Creative

Apple pie

16/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for apple art surreal

René Magritte (1898 – 1967), Souvenir de voyage, circa 1961.

I take on words
and they are the figments
of people that had spoken them.

I have to play with them
to know
what I truly ever feel,
and it is like cooking with limited ingredients,
although the pan had always been burning.

The words leave the lips
and sting my fingers,
and I know mid my cherry coated laughter
that it was a goodbye
filled with a tuna fish,
when all we thought we were doing,
was baking an apple pie
for two five year olds
Adam and Eve,
yet again, perhaps the serpent deceives?

I laugh
and lick off the salt
till my ears boom
with the words, that men do not say
with the words, that are left for poets to make.

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Cold water

15/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for water photography surreal

There is some respite in early morning
like the deep of the night,
silence is at its tooth–
the sober cold marble.

In the eve,
the motor with its vehicles
violates the road,
with a devilish groan like an eternal fever
at a path that was shod in the stark of the noon.

Being lulled back to sleep,
now
and as in sleep
all the banter recedes like waves
and the mind is saved from sickness.

Abandon not, yourself
give not, your sleep
or there will be no water for your heart to hold itself to its feet.

Monsoon wings

14/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro) capturing an imaginary ‘rain- animal.’ When it was killed, the creature’s blood and milk were believed to fall as rain. The fish and eels indicate that the ‘trance-event’ is taking place in an underwater spirit realm. Lesotho. After Stow 1930: pl. 67a. Copy made in the 1870s. 

San rock painting of ‘shamans of the rain’ ( !khwa:-ka xorro)

I went to buy some eggs
and I saw a winged ant sparkling upon the white lap
of a woman who sits.

I told her
popping fear-delight,
of the company she had,
and all she did
was cluck her tongue,
and say that they die, after the rains.

Of lately, my sweet dreams
in restless jaws
but with calm odors of the ground
my flesh-reap
I am riding an Aladdin lamp,
to moth to flames
and oh so clearly, I see the clouds
upon my tongue
a purple night–
We’re born again
if only to die.

Paper Towels from the Moon

12/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Super cool wolves and snow covered trees painting with starry night and moon. Yule by ullakko

Ulla Thynell

I felt something so exquisite,
my stomach walls
brewed
and calm
on one snow evening of the moon. Dreamy.

I lived in a licensed sea,
Always afraid
of being everyone
Always afraid
of being the only one,
but oh well,
I still remain relative.

I called in for help
but some friends mumbled,
the rest slid down the slippery pipe
Others had distorted tongues:
One was lascivious
Another was too innocent to speak.

I clutched on my feet in a tap dance
and headed out in a moon-loon,
I felt something so exquisite
like sleep with the word ‘boudoir’.

There were paper towels all over the floor
where there had been a flood
and I said,
Universe, you have a funny notion of size
and yet it works.

Interesting uncanny of the day: When I was looking for pictures for this poem, I came across my own poem that had been published as a picture one time. All this on Google search. So shook! The poem is Gardening.

 

Antidote

11/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Samy Charnine surrealism

 

I woke up one morning
and my heart was a fish
out of the water,
up on a weathered road, dying.

A vapid fume of tiredness
and, guilt
of not letting my guilt stay.

I have a habit of taking love seriously,
gifting reassurance like a shawl
covering their ears
till their eyes are full of milk sleep–
I would often sing in long paragraphs
and could even take back
a mumble hum,
but what when
the seasons are upon them for a change?

Of loved ones without antidotes
and no water for a fish.

 

Sea Horses

6/100

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

The Rising Tide by Jason deCaires Taylor

Prompt: “The last river on earth writes a poem. What does it say?”

I met a man once,
after my mother snuck me out
and lapsed across time and space
to become a dark space
of cloudless sky.

He told me
there was a river inside his head
‘If you could talk to her?’
and so I ate his mind
like those before him,
their memories my bedrock
I, an odyssey.

The sky is purple through his eyes today
and an another smell his child’s crayons
I tell them to sleep,
I stir them like honey in warm water
but they come up like adolescent rocks
trembling across the pond
as if thrown away by teenagers.

I tell them to sleep,
the world falls in my lap like freshly-washed clothes
and it is my last job
to open a cellar of salt
and fold them under its whirlpool.

The last man,
buoyant by all the salt of the sea
that sits like stones under eyelashes,
stirs for the last time
and asks me of ‘what of your end?’
and I fish some babble
and wave
‘Oh, but the end is me.’

            Author Notes: Yes, I can make puns.

In the sculptures, the head of the horses are replaced by oil pumps to critique pollution. I found this picture after I wrote the poem and I find it delightful that it is almost a soulmate to it. The horses here, refer to the horses of apocalypse in Christian mythology and are the central theme of poem as well.

 

 

 

 

Gardening 


How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer

Law of attraction 


Of a neon glow

Traveling throug a space-tunneled gullet

Into a bloated starry sky

Where to each eye

Her own reality.
Billions of stars looking down from the sky.

Billions of eyes looking up to the sky.

 

Because she is never stationary

And always moving about like Van Gogh’s winds

Whenever I stretch out my finger into the cold dark night

She stretches in a great cosmic yawn

To caress my arms

Until we melt in our atomic marriage

Of neither star

Nor human.