‘My head is on fire’: Roger Ballen finds poetry in pain – in pictures

Paint, collage and photography combine in Ballen’s tumultuous The Earth Will Come to Laugh and Feast. Italian poet Gabriele Tinti reflects on his work ...

Main image: ‘Feel shame and turn it into prayer’ ... Entwined, 2015. Photograph: Roger Ballen

  • Sacrifice, 2010

    Roger Ballen is one of the most important photographers of his generation. His work employs drawing, painting, collage and sculptural techniques to create enigmatic sets for his images. This work evokes the strong bond between art and literature. The result is a moving collection revealing the profound state of existence, the inevitability of suffering, and of our helplessness from pain. Roger Ballen’s The Earth Will Come to Laugh and Feast, featuring Gabriele Tinti, is available through Powerhouse Books
    Sacrifice, 2010.Roger Ballen is one of the most important photographers of his generation. His work employs drawings, painting, collage and sculptural techniques to create enigmatic, mysterious sets for his images. This work evokes the strong bond between art and literature, and of ekphrastic writing that evokes images by highlighting hidden relationships and implied mysteries. The result is a moving collection of poems and short stories revealing the profound state of existence and the fate of our torment, the inevitability of suffering, and of our helplessness from pain.

  • Pulpit, 2011

    This morning I found you hanging with your gaze fixed and your head drooping. I stayed for hours looking at you. I fasted and I’ve wasted away. I spent whole nights not sleeping, immobile, thinking of you, your shadow, about posterity, those words. I cut the rope with a blade, slowly embracing you. On the marble of your grave I infected the inflamed ulcers of other singers
    Pulpit, 2011. This morning I found you hanging with your gaze fixed and your head drooping. I stayed for hours looking at you. I fasted and I’ve wasted away. I spent whole nights not sleeping, immobile, thinking of you, your shadow, about posterity, those words. I cut the rope with a blade, slowly embracing you. On the marble of your grave I infected the inflamed ulcers of other singers.

  • On Fire, 2008

    My head is on fire. I can never get away, I am unable to. My skin burns, it brings back the pain. My thoughts blaze they burn up the laurel. Words ask, for more words, they echo. You will not free yourselves of me. I will stew your nights with my verses
    On Fire, 2008. My head is on fire. I can never get away, I am unable to. My skin burns, it brings back the pain. My thoughts blaze they burn up the laurel. Words ask, for more words, they echo. You will not free yourselves of me. I will stew your nights with my verses.

  • Predicament, 2011

    You have eyes of stone, sculpted, of charcoal, drawn. With those you examine every silence, question the words. You are dark like the forest, you shiver, seek refuge. You are able to see, you alone, the enormous cleft in the earth, the faded spirits that throw themselves in, who sobbing seek the good light of the sunset to vanish
    Predicament, 2011. You have eyes of stone, sculpted, of charcoal, drawn. With those you examine every silence, question the words. You are dark like the forest, you shiver, seek refuge. You are able to see, you alone, the enormous cleft in the earth, the faded spirits that throw themselves in, who sobbing seek the good light of the sunset to vanish.

  • Linked, 2011

    Have you got my ticket to leave? Send it to me please, I need it. This is the moment. The night is black and starless. The path is long, it demands a stop. The sky has no pity, it only awaits our melodrama to take off. We will soon reach the right height, we will cover our eyes swallowing. Do not fear going; near or far it will last but a moment, a puff of wind
    Linked, 2011. Have you got my ticket to leave? Send it to me please, I need it. This is the moment. The night is black and starless. The path is long, it demands a stop. The sky has no pity, it only awaits our melodrama to take off. We will soon reach the right height, we will cover our eyes swallowing. Do not fear going; near or far it will last but a moment, a puff of wind.

  • Possessed, 2009

    I implore you from behind a mask. Facing the sky a puppet prays. Not all days are holidays. The cock crows a curse: Hoc est enim corpus meum! Hoc est enim corpus meum! But the real dawn is late to come. Our bellies are removed from that temple and from any other. They have lost count of the sunsets. The hands are raised bewildered towards an idol swollen with crusts
    Possessed, 2009. I implore you from behind a mask. Facing the sky a puppet prays. Not all days are holidays. The cock crows a curse: Hoc est enim corpus meum! Hoc est enim corpus meum ! But the real dawn is late to come. Our bellies are removed from that temple and from any other. They have lost count of the sunsets. The hands are raised bewildered towards an idol swollen with crusts.

