Paumanok is the 1st part of
1995 Road Movie ”...had been a happy time.” part 1
Here it is presented as a separate entity.
Paumanok
Paumanok, was the Indian
name, meaning--
“that fish shaped island,”
“...had been a happy time.“ the rented
cottage, a home, far from city rigor,
a comfortable “bum style,”
continuous surf,
through varied weather, the waves
coming home, from the beach to paint
waiting for the afternoon shadows lengthening--
big, vacation like clams, in the pond
just across the road,
what one would wish for,
tossed into the spaghetti and salad,
farm tomatoes and corn
thought we deserved this,
never questioned this
elegant poverty
drinking tea, reading poetry,
a last stroll into the pink
failing light, reflecting bay shimmer,
weird and invigorating rose tint,
gaining back strength
spring, it was the poem
became the world
Long Island had been the hope
yes, “I’m out here,”
but, I wanted to paint the sea--
the hurricane surf,
I wanted to make a painting
wedding Benton and Pollock
like the beach rose for Becky
a kind of intimacy
Jackson, made a beach rose
painting, for a girl named Becky
it stuck in my mind with
the same touch of affection
and foreignness
I’ve been out to Montauk a lot lately
the light house, the beach
surfing in the morning and painting
before the sun gets too high
still I am drawn to Barcelona Neck,
it’s very quiet there
I just saw a group of deer running
along the road, I don’t know
is this natural?
there at the end of the road
is a tree I love, I’ve painted it
in the Sunset
it has a sign nailed to it
about, reporting Ridley turtles
it stands in the sunset
as an emblem, of that endangerment
I’m always happy to see the tree has survived
as well each year
turtles swimming
through dreams--
3 am,
that mockingbird outside
woke me, worrying about this and that,
that rubber boot I found for the painting
but then it never fit in,
remember to exercise each morning
run to the point and back
I made a painting of the back yard
it doesn’t seem much now,
painted the osprey nest,
and the lilies again,
the flowers dying so soon
nothing stands still,
one day I was parked over by the bay
I was reading, Song of Myself,
and had my feet up on the dash, when
bounding across the screen
a big buck deer, zig zagging
down the beach,
its antlers held high, looking
I guess, for a place
to hide itself, veering off
into some reeds and was gone
it’s hard to imagine again-- it was
very fast, something hidden
then exposed
then again, this place collapsing into itself
this suburban crunch is cynical,
painting the beach roses,
they’re almost over now
and turning to rose hips,
I painted the sunset, again
as the full moon rose behind me,
the green reeds in the purple sky
the brownish red of the silk,
flows in a soft breeze
the flag of a disposition--
carrying the paints
down the beach, then back to the car,
I’ve done this so many times before
the scene of my fiction,
I forget, I do it again
the pitcher has blown over
the changing season,
painting a skull, a water bottle and bread
with a sprig of holly,
Paul, thought it from Chardin or Manet,
I was surfing in the Hurricane,
a friend said I should get a job
I told him artists were saints of sorts
and should be respected
for what we tried to do,
who are these people living
in these potato fields,
breathing the spray, insecticide
the wave at flood tide wipes
the slate clean
the mocking bird sets down on
the fallen vase,
the wind quickens
a reddening sky, the weather cools ,
I’m looking for the fish to arrive,
the new coolness of darkening skies
out back here, my studio
painting outside, the hobo style
listening to jazz on the college station,
hearing the resignation
this place brings on, in my voice
sounds like Schuyler and Ashbery,
Fairfield and Georges
like that old recording of Pollock
gone,
god, but I love the good old fashioned
sitting out in the air,
mucking around for clams, burned
and red, waiting till things are just right
this second order of reality
being covered with a third
distance from the dirt I love,
why not a pine box?
