Jackson Pollock passes by in sleep
A name I keep on my lips
Till morning,
Not knowing who he is
Or why I want to meet him.
He spills out roughly over my dry tongue
Into consciousness,
And even as I stretch and yawn,
Thinking daily things,
My mind brings forward
Jackson Pollock.
So I open a window and ask space for an answer.
Had I come across the name in conversation?
Had the information flashed across a screen
Surreptitiously hidden from me
To be revealed in dream?
Could it be that Jackson Pollock, in death,
Was left splashing the universe with his colour?
Was he yet weaving snaking lavender threads of pure emotion?
The unfettered Jackson Pollock.
It is no surprise to find the man
Behind the name had, in life,
Trapped something of his genius on canvas.
Chaotic scenes of brilliance woven
Like Aztec visions of hell
Transcendental spiders’ webs within which a part of Jackson Pollock remains visible,
Captured like a snapshot American Indian.
Three names were in the dark but only one remains a spark: Jackson Pollock.
I wonder, will someone in some other time awake with my name in their head?
Are we ever dead?
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Jane Sharp has lived in Vrahassi, a mountain village in Crete, for the past sixteen years. She has been writing poetry for a lot longer. Her poems have been published in magazines, read on the B.B.C. and have won prizes.
