Frida Kahlo. The Broken Column. 1944.
....when you read this below:
"Frieda"
read "Frieda" or "Kahlo"....on the other hand, yesterday I went to work on a long poem since 2011, "when fishermen cannot go to sea they mend their nets", about Frieda Kahlo, her image and images and the ongoing collective imagination of her, the event, the phenomenon still ongoing/unfolding in progress and when I went to the site to read the text over before any future tweaking slash and burning came upon cuneiform translations, better than what I can write...thusly:
Here is "the Greater Relation" perfectly rendered. Find the hidden word which surds the calligriffins...why is the one word not rendered into glyphics? only Rilke knows....but the one word appears to be an ongoing ancient "hint"....
The weak translations of cuneiform revelation follow...
"All isreflux."
First "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."
compensations for blood-,
earth-, carbon-, metal-
deities. Incorporating Sky,
an edible notion the more
potent, sacrament of plants
- fungus, febrile root, vine,
leaf, pulp, spore, entire
chemical choirs of angels
gather in chew or brew, puff
and spew, fiber fever swallows
Uroboric Fractal which are
not so inclined to give us
ourselves utterly given this
parity of storming
exacting deities
"All isreflux."
Second "tablet/tableau"
"All isreflux."
Arab gift of the non-alloyed
Zero unmeasured by mass, a
better name for god depending
on thermal history's twisting
vector, ghostly mirage, if
any are to be had - the base
in spite of or within the
Metallic
Matrix
the blacksmith heart hammering
verdigris, chambers, ventricles,
into shape, Newton's grave conju
gations, living time solidified,
hardened, stiffens into dilute
renderings base metal, chaste
"Frieda"
chasing plutonium wire unaware,
bears the blunt end at the end
the Aeon of the Fishes still
barely beyond Bronze Age's just
sharpened edge fluted, preferring
obsidian one hacked, chipped,
scraped hard flint
"Frieda"
volcano born into conjugal vessel
Quetzal plume conjoined to Serpent
skin extension of crash, returning
God, boat, and horse delivered from
the red beard of the bloated sea
confronting yet one more deity
requiring blood-canvas attempts
failing to distill, to come to
terms with what happened to her
at 16 years of age, piercing metal
violating flesh
newly woman, turned her into some
thing completely utterlyastonished,
livid and unforgiving pain burning
her to vapor, yet, still, each
canvas she falls ever backward
within the cruel alchemical vas,
glass splinters into
unrelenting nerves,
encased steel-plated
Virgin takes a
cyclops for lover
"Frieda"
[screen shot photo of papal mass for prisoners at end of
Jubilee]
Each viewing of a Kahlo painting
a viewing of her life, body and soul,
its alluded metal serpents, cyclopic
hulking male tyros (Rivera, Trotsky),
volcanic, engorged Titans of Malinche,
chingares (goring ones as the bull
gores hungrily) swallowed, too, hoping
both to remain and to break free of
Her, the Great Saurian Mother, Plumed
Serpent, Quetzalcoatl, inherited deities
extracting from Kahlo and Mexico literal
blood, for paint is blood too, gashes in
brush strokes she could never quite
conceal/congeal (and thus her paintings
turn hemorrhage to good purposes),
becoming herself the clot, her flesh
an unwitting tattoo of existence's
beautiful and terrible forms. A life
with needles, stitched, she pitched
repeatedly into the long throat of
the Alimentary Great Mother,
Uruboros tail-in-mouth, recreating
Her self in hard passages, throat
to anus to birth canal and cave,
galactic center point waiting perhaps
at the other (no) end, carbon jesters,
angels teeming on Quetzal quill tips,
twinkling fires in the pitch, sometimes
called stars, or ravens, black heralds
of colors yet to brilliantly come.
Still, such timidity ends in engorged blood, meat requirements, rendering vaporous sublimity too thin for fingers, why forks were invented. If modernity, it's forks and faxes, returns anything of value to us stretching into denial which is all our futurity, it is the return of images, official and unofficial, which return us in turn to our official and unofficial selves, limping shod or un-, ens-not-Ens (being-not-Being) as we are chafed to particular part-selves multiple-imaged as they want or dream to be -
Who are we?
Frieda with her Twentieth century stifles a yawn and "stuffs the universe into her [and our] eyes" (a line from a poem by zen poet, Shinkichi Takahashi).
Frieda with her Twentieth century stifles a yawn and "stuffs the universe into her [and our] eyes" (a line from a poem by zen poet, Shinkichi Takahashi).