I guess I’ll just be burned up
I hear it’s actually illegal to--
spread around the ashes though
but who knows,
it never rained and we lived
outside almost the whole summer like California
the hurricanes roared through
they were fun and we surfed
as much as we could,
sitting at the overlook reading the paper
watching the swell
the waves get too big
the weather turns around
and the wind flattens it all out
the moment missed
Wow! those waves were great,
you know that feeling?
a few beach roses left,
mostly the red orange hips
the lilies are gone and the trumpet vine
out back the candle is
bleached, white
from red, the little boy in bronze
amid some sun flowers
the broken shells
the rope intertwining
the vase
a ruined man hung from the trees,
wading into the pink translucence
Ah! this is where I should be
the water
repeating the old themes, as the gods
did before us in the sky
reading the old poetry
the paintings before
fighting through headache and frustration,
blackness of mind
the neck stiffens, the future ahead
is in the shading between heaven
and hell
the crickets chirping, the wind
in the cypress
the clouds high and crisp blown
ragged butterflies
here, there-- that fish shaped island,
the sky painted blue
the scumbled trees, the water
steeled and sparkling
in the roughening wind
greens and yellows with light and
black in bluest shade
a jet cut through the sky--
striking a nerve, hurting my fingers,
my being strays, I drift from the moment,
I’m pained to stay
as these moments float, as that
boat, gone
and blacker shade,
these leaves
are still green,
and well shaped-- the seeds
are formed to fall
and the air pushes forward
getting out of the car, to paint
I need to make something of it,
saluting September, I’m glad to be alive,
I love all this,
a fly buzzes,
moving along,
the waves lap,
the tide rising,
the wind grows
the changing light, the clouds,
the change enlarging the moment
to feel,
one in all of this,
doing my bit, I’ll soon be off,
looking back
my cheeks warm in the sun red
my arms blond with light
silence, a friendly jab
a nod,
getting dinner,
watching the sunset
I think I’ll hurry, so I
can paint this one
the spreading high clouds
of a tropical weather pattern
will make a good painting
arriving to the bay,
Aw, it’s all turned gray
just as I get here
a fisherman is returning,
I forget about painting
nervous about the city, anyhow
that invisible storm surge
packs a wallop and
I’m tired of fighting it, swimming
against the tide, the surfers are being replaced
by surf casters as the summer ends
big striped bass are lurking
around the point-- I’ve been eating blue fish
all this week, the blue jay out the window
dances and defends the seed
left from the sunflowers, past
painted, hanging on a post
they make a Goya like scene
from the cartoon tapestry paintings,
a towhee is scratching
up the old buried seed,
summer is slipping away
the dove silently pecks in the middle ground
of beige, the jay squawks
creating somewhat of a surface
in that moment,
the airplane drone--
a walk on Paumanok’s beach, drifts
of seaweed and blown foam
the September
wind, the lapping wave
repeating a soothing sound,
staring
blank upon the sand, feeling
a still warm SUN
LIGHTS UP THE GOLDENROD
AGAINST THE VERONESE SKY
OF VICTORIOUS ANGEL
WING CLOUDS, THROUGH REEDS
BURNISHED GOLD--WHITE
THE GLARE!
and splash, the neck-laced labia ringed
wave
slurp and gurgle as
grackles black, in that yellow flare--
I see, footprints
vanishing in the rising tide
Paumanok is spread out, the air
the transparent moment,
the huge sunflower,
BIG (eyeball),
sun on the horizon
puff of clouds,
pass-- pass--
ocean to bay, rising
I’m too-- soon to be gone
and this place will be enveloped in gray
a shadow crosses my face
pained to think, these beautiful colors
their freshness is reminder
of the moment
and indeed death
gives birth to the beauty
we pretend not to mean-- know or need
I turn
leaving my footprints
the moon last night curved
toward the sun
below the horizon
receiving its light
in the blue darkness
two stars
in a wake of shining light
the purple scene
a skull on a red table
green light on the San Pellegrino bottle,
a loaf of bread
the sprig of holly,
brighten the repetition
the bird song, from dark cypress,
beach grass
bending in breeze
the great wind at my back--
dirty thumb covered in paint
carrying the paint box
oh, then I saw these two,
tanned lawn-mower guys
one flying a kite
I guess, they’re taking a break, the other
in the truck still eating a sandwich,
watching, on this beautiful day
with their creased hands stretched upward
towards the white kite
pirates skull and crossed bones, insignia,
a weak shade
from a passing cloud
in the cooling light
the cloud puff,
over ailanthus tree,
the torn poster is gone
well I must go,
the symbol’s weaving
revolving
losing to winter.
the winter city’s, gray,
continuing the fight
in the ever ending,
never resting--
plain and happy,
forgetting, the push and shove,
for ‘my’ space,
“not really the country,”
she said, her first time
out here
the folks are gone,
and Sagaponac
an advertisement,
the old store sold
well, I'm gone anyway,
don’t want
to go on like this
the still-life
lit in autumn night
that wild bird
silent,
not there.
