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21Paintings
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b y Je f f Le de r m an
b y Margaret Sullivan
21Poems
ArtSpring
Salt Spring Island, British Columbia May 23 - June 12 2019 All paintings are oil on canvas with one noted exception. The Other Heaven, Casting, A Poem About Poetry and Forgiving are additional to the exhibition.
2018, 48x60�
We’ve slept from the same pillow Dined from the same plate The sand that would rest on my face Has fallen from your hair My roads have wound their way into your roads
Mean Dogs by Margaret Sullivan
(in Honor of Vasko Popa)
bring back my heart I brought back yours I won’t continue this, dissembler I won’t if your cloud-like whispers would beg me I won’t not even languished with flowers it’s off and I won’t give me back my soul user of my secrets manipulator of my truth give it back to me, liar who once said I see all that is calls me blind give me back my heart who once wept at my tender sadness now, half embarrassed, is ‘put off’ give me back my ruined hope you, who teaches me of intimacy and takes it back in a trite explanation of love the sand that would rest on my face has fallen from your hair my roads have wound their way into your roads but you’ve torn your path from my path you’ve killed my essence that lived in your heart now the cry of my pain takes its breath from your air think of it as the wind that tortures you in winter it howls and frightens you at night give me back my art,traitor who once dreamed my stories who once danced my songs,, sang my poems now blankly states, “You’ve made it all up”
give me back my pride you, who would accuse me of your own miserable failings give me back my mind, idiot who said I never gave him anything who contemptuously claims never to need me give me back my self, vulture who preys on my sadness who mocks my struggle who throws in my face my mangled weary goals you took these from me and you can bring them back, cool neurotic liar ignorant and arrogant ruiner of my heart, criminal of my passion stay away from me assailant my hatred is a weed so wrong be your streets and lost your way dark your mornings darker your nights fail you your sight in hostile alleys lose your way on moon gone nights that you won’t frighten my heart that you won’t with your beauty that your beauty won’t capture me again give it back to me, conqueror hero of my broken soul strangler of my dreams breaker of my heart breaker of my heart give me back my heart you who once wept at my tender sadness took back yours and slept peacefully that night
2017, 60x48�
Not in a dark bed like lightning Not wound up behind a dike No burst of fear, no slam of rage No arrow to a chosen mark No angry wound to hate around You are grown over
2018, 47x42”
I didn’t say goodbye, I said I’ll damage your sleep and everyone in it My mouth is just a thing on me Whatever name is called, that could be mine I could have been anyone in my family
2017, 60x48�
Saw fierce cloud jungles From a plane Spirits dove in and out Once flew into another day that way
2014, 72x60�
There were tracks to be ground out There was the horizon smoke of forever dogging our golden trail
2014, 60x48�
Its like the dark haired mother in white Its like the color of her milk Its like wrapping your legs around her and clinging Its about how delicate she is How high her arches, her tiny narrow feet
2018, 48x60�
In the late afternoon secret poets drive taxis and wait on tables Smiling through straight faces They keep their hearts in the city At night their souls are cats who might come back
2019, 48x60”
Somewhere in a broken city A construction worker takes a fall Someone’s daughter watches on But she doesn’t offer help
Forgiving It’s like being unforgiving It’s like being a sperm and an egg It’s like being thrown out of the litter It’s like being the coyote at the edge of the town waiting It’s like waiting for someone It’s like waiting for the shift to change in a bar It’s like fresh troops of waitresses fresh troops of mail deliverers fresh troops of school teachers fresh troops of bosses fresh troops of bus drivers It’s like wandering around without your shoes It’s like wondering where it’s all going It’s like being completely conspicuous in every small gesture It’s like being unable to move It’s like a piece of random information It’s like a piece of hope It’s like the letter you were waiting for It’s like the complete answer It’s completely beckoning It’s completely horrifying It’s like finishing everything you’ve ever started It’s about all the trouble you’ve gone to It’s like coming home to find a new dress laid out on the bed It’s about the things you’ve always wanted It’s about the things you never wanted It’s like running away from home It’s like never ever coming back It’s like wanting to get back It’s about being forgiving - Margaret Sullivan
2019, 48x60�
My heart is the lonely red moon On the card of evil night Thought and dissension overplay The themes are of loss and despair
