Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

With Art

by Vernon Ray Jackson


Approach it first with new eyes.

As a virgin, paying sharp attention

without full understanding.

Take in each new detail

and be honest in your reaction.

Take what you have already

and mix it with the new intelligence.

Acknowledge that that you miss much

and misunderstand more.


Initiated, approach again.

Use your new understanding

to sense what you could not before.

Honor your previous view

even if you dispute it.

Look deeper than you could before,

notice its spirit.

By now you realize that there is still more

that you can’t yet access.


Once a connoisseur approach again.

Resist the urge to tear at the flaws

you’ve been trained to spot.

Forgive them, and your past self.

Your purpose isn’t to destroy.

It is embodied for you now.

Teach others how to know its layers.


Finally approach it as an artist.

Abandon understanding for utility,

enjoyment for growth.

See it at the level of its creator.

Be its creator yourself.

Take what lessons it has for you

and discard those not for you.

Don’t spend any more time

with it than serves you.

Art decays and must be constantly remade.


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This is a response to Emily Dickinson’s poem # 411. Seriously go read Emily so she can haunt you.

They told me that white was the combination of all colors. I mixed all my paints and they turned black. They explained that the pigments are not the colors, color is made of light, the pigments absorb most of the colors and only reflect some of the spectrum. When all the pigments are stacked together the cumulative effect of the absorption overpowers the reflection. Black and white are both expressions of all color.

Color, then, isn’t made of light but it imperfectly reflected light. It needs the physical pigment to break up that wave pretending it’s a particle. Without something to reflect and refract it the light doesn’t make color. Even without the light the aspect that makes a pigment work is still there. The color is still there in the light waiting to be broken up. Like electricity, there is a positive and a negative, and nothing happens unless both are present. If it is color waiting in the light is it not color waiting in the pigment as well?

The Outer Grave is green and deep as a yellow-in-a-ring-of-white daisy. The outer Grave is white until furrowed out by the yellow-in-a-ring-of-light sun. The grave within, the one duplicated by the outer grave is beyond the reach of light. But according to Emily there is still color. All my life I’ve looked for color in the darkness. And Emily tells me it’s there, and that I’ve seen it when my eyes were covered (Bonnet bound) but my brain Ferret just can’t remember it. That’s pretty infuriating.

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Word of the day: Khannnn

This summer I took a poetry class. I managed to pull a couple ones out that I’m happy with. I’ve been saving them for times like this when I feel the need to post but don’t really have anything to talk about. (Implying of course that I ever have anything to talk about.) So here it is, perhaps I’ll post some of the other Victor Science Theatres later. Enjoy.


Victor Science Theatre #1010: Victor Takes a Break to Write a Poem
By Vernon Ray Jackson

The window made of four-fold glass could break
if Victor wanted it to, Victor knew.
He wins. That’s what he does. They named him so.
To lose would make his parents liars. A shame
to not be lived down. “Immortality
would get old, because you don’t,” Victor said.

He learned to wisely choose his desires
for with a whim he changed the world and set
its spin all new. As Victor stands upon
that wall and tries to do what’s right he fails.



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My bad habit.


I have this bad habit that flares up once in a while. I consider myself a fiction writer. My art is in stories and well explored ideas. Prose is about unpacking thoughts. Poetry is a different sort of writing, it’s about condensing. It’s about hanging things on frames. In many ways a poem is the antithesis of a novel. I endeavor to work in the long form, but sometimes I think in poems. It’s a nasty habit but at least I’m not very good at it.



Dedicated to My Good Friend Ed
By Vernon Ray Jackson

I’m lying in my bed
With a monkey on my head
And I think I might be dead.
My sheets are turning red
I don’t know if I bled.

My mother always said
“Why can’t you be like Fred
He’s never in the shed
screwing up my bread.
You always do that Ted!”

The monkey starts to shed
even though he’s been well fed
though perhaps not too well bred.
I’m now so filled with dread
for the monkey now has fled.

I never worshiped Ged
On all the roads I tred.
Now with him I pled
For mercy on my thread
Or at least some hope instead.

As the planes flew overhead
I remember when I wed
And the tasty tasty spread.
To all of it I sped
as I threw out all my lead.

They used the word behead
when they talked about my med
As they pulled me on the sled.
I may have been misled.
This poem has now been read.


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