By the Sound of a Voice After a long silence that seemed An eternity, There came a turbulent noise, A spirited noise. No, it was a voice, A loud voice Lashing up a storm, Singing intense, singing hot. And in the violence Of that voice, Whirled seeds of sound, Fragments of sense, Half-words, Commas & accents, Rhythm & image, Inclining towards poetry. And the LORD bent His ear To hear spoken The moon & sun & stars – & there was a dark saying too, Sung by

Aither / R-O-R' Light realm of air, from which heaven came: Neither hot nor cold, neither wet nor dry. Quintessentially, it was either the pneuma divine Holding in place the classical celestial spheres… Or an unseen substance of science for the propagation And transmission of light and gravity. But now it is just a word used by chalky chemists Denoting R-O-R’ with C-O-C linkages.

Fichte / Picture There is nothing real anywhere, neither outside of us nor in us. I know of no being at all. Not even myself. Images there are. They are all that exist, connected to each other, interpenetrating, merging, overlapping, an irreducible multiplicity of unframed pictures in movement. It is a strange dream making pictures of other pictures, the image of your mind picturing pictures, and the picture of my mind picturing you doing so.

Saul The soul of the king an out-of-tune lyre with harpstrings for guts – many sharps and flats. Sent by the LORD the holy pneuma's hand scrapes unholy noise. It maddens the king with dissonant thought – the fatal vibration of blood in the heart until he is dead.

Artful Agaze, the artist is beset by eros Of no vulgar kind. Crossing the chorismos, He takes his tools, kneads and forms And sculpts. Substance yields to some thing new. But partially obscured by dark spots, The result is more product Than idea.

A Dark Thought in a Green Shade Somewhere in the newly planted earth, a god sits at his bench, creating and curating each little plant and flower. Day upon day he nurses roots, stems and leaves, talks to fragile saplings, puts to work all the surprising symmetries and fractals he dreams of when he sleeps for hours in the afternoon sun. Neither a Moses nor a Prospero, but looking like both, the god puts down his staff and exhales a fragrant cloud that veils the garde

Yehudah, I Make You Mine From out of the banks of the muddy Jordan River, I make you Mine. Into shape I press the grit, into shape I knead the clay And your body clings to my fingers. I knead and a verb puts you in motion. I cut and I layer and an adjective fleshes out your shape. I slap and I roll and a rhyme gives you weight. I model and I sculpt and a noun marks you as a thing. With a name, I form you in my image (Your name is on my tongue). With a name, I firm you

Wyrd In the beginning was the Wyrd. A story of weirding words and the poet fluttered his pen over the ink. What comes to pass has passed and is passing. We owe a debt of guilt. Go ever has he shall, he has. I shall.

A Poem Is a Picture Environed by varying degrees of space, (depending on where you draw the line), a poem is a picture of the artist's mind on a pagewhite canvas.

A Beginning I will proclaim the name of Elah Yisrael: It is Yahuweh Tzavaot the impassioned one who speaks the yod & the heh, who brings it all into being, into shape, first with words & then forming substance with his hands. Far above the newly hammered earth, the unseen Yahu (O He!) sits at his wheel, creates & curates each little pot, all the animals, trees & men, delighting in the lettered forms he finds inscribed in his personal sefer ha’mitzvot. Now it’s Yom HaShevi’i

Adam (1951-52) by Barnett Newman Barnett Newman and the Art of Not Making Graven Images Barnett Newman was born in 1905 to Abraham and Anna Newman, Jewish immigrants from Poland who came to New York City in 1900. Although not religious, Barnett’s father was a passionate Zionist and a supporter of the National Hebrew School of the Bronx. As well as attending Hebrew school, Barnett and his brothers and sisters were educated at home by Jewish scholars from Europe. He went on to

Onement, 1 (1948) by Barnett Newman The Sublime Art of Barnett Newman The problem of a painting is physical and metaphysical, the same as I think life is physical and metaphysical – Barnett Newman Barnett Newman was born in 1905 to Abraham and Anna Newman, Jewish immigrants from Poland who came to New York City in 1900. Although not religious, Barnett’s father was a passionate Zionist and supporter of the National Hebrew School of the Bronx. As well as attending Hebrew schoo