Four Poems With Words, by kab

Spending the day with Kandinsky in the Guggenheim took my thoughts to many places. I saw Russian folk tales unfold from behind black wavy lines and strange geometric figures. I saw melodies spill out from splashes of vibrant colour. I could hear the words from the Book of Revelations speak, spiraling out from the shapes, some highly symmetric and recognizably geometric and others more organic and formless. Of course, I thought about sound and colour and synesthesia and wondered what he heard as that light from within ran from his hands to the canvas and his wordless ideas found form for us to experience.

Then, I spent a week without Kandinsky, soaked in the latest news; refugees, Syria, Brexit, French elections, Catalonian independence, the transition of power in Washington, all the wars and conflicts, and then those "lesser" tragedies that all of us suffer. All the drama and hate that flew into my life without invitation flooded and washed away the beauty of Kandinsky. The real world seems insane, yet Kandinsky’s art makes complete sense. And, I am left standing on a 89th and 5th wondering, why can’t the world accept me for who I am? Why must I live as a guilt ridden social outcast and watch a world that exploits and takes and rarely gives back?

Composition 6, by Wassily Kandinsky (Russia). 1913.

Song  #1 - Requiem

Sing, mothers and fathers
             Sing hallelujah
             Sing praise to the lord
             Sing for your children 
                          as you convulse in grief
                          and the tears flood from your eyes
Sing, brothers and sisters
             for our hearts have been ripped from our breasts
             and humanity has again been demeaned
                          as a hunger that feeds on innocence
                          breeds fear, sows hate, and spreads Gog and Magog
Sing, friends and neighbors
             as we share our wine and break our bread
             as we march in the streets while our sons and daughters weep
                          as the white, the red, the black, and the pale ride over liberty
                          as those that cry for vengeance wear the white robes of martyrdom 
Sing, all, to Gabriel
             Sing, so he may ask Peter to swing open the pearly gates
             to accept the unworthy, the unforgiven, the indigent souls
                          for they are the ragged and the endured
                          our beautiful blood baptized brethren
Sing, for the world
             so our voices may give hope to the innocent and suffering 
             so our song may be proof of the peace that seems impossible
                          so our melodies may sooth the tears on the blood streaked faces
                          for we fear not Abaddon nor the Whore of Babylon
Sing, dear soldiers
             and your voices shall ring louder than all the guns
                                       than all the cannons
                                       than all the bombs
                                       than all the angry faces who want to destroy and conquer
Sing, for the Love of God
             for even the seven trumpets cannot blare above a mother’s voice
                                                    Singing woefully over her daughters grave

Improvisation 35, by Wassily Kandinsky (Russia). 1914.

​Song #2 -  Spiritual

The plain middle c
             suspended in the cold air
             long persistent and echoing
             like the after-ring of a bell
                          carried by the wind to the sea

The plain middle c
             green in the spectra of sound
             a comforting and calming note
             like the leaves on the trees
                          dancing in the wind to the songs of sparrows

The plain middle c
             the note of promise and hope
             the laugh of a playing child
             a butterfly fluttering aimlessly
                          a nectar nourished shining face in the air

The plain middle c
             floats between the sky and the earth
             rests on father’s knee and on mother’s breast
             lies at the zenith where the sun is brightest
                          and where the moon is fullest on a cool summer night

It is the first note and the last note
             the note the wind whistles at your funeral
                          as it rustles the leaves on the ground
                          tangles the hair of your grieving daughter 
                          and flutters the preacher’s coattails

It is the note between dark and light
             the note of Mary’s Tears
                          sprinkled wildly among the headstones
                          white dots on a green canvas
                          in a field of grey and black shadows

It is the note we hear at birth
             that repeats with three billion heartbeats
                          as the stars arc across the night sky
                          as the sun rises over the eastern ocean
                          as the clouds gently float over a new day

Improvisation, by Wassily Kandinsky (Russia). 1914.

​Song #3 - Capriccio

When you hear pastel blue it leaves a little ringing in your ear 
             like a lower tone clear glass bell ping’d by a soft rubber hammer

color drifts and waves in modulation in a lower B flat
             a pure and cool tone with rising and decaying intensity 

yellow is counterpoint, a high tone that damps quickly and teases
             a fast and hard metallic sound that makes you yearn to hear the rest

blue pastel overlapping the green on a red circle is a minor cord
             dramatic and disharmonious
             it is the penetration 
             the violent moment that promises, but hasn’t yet fulfilled 
             Will it lead to blue ecstasy or more yellow? 

orange is splashed everywhere 
             more percussion than notes 
             chains rattling, metal clanging against metal
             In places it is painful 
             the forced penetration that won’t lead to anything but tears

you are attracted and repulsed 
             to see the orange, dark clouds screaming
             to hear their threatening war drumming
             you feel the heat from the sultry green draw you in
             you fill with desire and a terrified, hungry, anticipation

there seems to be a balance
             is blue gentle or selfishly harsh
             will red form counterpoint,  easing the pain
             or will yellow disappoint, causing dissonance
             there is no answer, the climax is illusive

Overall, I am taken back to a memory of making adolescent love in the woods not far from a highway. Birds were chirping. The wind was rustling the leaves of the trees. Branches were clacking as they swayed. An empty bottle of cheap wine lay next to the blanket. In the distance, cars and trucks could be heard on the road as rumbling orange noise.

Couple Riding, by Wassily Kandinsky (Russia). 1906.

Song #4 – Folk Dance

a shimmering river swells behind the two lovers
           reflecting the universe

Borodin floods the starlit ever-after
           playing from the blue and white on black

a sparkling city lies by the river
           golden domes and shining spires reach to heaven

in a cacophony of light it is deafeningly peaceful 
            and there, I see Prince Igor, as Yaroslavna weeps

clouds roll behind and above the light
           blue, pink, and black up into the night 

they voice an ancient spiritual song
            I can feel it, a long and breathless hymn

meanwhile the couple ride in a lovers embrace 
            as had  Joseph and Mary in that far off place

in a fairy-tale glow I hear evening birds sing
            sweeping over the lovers like a gentle breeze

in the twilight, time and place had reached that brief magical moment
             When the air sparkles
             When the sky burns 
             When the stars faintly pierce in the east
then, the leaves on the birches reflect orange, red, and yellow
                      and I hear darkness descend

Perhaps they are Konchakovna and Vladimir slipping away to be alone 
Or could they be newly betrothed commoners
             returning from the feast for Ever-Virgin Mary?

the proud mare, left leg raised, slowly ambles
            while dressed in celebratory blanket and bridle
It reminds me of the Apolytikion
            in the Fourth tone sung rhythmically a cappella

It is a stained glass melody in pigment and oil
            a toccata and fugue of brilliant colour 
                      radiating song

kab

kab writes, plays, and works in New York City and Long Island. 
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