EthicalDative

Confession

Posted on August 5, 2026 by JMN

An early attempt of mine to reflect distress in the face of a young Yazidi refugee in Syria’s civil war under Assad. Unskilled though it is, it showed me the fine line that can exist between mirth and anguish in the human visage.

I confess to a proclivity (morbid?) for depicting faces in various states of contortion. A face at rest, unless it’s grizzled or reflective of a corrupt soul, has bland contours. States of agitation are what lay bare the deserts, mountains and swamps of the human physiognomy.

I cruise journalism and clip photos (jpegs) of mass rallies.

Detail from New York Times photo illustration.

Often they’re filled with the faces of men who exhibit rage in their demeanors. All my life, Iran has chanted, Death to America, the great Satan!

Persian uses the Arabic alphabet. I’ve studied only Arabic.

Trump’s useless rejoinder referencing Iran has been, They’re scum.

From image of reporting on a demonstration against removing Confederate statuary. It illustrates contempt.

The two extremes, Satan and scum, do violence to the lived reality, complexity and vitality of two worthy populations duped into senseless contention by bad leaders. Most citizens of both countries deserve a better life than they’ve got.

As I zoom the photos and study the men’s expressions, I often imagine sitting with one in his living room, taking tea and conversing. Maybe arguing, maybe disagreeing, but not with violence. Parting with a handshake, or, better, a fraternal embrace.

Posted in Commentary | Tagged drawing, language, painting | Leave a comment

How to Positively Cry

Posted on August 3, 2026 by JMN

Chesterton, j’ai affaire avec vous. Pas ici. À suivre.

No matter where life takes me,
I carry this love. I carry my part.

This ending to Aaiún Nin’s long-ish discursive poem “McDonald’s Money” made me cry. Not from sadness, but because it crowns a fine writing with the keen point that love is a shared burden we take up and carry with devotion; also because I know more of it now than when I was younger and stupider.

It’s the third of three poems by Nin in Poetry, July-August 2026. All three teach me something about the craft and art of it: Equally relevant to how something is said is the selectivity deployed in what is said. That may sound ridiculously truistic, but for me it captures something of the purity I respond to in Nin’s deceptively unguarded plainspokenness and declarative finesse. Consider the phrase, [You] Hold me back to life. Of course poets choose their content and words! The trick is to choose well.

One of Nin’s three poems is so short that I venture to quote it entirely here:

In the Camp
In the camp they cannot pronounce my name
So they have given me a new one
I have lost everything
Ask me my name
Please ask me my name
(Aaiún Nin)

Posted in Anthology | Tagged language, poetry, reading | 2 Comments

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Future

Posted on August 1, 2026 by JMN

On June 24, 2026, the academic summit on the topic of “Extreme Heat” scheduled to be held in London, England at the London School of Economics Shore Library was canceled due to extreme heat.

Posted in Commentary | Tagged heat | 4 Comments

The Unary That Hogs Validity

Posted on July 30, 2026 by JMN

“Bullseye,” detail, mixed media (JMN 2026).

— Which inscrutable monad is the Valid?

Who doesn’t court surmise there could be None?
Beings unconceived with wings strongly matter
To the hotly spooked who swing a prophet’s hammer.

Say a godspell ambushed seers in Bronze Age lands:
“Unmoving Mover placed us plop in our own hands.”
Oh my god, how artfully bashful the Almighty!

Divide by zero times infinity — that solves for Him.
Want Him or not, He wants us — go figure, needs us even.
Damned if He doesn’t, this odd Remainder! We prove His heaven.

Posted in Anthology | Tagged doggerel, language | 1 Comment

The Guitars and Drums Do Most of the Talking

Posted on July 26, 2026 by JMN

Since I fancy myself poetry curious, I’m ashamed that the lyrics of most rock songs constitute for me so little of the listening experience. I rarely register more than the odd phrase that penetrates the instrumental layer. The frontpersons (I first wrote “singers,” but that didn’t compute) don’t seem particularly vexed to “sell” their words the way a standards or country-western vocalist does. Think, say, Tony Bennett and “San Francisco” or Patsy Cline and “Crazy.” You can’t not understand them.

I like Pink Floyd’s song “Money.” (And Dire Straits’s “Money for Nothing,” as well! Am I hung up on the root of all evil?) When the spirit moves me I look at genius.com just to see what a song actually “says.” Also, to see if the words hold any interest as artistic speech outside their embodiment in the song. Roger Waters’s lyrics to “Money” sort of do.

The song has 3 verses, each with its “refrain.” Have you ever cracked a bullwhip? I did so obssesively as a kid. Each verse of “Money” is the part where you swing the whip around your head in a crescendo-ing arc.

Money, get away…
Money, well, get back…
Money, it’s a crime…

Jerk the whip just right and you get a righteous crack. That’s the refrain — the money shot: filthy specific: shows more than tells.

A new car, caviar, four-star daydream
Think I’ll buy me a football team

I’m in the hi-fidelity first class travelling set
And I think I need a Learjet

But if you ask for a rise
It’s no surprise that they’re giving none away

The third refrain is bland but interesting for use of the British “rise” instead of “raise.” “Surprise” mates with it; this sort of rhyming salts the song smartly throughout.

