Sunday, November 13, 2011

Mr. Pollock* Lives Here

Late this afternoon I walked over to the store and saw these 
pollocked pollarded trees. Their bold black limbs pressed 
against the sky, contrasting with the few wisps of 
remaining daylight and clouds.

On the soccer field a young boy, his father 
and big sister, were using the time they had left
to fly their kites, proud to be able to get them airborne
and to keep them dancing on the evening breeze.

The bare limbs and branches of the pollocked pollarded trees 
in the top picture remind me somewhat of the thick 
and thin lines in some of Jackson Pollock's paintings.

* The correct word is "pollard," dammit, which
 I learned earlier this summer. I just guess my 
mind wants it to be "pollock."  

The "artiste" below reminds me to never become 
so confident that I lose sight of my true abilities.


dive said...

What a fabulous sky! The chalk mark of a con-trail scrawled across the brush-stroke clouds and the stark silhouette of pollarded branches in the foreground. Fantastic!

I shall call them pollocks from now on. We have rather a lot of pollarded willows around here, but as they start to sprout new growth the mess of tiny twigs and shoots do indeed look like a Jackson Pollock painting.

I'm a fan of both him and Florence Foster Jenkins (who in their right mind could not love her?) and so the present you dropped in my email inbox this morning was the perfect start to an old man's birthday. Thank you so much!

Speedway said...

Pollard, dammit, pollard. There was a race car driver years ago by that name, so I should remember. It's like the "plank" trees, I guess - knowing one thing, but calling it another.

And you're very welcome. I was introduced to Florence when I was participating in a choir workshop at age 16. Probably sound like her, now.