The Life Library
She topples, tilt-a-whirl, cartwheeling,
shifting words–and worlds–
“I” becomes her story,
hundreds of volumes to fill
each time she falls
into a book,
a slip, a smudge,
a ripple, a wrinkle, paper and life in origami folds
form timeless variations, endless stories—
her life mirrored, reflected, repeated,
repeated, repeated.
For dVerse, Mish introduced us to the amazing surreal art of Erik Johansson. It was difficult to choose an image, but I finally settled on these two.
This is the Way
Ghosts are the way we remember–
the salt cheese we ate
made of river fog and tears
on the beach where quahogs and oysters
opened mouths sparkling with seaweed miracles,
and we were full of longing—so much–
like the cyclops unbidden, unhidden, un-sniffed by
truffle pigs, one-eyed defeaters,
the eaters of snouts.
But we heard their songs,
pungent as cloves, flying
on owls’ wings, as
the artillery shot flowers above your head.
and made puddles at your feet,
and, you slid into their mercurial waves,
falling, falling,
now do you remember?
Today’s NaPoWriMo Prompt was to write a surrealistic poem inspired by words in the given list. We were asked to write questions about the words we chose, and then base a poems on the answers. I just used the words as a prompts for a surrealistic poem.
The New Bucephalus, Edgar Ende
My poem “A Dream” is up in the Ekphrastic Review’s Challenge using the above painting, “The New Bucephalus” by Edgar Ende. My thanks to editor Lorette C. Luzajic. I’m in good company this time with friends Kerfe Roig and Kim Russell. You can read all of the poems here (mine is near the end).
Odilon Redon, Beatrice
Her garden lives in ifs,
it is sweet pink whispers
beating away the black.
Music mists a symphony of the sea,
licking rocks
to soar and spray in the wind,
dream shadows play
beneath a honeyed moon,
and the sky smells of summer rain.
So, she watches there–
not asking why–
in timeless beauty of when-after,
and she sings through rose petal-light,
of blood, life, love, and life.
I needed this bit of surrealism. The Oracle always knows. I think this could be where she lives.
Odilon Redon, “Flower Clouds,” [Public Domain],Wikipedia
The sky whispers a flowered song
scented with tangerines, honey,
and blue berried-visions.
(I feel the taste
of the shimmering mirage,
briny-cool and warm summer peach .)
Our mast shivers from
the vibrations, the language
of strutting peacock clouds.
The eyes watch
and guide us
in the golden light—
as we sail–
timeless and tide-whorled–
on a sea of dreams.
Day 21 of NaPoWriMo challenges us to “try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.”
A child, a girl, explores,
lingering with the red star.
(Open it.)
It will fool the dark cloud
and no one need live a life
bleeding, dirty, and sad.
But this then—
you must listen to
voices throb in ocean rhythms,
secrets of time and universe make magic.
Go and wake.
Let your heart breeze
with peace.
A bit of surrealism? A myth from the Oracle?
Let me see dream light
whisper shadow music of red moons—
a language of aches, wind, water,
and time,
singing honey-tongued
of what was or never is
beneath a thousand whys
The Oracle is enigmatic today, as usual.
From the forest
languid language soars.
You watch the rain beating
on rocks,
say my skin smells of dreams
and water runs fast beneath my feet.
A ship screams at the lake,
“who is driving death?”
And I cry,
aching if and why.
Henri Rousseau, “Le Rêve,” (The Dream), [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I haven’t consulted The Oracle in a couple of weeks. She gave me this bit of surrealism. It fits my mood.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 