Arranged Powerflex -- sketch by douglas brent smith, from Journal #31, Collaborating In Three Spheres, 1996.
What Is Infinity?
What Is Infinity? -- collage by douglas brent smith, from Journal #31, Collaborating In Three Spheres, 1996
Three Spheres #2
Three Spheres #2 -- sketch by douglas brent smith. From Journal #31, Collaborating In Three Spheres, 1996.
While I was drawing this my son Juan, five years old, asked me what I was doing.
"Drawing." I said
"Can I draw, too?" he asked.
"Of course."
So here's what he drew:
Three Spheres #1
"Three Spheres #1" sketch by douglas brent smith, 1996. From the journal Collaborating In Three Spheres" 1996.
I often save my doodles. Each one is a little story. If the doodles (Hey, they're drawings!) show up in a journal, well they are there a long time. I have not thrown away many journals. I hope that when I am gone that someone saves them...and then when I'm gone I land someplace where I can still draw.
Try saving YOUR doodles. Put them in a book. Collect them. They may make you smile some day and will likely help someone to remember you with a smile.
-- doug smith
a message received
there are times when our imaginations
paint pictures better than sunsets
play chords more stirring
than violin strings
times when hearts beat faster
sounding panic stilled by its
own clock alarming signals
ringing clipped wings
singular embarrassing
defining a new way of being
one such time
i was prepared for the best of
advancing, making progress
to reach you it
would go so well
you'd be able to tell
how i feel and
you would see
the magic in my tricks the
longing in my
voice the
muse for your amusement
in that alter place of hyper-reality: high school
and
none of the rumors had
helped my cause, noe of
the phone calls brought you near
(no to the prom two years in a row)
(isn't two years in high school an eternity?)
my projects framed, posed, presented to
bring you flattered flustered and favoring
blissfully to a place we would share
there
(touched by inspiration, moved
by spirit, aching longingly)
i stood in the front of the class:
everyone knew. teacher knew. debra knew.
david, carole, glenn knew. leslie, laurie, barb
knew and
you knew.
as i read the poems to you
e.e.cummings all pointed all obvious all
wishing (no!) kissing toward you
dramatically framed i saw too late
a mistake, in your derision in your
freeze
oh, the face you made.
you hung your head a little as
i spoke in verse of hearts and
little voices and dreams and rain and
beggars and visions and
intricate ladies of poet's love, my love
to you (no, gasp, toward you) i hope for
the best and watch it
fall
and when finished, papers put away
you...you...you...looked right at me.
sharp totally focused sweet beautiful
blue eyes looked right into mine.
with...with...with seething hatred
a pressure point anger overflowing
oh!
all this time your stare stays clear
my worst miss a sting for this
it did not go as planned
if i could only say with the power to erase
i am so...i am so... i am so sorry.
NOTES:
Are all poems true stories? This one is. An artist can think that creativity will save them, raise them, influence others and make all things beautiful but...ah, but that is not always the case. This case was perhaps my first crushing disappointment at trying to reach someone (she knows who she is) thru poetry instead of maybe just initiating a conversation, a walk, a few moments to talk. Why was that so hard to do?
But I try to look at it this way now -- how bad could it have been, it gave you this poem?
-- doug smith
no surprise
is it any wonder our
thoughts stack
over-lapping on
top of one another
some vast library caught in
an earthquake of
dreaming
out of order when
was the last time you
were truly alone?
25 July 1988
morning details
part of this nutritious breakfast:
a quiet time an hour of thought
three sometimes four layers of
cereal in the bowl (always the
same bowl and the one spoon)
morning details to center the day
a strong slender tower rising
to face the resilient
serial motions of standing tall
a prayer before the first bite
vitamin, juice, black coffee
the soft gentle snoring of my son
in the next room peaceful, still
birds sing familiar tunes clapping
this day this tree of living this world
at five forty-five and the morning is alive
with details.
29 March 1988
All the horses in collageland - collage by douglas brent smith
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