  • Decomposed, 2017

    The body breaks up, decomposes. The worm-eaten clothes gather the grief. The broken walls of this sepulcher beseech a lament, ours. Suspended an angel seems to watch you. No, it does not have good news to bring you. Laid out on the tumulus you are unable to see yourself. It is just like that, it could not be otherwise
    Decomposed, 2017. The body breaks up, decomposes. The worm-eaten clothes gather the grief. The broken walls of this sepulcher beseech a lament, ours. Suspended an angel seems to watch you. No, it does not have good news to bring you. Laid out on the tumulus you are unable to see yourself. It is just like that, it could not be otherwise.

  • Entwined, 2015

    You’ve stopped sleeping to listen to my song. You’ve appeared to see this ugly mug wheeze. I will toast in verses, pierced by the blades of words. I have no need of you, it doesn’t matter if anyone is here. The spectacle of this mourning voice will not last much longer. I will die shortly like everyone here in the countryside. Years of sacrifice for a ridiculous poem shouted to the animals, for a pair of raucous laments lost in the twilight of my intestine, for some curses to be licked into shape to feel shame and turn it into prayer
    Entwined, 2015. You’ve stopped sleeping to listen to my song. You’ve appeared to see this ugly mug wheeze. I will toast in verses, pierced by the blades of words. I have no need of you, it doesn’t matter if anyone is here. The spectacle of this mourning voice will not last much longer. I will die shortly like everyone here in the countryside. Years of sacrifice for a ridiculous poem shouted to the animals, for a pair of raucous laments lost in the twilight of my intestine, for some curses to be licked into shape to feel shame and turn it into prayer.

  • Missing Eye, 2016

    I am the prophet / of the insane, the beloved / of the unwell. The white eye /lodged against / your empty belly
    Missing Eye, 2016. I am the prophetof the insane, the beloved of the unwell. The white eye lodged against your empty belly

  • Illusory, 2005

    You have the look of someone who didn’t sleep last night. You’re frail, a shadow weighed down by burdens. That mask there is for you. You can take it, it will stop you being scared of the dead. It’s best to put it on, to be proud of the change, to shout the new pathway to all. Life has sculpted you. It has taken a bit from there, added here, it has marked you, transformed you. Do not be so sad and do not forget. You are this deep shadow, a reflection
    Illusory, 2005. You have the look of someone who didn’t sleep last night. You’re frail, a shadow weighed down by burdens. That mask there is for you. You can take it, it will stop you being scared of the dead. It’s best to put it on, to be proud of the change, to shout the new pathway to all. Life has sculpted you. It has taken a bit from there, added here, it has marked you, transformed you. Do not be so sad and do not forget. You are this deep shadow, a reflection.

  • Deranged, 2015

    As a child I stopped myself laughing, the others would have called me demented. But I couldn’t, I wanted to constantly, on every occasion: before the full moon, the horizon, the sunset; in the face of troubles, of gossip, of gains, of meals; before words, even death. Things struck me as a joke. I laughed with an ancient laugh. I was frightening
    Deranged, 2015. As a child I stopped myself laughing, the others would have called me demented. But I couldn’t, I wanted to constantly, on every occasion: before the full moon, the horizon, the sunset; in the face of troubles, of gossip, of gains, of meals; before words, even death. Things struck me as a joke. I laughed with an ancient laugh. I was frightening.

  • Liberated, 2017

    My head is splitting on wakening from a convulsion. But there is no putrefaction, no scar, no pain. The wound remains open without shedding blood. Above me a rank of desperate looks winks. I no longer have the strength to hide my anguish and you too, I know, tremble in the bones, you try to free the spirit from these fragile deposits, from your boundless night
    Liberated, 2017. My head is splitting on wakening from a convulsion. But there is no putrefaction, no scar, no pain. The wound remains open without shedding blood. Above me a rank of desperate looks winks. I no longer have the strength to hide my anguish and you too, I know, tremble in the bones, you try to free the spirit from these fragile deposits, from your boundless night.
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