite our difficulty in conversing – his English and my Spanish being poor – I understood that certain symbolic images appear in this work. I wrote down what I could understand of what Antonio told me about those images and have made a tentative translation of his words into a poem of sorts:
Wearing the mask of the sacred deer the Healer dances until dawn around the ceremonial fire. We all dance until dawn around the ceremonial fire.
Taking the meat of the sacred deer the Healer feeds the people and the gods around the ceremonial fire. We all feed each other around the ceremonial fire.
Before the dawn the Healer must perform the cleansing. The Moon offers the Healer her secret power of wisdom and dreams to perform the cleansing and we are cleansed.
After the dawn the Healer must perform the healing. The Sun offers the Healer his secret power of heat and light and with eagle feathers the Healer performs the healing and we are healed.
At noon the Water God sends the Hummingbird. The Hummingbird is the third blessing of the dance. The Hummingbird brings laughter and children and blesses the Healer and we are all blessed.
At sunset the Healer blesses the corn. The blessing of the corn offers hope for a full harvest, offers hope for our health and for our children’s health, offers full bellies for us all.
In this way we honour our gods. In this way we honour our ancestors. In this way we honour the earth. In this way we honour ourselves.
Huichol Yarn Painting by Antonio / Poem by Clinock.
