Wanda Phipps
Excerpts from Silent Pictures Recognize the World
1
moody
pale blue twilight
black shapes
green ball teetering
ironwork on roof
he climbs the stairs
Mr. Spock ears
against the sky
4
bottom without top
torso missing
in front of the
white truck
hands on hips
waist missing
plaster grounded
at the bottom
in the bottom
bottom only
present
7
Gowanas cathedral spired
behind barbed wire
blue pink
painted sky
resting above
corrugated metal
fence as
sun hugs
the horizon
11
peek through
metal gate
inches open
between green
wooden fence
glimpse boarded
windows ornate
structure abandoned
12
spiral staircase
curves down
an arm holds on
peeks out
steps away
from the Alhambra
a tiny hostel
holds a tottering
Canadian
on shaky knees
18
almost sepia toned
edges fading
into brown/black
white and black tiles
spread below
dying spider plant
centered on a table
the color of straw
matching thatched seat
chair leaning on
white half wall
angled up to hide
stair rail nesting
on the other side
cool bright rectangle
of sun across
white wall
dark figures
in a painting
everything else
shadow
Lorca passes
conjuring duende
moving through the spirit
of a dead painter
whose wife made this home
for writers, artists, musicians
as his legacy
at the foot of Mojácar
an old Spanish Moorish village
of white washed houses
and British retirees
this strange sadness circles
through and won’t let go
a displaced bass note humming
19
3 clouds/3 rainbows
1 sunburst—face centered
2 mushroom caps—red with
white spots/green cactus
sliced by the frame
clouds blue & pale green
minimalist seagulls in between
clouds & rainbows
adorning toes/shoe tips
multicolored bodies
blue/gold/red
fat laces cotton candy pastel
pink/flaming orange
following yellow
sitting on a ground of
deeply saturated pink
resting
hill of the
circuitous hike
round and round
spiraling upward
panting on the steep
climb spotted
by orange groves
and almond trees
an old man walks
slowly inch by inch
laboring past
white washed house
after white washed house
remembering his neighbors
who have died--his wife
and the years of
walking this hill
his dog follows
watching the old man’s face
tail wagging
Kathleen the Prophetess of
Pleasant Street, Boston, MA
I wandered into a garden
There was Kathleen
The Prophetess of Pleasant Street
And this is what she said:
I always come here
I write wishes on the statue
And when they come true
I rub them off
It looks like
No one comes here no more
St. Aiden’s is no more
The chancellery bought it
The priest at this church
He was so awful
Stuffed his face
And bowed down to the rich
Always with his nasty little dog
My mother told me
When I was little
I’d say, “Look it’s so beautiful,
The church built a new rectory!”
And she’d say
“Who do you think paid for it?
I did, we did.”
And then I moved to another town
And I’m poor
And none of that was given to me
By the church
They would treat my mother
So nice
And she thought
They were her friends
And I’d say,
“They’re not your friends,
They’re not your real friends.”
It’s all about money
The Pope is Satan
Buddha is Satan
In the last days
Children will see visions
You’ll see, when you see it
It’s like the veils are lifted
And truth is revealed
I see murders
And so much evil
You’ll see every obstacle
Satan’s put in your path
You’ll see it
I saw a woman who said,
“I see visions--pay me
And I’ll tell you.”
But there’s nothing special
About that
It’s the last days
A lot of people
Are seeing visions
You’ll see
When you see them
The veils will be lifted
You’ll see…
Installation
(after seeing Nigerian artist Yinka Shonibare’s retrospective exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum)
engaged in an imaginary
criminal conversation
(whispers behind fans
and secret hidden kisses)
in anticipation of
the Grand Tour
the colors mutate
from Indonesia
to Africa
by way of Holland
an elevated carriage
levitates almost
kissing the ceiling
horseless and vacant
screaming yellows
and greens to
equal them dance
around a table
--a continent
The House Protects the Dreamer
(inspired by a quote from The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard)
you’re standing at the bottom of the stairs stuck in a deep hole down a tilting tunnel—threw the soda can at your head
a rich dining hall—walls pale green—a beautiful woman in a sari giving me the grand tour—the chandeliers and all
the house protects the dreamer—thoughts in the mind—soul in the body--body in the womb/house/home/block/community/ borough/city/state/region/country/continent/hemisphere/world/globe/solar system/universe/time/space—I’m dreaming in it
standing on a box no sitting in a box what box are you in and where do we begin to tear it apart?
