Muse

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.

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Night Walk

13/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Today, I am feeling sharp,
the light slants off my knees
at knifed angles
and my hair twists in wet malice,
“I feel sharp”, I repeat,
almost in pleasure.

The cobblestone seduces the moon
and I walk a whimsical night,
and I do not know why
my desire must only manifest
with a black cat
or a circumferenced moonlight.

But if to bewitch,
my own gait is a forbidden road
let me walk in secrecy
with strange eyes
like gallows–
of climax,
a sip
a fall
a see-saw, ever so delicious.

The tiger and the lamb

12/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for plates by william blake

Plate 1 of The marriage of heaven and hell by William Blake

 

I drink flowers at night
hoping my heart
ticking like a time-tot,
may stay afloat.

Can you imagine seeing yourself without a mirror?

It is a delicious process,
but thoroughly uncivilized,
a body without water
and stars bitten off their twinkle–
tigers loom on its branches
and are orange in their eyes,
with a fire hot, in the cold moon,
unapologetic.

But sometimes
a lamb appears,
it is not soft and innocent
(it never is)
it is bleating, bothered
and afraid of being hunted
armed with a pocket watch,
maybe even looking for Alice.

Very often, when you would
try and find
your “real self”
men will tell/see you
either of these,
in their own romantic ideas.

But you are none,
and you are “none”;
Sometimes a whore, sometimes a nun.

Dollhouse

11/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Photographed by Tim Walker

Spark
on spinning wheels
and the factory of smiles,
half-a-doll of infatuation
half-a-doll of love,
oh perhaps, of Bovarian dreams.

I would have absolutely despised writing on
“smile”,
but ordinary things contain cosmic affairs,
and now my heart,
is merely a misspelled smile.

A gentleman sitting on the stairs
kind eyes,
the wind rattling behind the palace gate
that surrounds his soldier-shoulders,
kind eyes.

I say,
do fall upon “looks”,
for you can read
eyes, brows, and tips of woolen hair falling over the forehead,
and not
the words that often betray the book.

The Void without ambition

10/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Tough by ChrisCold

                                         Dedicated to a dear friend. She probably won’t guess it.

Ghost dust
and air like circling hair,
but not warm and covering
rather open
like a dark mouth
with a sincere eye at its end.

You can actually hear the room you know
as if all the bustle of life,
silenced
or questioning
and all you want
is to close your ears like a child
and run
until you see the light
that blinds that ever so watchful eye.

One day I met a girl,
I thought she was like many other with cold veins,
pale forehead
but with a hidden fire to reign upon life,
that life
which itself is a fire,
pyre–
but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

On a warm afternoon,
behind her shoulders
I saw the eye,
and she unblinking–
“I see”, she said,
“you have met our eternal state
of emptiness,
but peace”.

The sooner the better.

Image by: “ChrisCold”, Artist profile: https://chriscold.deviantart.com/

Sail

9/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Paintings Aivazovsky,  Ivan Constantinovich

Storm in the north sea, Aivazovsky (1865) 

I have never lived this life before
and the land is ever alien,
and the light keeps changing
with questions of mortality,
if not purpose.

The looking glass is my circus
and meaning is my cup,
“oh what could she possibly mean by that?”,
I mean my mode
of writing solemnly
as the sun drips my window with glass-sweat,
my house a greenhouse
and my body within, like my soul within my flesh.

For once,
I wish I wasn’t so mysterious,
really,
I am not trying,
Do understand
the meaning that lay trapped
like a doomed boat diving under the crest.

The Gaze

16/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for tree of eyes

Image, “The Trees Have Eyes” by Wim Lanclus

 

Close the doors
lay under the blankets,
and even under the eye lids,
O the,
O the,
eye follows.

It is not about people prying
It is about people prying about people prying.

One day I could not breathe
as I found a tree embryo
upon my navel,
an eye-tree
an I-tree;
It was nodes of thoughts that people could have on me.

Narcissus a rose
drowned in mirrors
of other minds
before it can ever love himself.

And so mirrors are bad-luck.

The Gaze remains,
it is un-human to be completely rid of it,
often more so un-lady-like
but sometimes when I sit alone
and listen to the birds,
I am just me
and no other words
for a tree of eyes to scrutinize.

Perhaps in such sweet music of nature,
we can return
like an elegy from a churchyard grey
and so we revive–
you may call it the “true self” if you will.

 

Sisyphus

13/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

SURREAL STUDIES II

By Elizaveta Porodina

I imagine us carrying
a rock on our back
up above the blue-bell mountain.

For me,
my bones are cracked
and only the scent of the horizon
soothe my nerves
to carry on.

I remember
I did not always knew
there was a rock on my back
and so only after a storm,
when rain fell upon,
I knew there had been scabs
thirsty to heal.

My hands shook
and there began to germinate
love on my collarbone,
I moved on,
I was okay.

Then I found people on the way
with their slippers
from a childhood puddle;
I was not sure if they were playing
or dying.

I had no pity
but I had anger,
that how could they let their pebbles
be circus balls
of no destiny but death.
Then I had no anger
but I had guilt,
that their pebbles felt heavier than my rock
and then there were those,
who carried mountains.

I came in the world
full of help
but that was when I could not see
my back
But what now?

There was a gentle poet on the phone
she told me
my love, all your life,
what of your hurt–
no stretched out hands for your drowning.

But I carry on,
I tell her
people don’t try
but I receive
the love they could not give to me
and because I can save myself,
I shall save them too.