narrative imaginings


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.

But Barnett.
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


One comment on “RED

  1. artquench
    September 26, 2012

    ArtQuenchGallery.com likes these images.

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This entry was posted on September 26, 2012 by in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , .
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