angrysampoetry

the foundations of oppression can't be plucked up without the anger of a multitude

Gerhard Richter

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i. Grey

The grey monotony of
meaningless patterns
that disappear into the pixels of
thick layered brush strokes
when you get up close;
a painting of a photograph
of a painting
hard lines in whites and greys.

Paris a melting jumble of concrete and stone
colourless light and blacknesses
that grow shapes over and between the city.
No more no less than the buildings
whose shadows they are.

ii. Romantic land

– and seascapes
retaken to grey tones
to dots and dashes.

Not a wholeness or glory
no terror no storm
but a small portion of the folding earth’s surface
or a planet-wide sea.

The Romantics’ camera is moved upwards
so a heavy grey sludge
dominates above the low waves.

The reality of monotony
the monotony of reality
the soulless patterns of secular landscapes.
Angles, lines and deep black holes
where the shadows fall.

iii Painting paint.

Whole canvasses of grey.
Unrelenting, the art turning inwards
until there is nothing but its material.

Or black and white splodges,
evenly spaced
to be pulled into streams of
unconscious compounds
until the canvas is thick with
long grey ribbons
wrapped around each other
in nothingless patterns.

Or squares and squares of colour and shade.
A Twister board:
Work your way around its regularity
Impossible to gain a hold on the whole.
The eye misleads.

iv. Baader-Meinhoff

Ulrika Meinhoff emerges in triptych:
From blurred obscurity, out of focus,
wanting to say something to us who cannot quite see or hear her…
To the half-demented smile and fanatic eyes alive,
The light half-catching the left-side of her face
Too late as she moves right out of the frame
Leaving a shadow on the wall …
To the clear light of her martyrdom,
exiting with head hung and shoulders straight,
only the noose missing
from that exact pose of her last dealings with fate,
the fate of those who try to change the world.

It is her pale, thin frame in death
that is the last and most clear act.

He paints her again
hanged in pitiful grey blur,
while a dark shadow –
a large face? a cloak? a curtain?
the darkness that was always there –
moves steadily in from the left of the canvas.


The Music of the Gun

The record player looks up
From its round grey centre
Andrea Baader’s gun inside.

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Written by angrysampoetry

January 7, 2012 at 9:25 am

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