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Posts from the ‘mina loy’ Category

Mina Loy

June 1st, 2013

Daniel Pontius


P1040898 P1040905

The text is from Mina Loy’s Poem, There is No Life or Death. Read the complete poem and some of her others over hereThis pillow is from a group of text pillows–done free-hand on my sewing machine.  The fabric is dark oatmeal linen and the thread is this fantastic pink from my favorite embroidery shop, Des Fils et une Aiguille, in Paris.  The other pillows in the group, not shown, are similar and the quotes are at the very bottom of this page.

To see some of my past blogs on Mina Loy,  click one or both of those links. P1040918


The group of Grey Hmong Wedding Quilt Pillows— I just finished them this week– have  accent colors from a true pink to a pale peach.


Mina Loy II

August 5th, 2010

Daniel Pontius

Consider Your Grandmother’s Stays: drawing by Mina Loy, 1916

L’Amour dorloté par les belles dames: drawing and gouache by Mina Loy, 1906 (Collection of Roger L. Conover).

La Maison en papier: drawing and gouache by Mina Loy, 1906 (Collection of Michael Duncan).

Love Songs


Spawn of fantasies
Sifting the appraisable
Pig Cupid his rosy snout
Rooting erotic garbage
“Once upon a time”
Pulls a weed white star-topped
Among wild oats sown in mucous membrane
I would an eye in a Bengal light
Eternity in a sky-rocket
Constellations in an ocean
Whose rivers run no fresher
Than a trickle of saliva

These are suspect places

I must live in my lantern
Trimming subliminal flicker
Virginal to the bellows
Of experience
Colored glass.

At your mercy
Our Universe
Is only
A colorless onion
You derobe
Sheath by sheath
A disheartening odour
About your nervy hands

Heavy with shut-flower’s nightmares
Curled to the solitaire
Core of the

Evolution fall foul of
Sexual equality
Prettily miscalculate

Unnatural selection
Breed such sons and daughters
As shall jibber at each other
Uninterpretable cryptonyms
Under the moon

Give them some way of braying brassily
For caressive calling
Or to homophonous hiccoughs
Transpose the laugh
Let them suppose that tears
Are snowdrops or molasses
Or anything
Than human insufficiences
Begging dorsal vertebrae

Let meeting be the turning
To the antipodean
And Form a blur
Than to seduce them
To the one
As simple satisfaction
For the other

Shuttle-cock and battle-door
A little pink-love
And feathers are strewn

Let Joy go solace-winged
To flutter whom she may concern

Once in a mezzanino
The starry ceiling
Vaulted an unimaginable family
Bird-like abortions
With human throats
And Wisdom’s eyes
Who wore lamp-shade red dresses
And woolen hair

One bore a baby
In a padded porte-enfant
Tied with a sarsenet ribbon
To her goose’s wings

But for the abominable shadows
I would have lived
Among their fearful furniture
To teach them to tell me their secrets
Before I guessed
— Sweeping the brood clean out

Midnight empties the street
— — — To the left a boy
— One wing has been washed in rain
The other will never be clean any more —
Pulling door-bells to remind
Those that are snug
To the right a haloed ascetic
Threading houses
Probes wounds for souls
— The poor can’t wash in hot water —
And I don’t know which turning to take —

We might have coupled
In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment
Or broken flesh with one another
At the profane communion table
Where wine is spill’t on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly
With the daily-news
Printed in blood on its wings

In some
Prenatal plagiarism
Foetal buffoons
Caught tricks
— — — — —
From archetypal pantomime
Stringing emotions
Looped aloft
— — — —
For the blind eyes
That Nature knows us with
And most of Nature is green
— — — — — — — — — — — —

Green things grow
For the cerebral
Forager’s revival
And flowered flummery
Upon bossed bellies
Of mountains
Rolling in the sun

Shedding our petty pruderies
From slit eyes

We sidle up
To Nature
— — — that irate pornographist

The wind stuffs the scum of the white street
Into my lungs and my nostrils
Exhilarated birds
Prolonging flight into the night
Never reaching — — — — —— — —

Mina Loy

July 9th, 2010

Daniel Pontius

 Bird in Space, Brancusi

Brancusi’s Golden Bird

The toy
become the aesthetic archetype

As if
some patient peasant God
had rubbed and rubbed
the Alpha and Omega
of Form
into a lump of metal

A naked orientation
unwinged unplumed
the ultimate rhythm
has lopped the extremities
of crest and claw
the nucleus of flight

The absolute act
of art
to continent sculpture
— bare as the brow of Osiris —
this breast of revelation

an incandescent curve
licked by chromatic flames
in labyrinths of reflections

This gong
of polished hyperaesthesia
shrills with brass as the aggressive light
its significance
The immaculate
of the inaudible bird
in gorgeous reticence
–Mina Loy