2018, 52x60�
Two lovers who live apart Are like two lonely pale windows Whose intrigues provoke Whose mysteries are fear
Out in the hills There is food There is water There is the time to acknowledge it
2018, 72x48�
2018, 48x72�
The soul of my lover is a day Something is stealing its light away Dark clouds are closing Closing it out
A Poem About Poetry The moon is building the moon is building up Have you seen this line before? No, you haven’t It has only just been written If you think you have it may be because I ask you Every poem could be a poem about poetry and every painting, a painting about painting This implies that we know everything and are about to die There is a building I know that demonstrates this clearly When I have questions about the ultimate holocaust I see this building and know It stands as if we had all already died You know buildings like this Every bit of politics is like politics about politics Then there is science which tells us facts like that the moon is building the moon is building up - Margaret Sullivan
Casting Water means to tell the story of oneness But water presents itself in pieces A wave is itself and can be counted And beads on a windshield have names Fire? It’s no different There was a year in my life That I didn’t get to have It was taken away from me because I was too distracted I could try to get it back But the longing for a quiet life has made my mind dull Today I took a minute to look up I found the clouds assigning their parts in the play - Margaret Sullivan
2018, 60x40�
Water means to tell the story of oneness But water presents itself in pieces A wave is itself and can be counted Fire? It’s no different
2018, 60x48�
The fingers of resentment The fingertips of rage Oh, what is smashed Oh, the dry encounter Torture is irrevocable like sex What was, what never
2019, 48x60”
It doesn’t matter that there is movement implied It doesn’t matter to open the door This is a picture that is finished If you love me, you will leave it alone
2018, Latex on canvas, 48x60�
This is a poem that could have been avoided Dust thrashes through the air Strangling our view of the abandoned western home We are very close at hand
2018, 60x48�
She saw it as an image of heaven She thought of it as a good way to get even It took her a long time to see it for the problems it could deliver She thought of it as something most people don’t get to have
2018, 48x60�
There was an accident of the tongue There was a low heeled girl wearing white socks There were two doors cradled like wings that opened It was a school bus gone out of control There was the sound it made
The Other Heaven My Love and I have made some natural assumptions We planted them in the surface of our table our artifacts, our notes and drawings and letters our shared baths the saintly out of doors This is proof to us that we were shot through with intention, that we were born in a bed of invention It is the tendency for all of us to wish to lie closely in bed, in the water, in the grass in a car, on a floor This keeps the world together The invention of desire in this bed of invention is where we have made ourselves My Love has a voice of pure longing I sleep under his eyelashes He can appear to me in the smell of his hands He waited and his flesh waited He waited without any help from time or from the other heaven My Love and I lie in a bed of pure dreaming The one we invented - Margaret Sullivan
2018, 60x72�
There was a sand filled highway There were two coats wrapped around two hubcaps for pillows There was a gradual settling of dust There was a gradual quiet in the radio
Margaret Sullivan
is a poet. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago. She has published three books with Chicago Review Press and is a contributing author to the American Psychological Association’s text, On the Stigma of Mental Illness. Because of her background in social psychology she has taught in curricular areas that include writing, consumer research and semiotics. She founded the Summer Arts Camp at Columbia College, and is recognized as an innovator in poetry education for children. Other publications: plays, essays, academic research in music consumption. Recently she taught for the Chicago School of Poetics.
Jeff Lederman has
been painting all of his life with in a driven, abiding and impassioned force informed, in part, by the A b st ra ct Expressionist Action Painters of the 1950’s. Jeff slaps oil paint into place, drags it across the canvas, scrapes it down-until it’s time to start again, reapplying paint until either the war with the canvas is won or meditative peace is found. Or both. His non-representational work is born of colour, dynamic movement, balance and depth. Don’t go looking for titles on Jeff’s paintings. From the earliest, he would like to create an unbridled freedom to see and feel what the canvas is giving to be seen and felt.
All poetry, Copyright Margaret T. Sullivan 2019, and no poems may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.