Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Oh Sleep, Where Are Thou

I’ll confess, I am a night owl like none other…….or at least I was. To my fiancĂ©’s most likely utter annoyance (or at least it will be once we get married) I enjoy staying up till around the time when the best infomorcials are on (roughly around 3-4). Unfortunately due to my packed schedule this summer/fall I am unable to strive fulfill my inner night owl. An internship, two jobs, writing and working on revival a literary journal can seriously hamper that. My summer of 12 hour days have truly left me drained and exhausted even on those days where I can slightly recoop (fortunately I gave myself one each week but stuff is slowly sneaking in). I’m not going to lie, I am venting a little bit from my extensive exhaustion like many, many, MANY other people do and I’m not trying to get sympathy, just kinda throwing it out there. It brings me to one of the most reoccurring moments I have, the struggle with external forces regarding the sacred time of day known as sleep. It’s one of the only times where my mind feels at ease (besides standing in the shower with hot water cascading down my neck and back) and for a short time I don’t  feel like I want to punt a salmon halfway across the alps. So to me, sleep is a time for my mind to say “Hey, I’m resting here, nobody bother me”. This isn't the case normally. This poem says it all

Sunday
By Zach Moore

 Morning sun peaks through cracked dusty blinds
Following orders to spy on me for his supervisor
Birds chirp their report, sending it off with the sun’s
‘God, it’s the weekend” sighing
As an old Irish limerick sings from my cell

Tugging the fabric softener scented covers over my eyes,
I roll onto my side, shutting out the early morning world
“Hell, five more minutes never hurt”



I’m sure everybody has had days like this before…….for me, it happens way to frequently 

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Art is in the Air

Art is something I hold dear in my heart. The ideas a painter can express on a single canvas with a variety of media, a form a sculptor releases from marble or bronze and the wondrous worlds wood blocks can produce on a piece of parchment. Art is essential to my life but also my writing.In my time in Graduate Program I have opted to pursue art history and poetry as my key emphasis as well as getting a certificate in museum studies. So to connect all of this together, as a requirement of my program I have to do an internship and with that said mine has been taking place at the local art museum. For me this museum has been a safe haven for me, a place where inspiration can run wild, ideas can come and go, and where I can feel at ease.

Today like all Sunday’s, I do part of my internship there and it’s not what I would like to be doing (such as on Friday, when I work with the registrar and actually handle artwork and catalog it) but it’s something where I can get firsthand experience and meet interesting people. I’m talking about working at the visitor’s desk selling tickets and helping patrons. Not the most wonderful job but, I do enjoy myself (the guy I work with, Alan makes the entire shift race by due to our similar personalities and the mass quantity of stories we tell). One of the perks to working on a Sunday is how slow the museum is towards the end of the day. Now this may not seem like a perk but it allows to you time to take a walk around the museum. With how bust I’ve been over the past nine months, I haven’t had time like this to enjoy a walk through the galleries and halls that have inspired me so much in the past. Today I took a leisurely walk through the halls as tear down was being done for the annual Artball that was yesterday night. Think of it as a yearly elegant night of art, food and dancing where all the movers and shakers of the area come to converse……..It reminds me of a painting that’s located in the impressionism hall entitled Dinner at the Casino. During my walk, I was alone, the workers had left for break, patrons long gone, I was by myself with hundreds and thousands of year’s worth of ideas and portraits of single moments. A deep breath with my eyes shut, and I’m taken back to the moment of inception of these works, the artists sitting or standing in front of canvases, paint brush nestled securely in their hands, waiting for that second when that first brush stroke hits. The calm blankets me while I stand in front of Monet’s Lilies, and I think why I haven’t taken more time to do this, to enjoy the moments I have so much in the days and months before school and work got the best of me.

A quick glance at my cell phone and I notice that it’s getting time for me to continue my journey from Europe to America through the modern era and back to the visitors desk. Another glance back through the halls that enshrine the Renaissance and Religious art, I shut my eyes one more time allowing the echoes of my shoes hitting the wood floor to take me away.

Monet Painting in his Garden
Inspired by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

The poppies are delightful in their scarlet wraps
Violets court each other in twos
Thistle grass weaves between interlocking petals
I remember this in such detail, the French oil paint
Rests in streaks across the palette of my mind
Where cross-legged on a stool, my dream-self sits,
Stubbornly waiting for fresh brushes
“No, these will not work, the bristles are frayed” he says out loud

Lilacs and spotted geraniums bow in agreement from the garden before me
The blank canvas rests on the borrowed easel from monsieur Monet
Who, standing nearby with his pastoral landscape in germination,
Blue oil clots on petal’s edge, the final brushstrokes dry in afternoon sun
Black suited gentlemen meander along in awe
Their walking sticks clack on cobble-stone sidewalks,
Like a fanfare for his masterpiece.

My dream-self appalled and even jealous forgets his recent disgusts
His phantom digits align with mine
Brush to oil, Monet’s flowers bloom, garden first, his canvas next
Claude himself even makes a guest appearance,
Frozen in inception, struggling with his unconscious on what to paint.


Written by Zach Moore- Copyright 2012

Friday, June 7, 2013

Journeys from the Road

Greetings,
Let me introduce myself, I am a poet, a free-lance photographer, a story-teller and a documenter of life. I am predominately a poet but my love for photography and the arts in general seep into the words that stain the pages in countless notebooks. I have an English degree with an emphasis in creative writing but my passion for the arts caused me to chart a different course when I entered graduate school. Currently I am pursuing a Master’s in Humanities with a focus on Art History and Poetry as well as a Certificate in Museum Studies. I feel that with this combination, I can fulfill my passion while getting the experience I need in a variety of areas.

In the course of this blog,I intend to use it as an extension of my writing in the form of retelling stories that are connected to my work, discussing my life, and of course connecting to you all be it a few people or a lot. In my years of helping beginning poets and other writers, I've learned the most essential thing is just getting your work out there.

So I welcome you onto this road I walk, paved in stories, memories, and experiences that document my past, and the days to come. Hopefully you all will enjoy the stories that are to come. Till then I wish you all a very pleasant evening

The Road
by Zach Moore

I walk the road paved in drifter’s tales
Where soles are peeled and strewn about
Vagrant prints rest step in step,
Their trails intersect in boxcars and ash covered alleys
Becoming road blocks constructed by glass ceiling fragments.

Crinkled church bulletins guide me to deteriorating shelters
Where patron saints watch over flocks of vagabonds huddled in masses
Neglected and forgotten, they struggle to capture the last bit of warmth,
Cracked soup bowls are tossed aside with echoing thuds
"The wells dried up" a man says to me with hunger, with desperation

Leaning against brick walls like soldiers at arm
Their plaid and checkered sweaters tie lives together
In patch-work sacks, photo prints stitched into frayed cloth,
Trinkets of yester life fade and fissure
Beside families forgotten

The breaking day leads me to cracked street corners,
I hunch over with hands clasped, praying for food, for salvation,
My remaining days have become etched along soot stained wrinkles
Mapping my past and present like an atlas for people walking by
While at intersections, ragged panhandlers stalk like lions ready to pounce.

The sun dips behind lamp posts, clocking out for the day
I depart to neighboring cities or wherever the railway-men permit
This pile of clothes bones and decaying dreams cares not the least
For the road I walk, speaks the tales I cannot
And engraves the words on my gutter grave.






Copyrighted 2012