Cherry on the sundae: “Money” has a mischievous “spoken outro.” Its last line is:

It came to a heavy blow which sorted the matter out.

It also repeats the egregiously excellent question:

Why does anyone do anything?

Then there’s this:

Hahaha, I was in the right
Yes, absolutely in the right
I certainly was in the right
Yes, I was definitely in the right,…

Heavy blows to sort matters. Futility. Manic repetition. Absolute rightness. Ecce modern times foreshadowed!

Posted in Commentary | Tagged language, music, style | Leave a comment

There Is No ‘I’ in ‘Poet’

Posted on July 24, 2026 by JMN

Verse in the pen of the writer.
Poetry in the mind of the reader.
Words the strike.
Mind the flint.
Fire the poem.

Posted in Anthology | Tagged doggerel, language | 2 Comments

Trumpetss Ssound, End Timess Hiss

Posted on July 20, 2026 by JMN

An overt latent sshiftiness, both andss,
Neither norss, never alwayss the ssame;
Sslithering duness, conssisstent sshifting ssands,
Familiar, sscarcely recognissable;
Crucible, crux, ssacrifice, ssuffering, sshame.

F-150’s rifle rack naked, gun
Baked. Cup of staggering fisted. Son
Nailed, lanced, bled, mocked, screwed.
In car nato birthed, hanged from the rearview.
Lent from on high. Sucked up to sky. Who knew?

Peradventure corpses stir, what then?
Push come to shove, quoth the Raven.
Quake! Flood! Hot seas! Chiggers! A crappy wind!
Behold! Faults slipped. Glaciers melted. Crude spent.
Halfbreeds gumming dregs. Goddamned. Hellbent.

Posted in Anthology | Tagged doggerel, language | 4 Comments

Paul Thek, Practitioner of ‘Crude Figuration’

Posted on July 16, 2026 by JMN

Paul Thek’s early work, “Untitled (The Rhinemaidens / Wagner),” circa 1962. The painting show an affinity with the second-generation Abstract Expressionists. Credit… The Estate of Paul Thek, Pace Gallery and the Watermill Center; Photo by Josh White. [New York Times caption and illustration]

Although Thek possessed impressive skills as a draftsman and painter, he was an early practitioner of the crude figuration of “bad painting” (a term coined by Marcia Tucker, the founder of the New Museum).

Paul Thek, “Untitled (view of Zannone and Scoglio Grosso from Ponza),” 1969. Thek composed his pictures directly on a newsprint page, leaving part of the paper exposed so that it would yellow as it aged. Credit… Galerie Buchholz. [New York Times caption and illustration]

I don’t know how seriously to take Thek’s “view of Zannone” as picture making, but I’m glad it exists, and I revel in the impishness of his “untitled” titles.

It seems for me the quest to dare and paint “crudely” is of the essence, as it fights against the docile, groomed depiction towards which my complacent brain so strongly urges me. The ideal progression is: First look hard. Then see. Then raise hell on a surface. The mode of engagement is not chaotic; it’s reductive, maybe the fruit of considered impulse. It’s hard and hurts (mentally). May consist of doing the right amount of nothing with pencil or brush, letting pauses or vacancies speak. I rarely succeed in drawing or painting this way, but the craving to break the picture barrier is always on the drawing board.

Paul Thek mocked mortality in the last year of his life. Here, “Big Bang Painting,” circa 1988, on view at Pace Gallery. Credit… The Estate of Paul Thek, Pace Gallery and the Watermill Center. [New York Times caption and illustration]

(Arthur Lubow, “Paul Thek’s Art Legacy: A Shriek and a Giggle,” New York Times, 7-9-26)

Posted in Commentary | Tagged art, drawing, painting, style | 2 Comments

My Dog

Posted on July 14, 2026 by JMN

My doggy pets herself with my bare foot.
The foot is there, she thinks, idle appendage.
Why not let it do rewarding work?
My foot responds unthinkingly to her command.
It fetches the affection she has thrown,
And she extols me with her lavish wag.

Posted in Anthology | Tagged doggerel, personal | 17 Comments

‘There dwells in the glance an ancient hunger…’

Posted on July 10, 2026 by JMN

Translation to English of a poem in Spanish titled “Únicas/Únicos” by Azurea20 published at La Bancarrota del Circo on July 6, 2026.

ONE / ONLY
There dwells in the glance
an ancient hunger;
a buzzing of
bees crowns
cogitation
as one’s own light
tries to take root
in stellar pulsars.
There are days when magnets stray,
of walking blind
under a firmament
thick with ashen rain.
A solar vibe,
a thunder of gold
pierces the stagnation
of the mind.
Everything gestates there,
on the blue crossing
that precedes the dawn.
It’s the instant when
wise laughter erupts;
an unbarred relish
cleanses the voice
like a spring gushing
inimitable words.
At last,
when the world’s clatter
dies down,
there’s only that blessed quiet
of one giving sedentary ear
to the self’s own signal.

Posted in Anthology | Tagged language, poetry, reading, Spanish-English, translation | 13 Comments