Armenian/American poet Dovar Konerivian (1882 - 1937) who may or not be the author of the famous, now lost epic The Yipsilia Trees, was nonetheless a formidable influence on a generation of like minded visionary writers. His 1925 collection of sonnets, The Buried Bird, is a tour-de-force of Petrarchan innovation.
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| Dovar Konerivian, Oil on canvas, Faun Roberts, 1928 |
My friend and omnivorous reader, David Schoffman has taken it upon himself to recast the complete works of this difficult writer in paint. In spite of an already bloated docket of commitments, Schoffman could not help but be tempted by an opportunity to revisit in depth this beloved bard.
After an exhaustive search, Baglama Saz, senior archivist of the Jermuk Kanyon Staatsgemäldesammlungen has chosen 70 well-known international artists and assigned each one a small selection of Konerivian's work to interpret visually. Dal Verach was matched up with the gorgeous sestina The Meeting of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, Fran Decossa chose the difficult Naked Boys with Poppy Pods and Dahlia Danton, true to form, will struggle with the voluptuously suggestive Vertummus and Pomona.
David Schoffman, another consequence of his (justified) obscurity, was overlooked.
No matter. Nursing a contemptuous envy and sulking in what appeared to him as a travesty of low-brow misdirection Schoffman has decided to better his colleagues in an act of sheer, compulsive madness. He will apply himself to every single extant poem, including the drafts for the unfinished La Citella Romana.
As if we needed any more evidence, David Schoffman has once again demonstrated the truth of Andre Breton's famous opening lines from On the Road to San Romano
La poésie se fait dans un lit comme l'amour
Ses draps défaits sont l'aurore des choses
La poésie se fait dans les bois *
I honestly feel bad for my dear friend David. He lives in a cloud of unrequited devotions. He is sealed in a nonexistent world of superfluous refinement. He is forever burnishing a fossilized ethic of high minded folly. He would truly be better off if read less poetry and watched more television.
* Poetry is made in bed like love
Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in a forest
David Schoffman, another consequence of his (justified) obscurity, was overlooked.
No matter. Nursing a contemptuous envy and sulking in what appeared to him as a travesty of low-brow misdirection Schoffman has decided to better his colleagues in an act of sheer, compulsive madness. He will apply himself to every single extant poem, including the drafts for the unfinished La Citella Romana.
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| Betrothal number 42, David Schoffman, Dovar Konerivian |
La poésie se fait dans un lit comme l'amour
Ses draps défaits sont l'aurore des choses
La poésie se fait dans les bois *
I honestly feel bad for my dear friend David. He lives in a cloud of unrequited devotions. He is sealed in a nonexistent world of superfluous refinement. He is forever burnishing a fossilized ethic of high minded folly. He would truly be better off if read less poetry and watched more television.
* Poetry is made in bed like love
Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in a forest
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