The Ghent Review Volume1, Number 1, summer 2016 | страница 4

So who is depicted here? A race, a nation, a ‘spot of time’ which has no
precedence? All and everyone are held to that pose which is the poise of life
in the face of death
spun
into a pearl edged stream of night
and dawn too heavy to bear the weight
this is flight, hallowed the angels
t his is time
and chimed your brethren, out of sight
and this crossed flight crossed purposed
now to be
abandoned due to circumstance so
thunderstruck, too suddenly askew?
the black clouds roiling on the horizon(2)
It is prophecy. Chilling and real. It is the artist in place and time that is
either fate or crucial accident of place and time. “This is what I am and what
I have been” It is the biography of a generation. It is the voice of fear cast in
the voice of affirmation.
the gold swallowed whole, the gold swallow. swallow
where are you we call from the manifest
having no names when the smoke clears(2)
"When everything is finished in a world, the people go to look for what the
artists leave. It’s the only thing that we have really in this world — is an
ability to express
ourselves and say ‘I was here’(4)
How will we remember if we forget? And forgetting lose the better part of
ourselves. This is now. This is the shaping hand upon the clock of time. The
clock ticks, the hands move, but the sculptor remains true to his task.
In The Studio Of The Departing Aviator
[to the soul of the marveling artist, sculptor vanished to
realms of gold, Michael Rolando Richards]
ephemera of wings, and a gold paint spilt
the cardboard outlines conforming to a blueprint
wrinkled on tissue purpled with