Red is a name,
the name of a piéce—
a play about Mark Rothko, I believe. I have not seen it.
Fields, champs de rouge, bloody fields of war—
swimming oceans of plasma?
That was the inspiration for Robert Smithson,
running along his spiral to its core,
its center of the universe.
Algae blossoms surround his yankee voice
that calls out, “rock, salt crystals, water…”
a primordial ooze of red life swallowing up his geometric spirit.
Sacred form in the Southwest desert.
Well, no one does red like Barnett Newman.
I stand, enveloped, engulfed,
zipped out to the farthest reach of the color.
The essence of red reaches inside my bowels
to find the unfindable place—
a place hidden from form—
and communicates directly.
I become red.
This wavelength becomes part of my frequency.
I float red.
I hover red.
© FMR 9/25/12
Yoga Spoon & Pencil
by Julia Hanlon
process >>> amanda beekhuizen
we were born naked onto the page of existence; with nothing but the pen of our soul to write ourselves into eternal ecstasy ~ DreamingBear Baraka Kanaan
Technology, Culture, and Ethics
Santa Fe Literary Scene, Poetry, Land Art, New Mexico