poemimage

Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary.

Month: November, 2013

You Were Brave in that Holy War by Hafiz

too

You have done well In the contest of madness.

bath

You were brave in that holy war.

blue on blue

You have all the honorable wounds Of one who has tried to find love Where the Beautiful Bird Does not drink.

dancer

May I speak to you Like we are close And locked away together? Once I found a stray kitten And I used to soak my fingers In warm milk;

f2

It came to think I was five mothers On one hand.

garden

Wayfarer, Why not rest your tired body? Lean back and close your eyes.

shadow

Come morning I will kneel by your side and feed you. I will so gently Spread open your mouth And let you taste something of my Sacred mind and life.

feather

Surely There is something wrong With your ideas of God

new

O, surely there is something wrong With your ideas of God

shadow

If you think Our Beloved would not be so Tender.

scratched

– The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the great Sufi Master

translated by Daniel Ladinsky

trial and error

The smiling image of Jacqueline Kennedy in Dallas contrasting with the shock and horror she soon experienced has haunted me since my youth. Is it enough to say this Hafiz poem is about coming to terms with grief in a metaphysical context? I do not claim to be an expert on such things but with this project I attempt to address grief. I created digital variations of a coloured – pencil drawing of Mrs. Kennedy in Dallas, November 22, 1963. I used seven of these drawings for a collage series, including drawing & painting, on handmade Japanese paper for a 2003 exhibition commemorating the 40th anniversary of JFK’s death. The poetry video My Story Is Not My Own (below) continues the theme:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17LZ1XqubyU

1pg

My Story Is Not My Own (a film poem concerning Nov. 22, 1963)

The same film with subtitles:

still with credit

In 2009 I created My Story Is Not My Own, a metaphysical & surreal film poem concerning the Kennedy assassination. My statement concerning this project is beneath the video on the YouTube page.

Doing the trick by Chris Pannell

totemic one

There’s a breach

in the line, where the soldiers have fallen back

and my mother has fallen back on her bed too

her face out of sight, she can no longer speak.

ono

valiant

This opening might do the trick if anyone could muster

the steps to walk through, but

we’re so exhausted, it would be a mercy

to die here and now, be done with palliative care —

vase Read the rest of this entry »


Adamant on the Edge of Dreams by Lisa Marguerite Mora

One pearl

beneath all

I don’t know what God is doing.

He sears me with the palm of his hand,

hollows me out with light

so that I can’t feel my bones anymore.

And my grief—

not that gut wrenching stuff,

is just water that flows and flows, flows unimpeded now—

I am open,

undammed and not drowning,

not fighting for my life.

duo two

Why is it I can see your face so clearly?

shining artifact2

wire light

I am floating (90% water, they say),

my ribcage, fluid, caging and releasing.

I have become amphibian.

I do not know whether to walk or swim.

I miss the bones

of the earth, dark stones, polished pain hard beneath my feet.

Gravel and grit I need.  Dust. Dirt.

Black and pungent.

river pebble light

muted

Please.

klee love

But there is just light split

over water

that spills

and your face

adamant on the edge of dreams.

receding

beneath all

And I wake

as if you were really  here.

night moon

Lisa Marguerite Mora is a prize winning poet and a freelance editor. She conducts creative writing workshops, and this year has completed a poetry manuscript and a first novel.

She lives in Los Angeles, California.

awake

I was influenced by the idea of an edge while depicting the figure – who fluctuates between pictorial and pictographic. The waking in the poem seems to be another edge, or a disappearing edge, delineating realms of  water & light, idea & memory, as well as the all encompassing natural, visceral world.

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