outside the dining hall—stepping into a public building—pink marble columns—wide marble stairs—into a narrow passageway—institutional gray—tight—too many steps too steep—doors leading
I think I’m holding a dagger in my right hand—I raise it—shout “If you say another word I’ll gouge your eyes out”—then I notice my hand is empty—my sobbing wakes you from your working dream
thoughts in the mind—soul in the body—body in the womb/house produces the dreamer
pulling worms from your body I notice the slope of the spine and the way the skin seems phosphorescent—Degas’ bather turns her head
in the letter you write of desire masquerading as a form of musical notation—we sit in a dark small room to decode the message
words as in speaking not always communing but still communicating—long for the thoughts in words that resonate in the mind/body—home/body—fantastical undercurrents like molten lead or similar substance—akin to flow and echo in the dream house
Wall of Words
(inspired by Anne Waldman's "Goddess whose substance is desire")
Tokyo and others
other places—serious and long
on graces
A beam of light
or a ray from your planet
leaves me without reason
pocketing sainthood
a stripper down
of worlds
Living in and out of harmony
takes us through pleasure
and humbles us all
Give up the escort
of nourishment
Leave all gleaming
substance unfed
Smile as a vulture
in front of a charming morsel
Proudly feathered
swoop to the podium
Become a pagan
at the altar of Light
Be an ornamental being
never at rest
__________
Wanda Phipps is a writer/performer living in Brooklyn. Her books include Field of Wanting: Poems of Desire (BlazeVOX[books]) and Wake-Up Calls: 66 Morning Poems (Soft Skull Press). Her poetry has been translated into Ukrainian, Hungarian, Arabic, Galician and Bangla. She has received awards from the New York Foundation for the Arts, the National Theater Translation Fund, and others. As a founding member of Yara Arts Group she has collaborated on numerous theatrical productions presented in Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan, Siberia, and at La MaMa, E.T.C. in NYC. She’s curated reading series at the Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church and written about the arts for Time Out New York, Paper Magazine, and About.com.
Excerpts from Silent Pictures Recognize the World
1
moody
pale blue twilight
black shapes
green ball teetering
ironwork on roof
he climbs the stairs
Mr. Spock ears
against the sky
4
bottom without top
torso missing
in front of the
white truck
hands on hips
waist missing
plaster grounded
at the bottom
in the bottom
bottom only
present
7
Gowanas cathedral spired
behind barbed wire
blue pink
painted sky
resting above
corrugated metal
fence as
sun hugs
the horizon
11
peek through
metal gate
inches open
between green
wooden fence
glimpse boarded
windows ornate
structure abandoned
12
spiral staircase
curves down
an arm holds on
peeks out
steps away
from the Alhambra
a tiny hostel
holds a tottering
Canadian
on shaky knees
18
almost sepia toned
edges fading
into brown/black
white and black tiles
spread below
dying spider plant
centered on a table
the color of straw
matching thatched seat
chair leaning on
white half wall
angled up to hide
stair rail nesting
on the other side
cool bright rectangle
of sun across
white wall
dark figures
in a painting
everything else
shadow
Lorca passes
conjuring duende
moving through the spirit
of a dead painter
whose wife made this home
for writers, artists, musicians
as his legacy
at the foot of Mojácar
an old Spanish Moorish village
of white washed houses
and British retirees
this strange sadness circles
through and won’t let go
a displaced bass note humming
19
3 clouds/3 rainbows
1 sunburst—face centered
2 mushroom caps—red with
white spots/green cactus
sliced by the frame
clouds blue & pale green
minimalist seagulls in between
clouds & rainbows
adorning toes/shoe tips
multicolored bodies
blue/gold/red
fat laces cotton candy pastel
pink/flaming orange
following yellow
sitting on a ground of
deeply saturated pink
resting
hill of the
circuitous hike
round and round
spiraling upward
panting on the steep
climb spotted
by orange groves
and almond trees
an old man walks
slowly inch by inch
laboring past
white washed house
after white washed house
remembering his neighbors
who have died--his wife
and the years of
walking this hill
his dog follows
watching the old man’s face
tail wagging
Kathleen the Prophetess of
Pleasant Street, Boston, MA
I wandered into a garden
There was Kathleen
The Prophetess of Pleasant Street
And this is what she said:
I always come here
I write wishes on the statue
And when they come true
I rub them off
It looks like
No one comes here no more
St. Aiden’s is no more
The chancellery bought it
The priest at this church
He was so awful
Stuffed his face
And bowed down to the rich
Always with his nasty little dog
My mother told me
When I was little
I’d say, “Look it’s so beautiful,
The church built a new rectory!”
And she’d say
“Who do you think paid for it?
I did, we did.”
And then I moved to another town
And I’m poor
And none of that was given to me
By the church
They would treat my mother
So nice
And she thought
They were her friends
And I’d say,
“They’re not your friends,
They’re not your real friends.”
It’s all about money
The Pope is Satan
Buddha is Satan
In the last days
Children will see visions
You’ll see, when you see it
It’s like the veils are lifted
And truth is revealed
I see murders
And so much evil
You’ll see every obstacle
Satan’s put in your path
You’ll see it
I saw a woman who said,
“I see visions--pay me
And I’ll tell you.”
But there’s nothing special
About that
It’s the last days
A lot of people
Are seeing visions
You’ll see
When you see them
The veils will be lifted
You’ll see…
Installation
(after seeing Nigerian artist Yinka Shonibare’s retrospective exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum)
engaged in an imaginary
criminal conversation
(whispers behind fans
and secret hidden kisses)
in anticipation of
the Grand Tour
the colors mutate
from Indonesia
to Africa
by way of Holland
an elevated carriage
levitates almost
kissing the ceiling
horseless and vacant
screaming yellows
and greens to
equal them dance
around a table
--a continent
The House Protects the Dreamer
(inspired by a quote from The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard)
you’re standing at the bottom of the stairs stuck in a deep hole down a tilting tunnel—threw the soda can at your head
a rich dining hall—walls pale green—a beautiful woman in a sari giving me the grand tour—the chandeliers and all
the house protects the dreamer—thoughts in the mind—soul in the body--body in the womb/house/home/block/community/ borough/city/state/region/country/continent/hemisphere/world/globe/solar system/universe/time/space—I’m dreaming in it
standing on a box no sitting in a box what box are you in and where do we begin to tear it apart?
outside the dining hall—stepping into a public building—pink marble columns—wide marble stairs—into a narrow passageway—institutional gray—tight—too many steps too steep—doors leading
I think I’m holding a dagger in my right hand—I raise it—shout “If you say another word I’ll gouge your eyes out”—then I notice my hand is empty—my sobbing wakes you from your working dream
thoughts in the mind—soul in the body—body in the womb/house produces the dreamer
pulling worms from your body I notice the slope of the spine and the way the skin seems phosphorescent—Degas’ bather turns her head
in the letter you write of desire masquerading as a form of musical notation—we sit in a dark small room to decode the message
words as in speaking not always communing but still communicating—long for the thoughts in words that resonate in the mind/body—home/body—fantastical undercurrents like molten lead or similar substance—akin to flow and echo in the dream house
Wall of Words
(inspired by Anne Waldman's "Goddess whose substance is desire")
Tokyo and others
other places—serious and long
on graces
A beam of light
or a ray from your planet
leaves me without reason
pocketing sainthood
a stripper down
of worlds
Living in and out of harmony
takes us through pleasure
and humbles us all
Give up the escort
of nourishment
Leave all gleaming
substance unfed
Smile as a vulture
in front of a charming morsel
Proudly feathered
swoop to the podium
Become a pagan
at the altar of Light
Be an ornamental being
never at rest
__________
Wanda Phipps is a writer/performer living in Brooklyn. Her books include Field of Wanting: Poems of Desire (BlazeVOX[books]) and Wake-Up Calls: 66 Morning Poems (Soft Skull Press). Her poetry has been translated into Ukrainian, Hungarian, Arabic, Galician and Bangla. She has received awards from the New York Foundation for the Arts, the National Theater Translation Fund, and others. As a founding member of Yara Arts Group she has collaborated on numerous theatrical productions presented in Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan, Siberia, and at La MaMa, E.T.C. in NYC. She’s curated reading series at the Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church and written about the arts for Time Out New York, Paper Magazine, and About.com.