poemimage

Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary. Often posting 1st drafts and editing in (almost) real time.

Category: Digital art

Imagine a Word

Imagine a word in the yellow garden of the angel-faery

imagine the word mirabilia

mirabilia opens a curtain revealing a portal

angel-faery imagines me ~ I imagine mirabilia

not three not two not one not me disappearing

into a collapsed perimeter ~ I imagine an angel-faery

in the yellow garden you memorize mirabilia

three eyes aimed upon a stem three eyes upon a flower

memory cascading sounding the word mirabilia

in the yellow garden yellowish flowers whisper

in the luminous yellow garden angel-faery whispers

angel-faery touches my eyelid to the flower of her vision

in blue soil I ring like a bell

the keyhole shaped like an ancient symbol

the flower of mirabilia touches your blue soil

darkness like a keyhole beckons the echo of my vision

into the garden of the angel-faery memory cascading

mirabilia penetrates a keyhole beyond the collapsed perimeter

who what where when why

not three not two not one not you

disappearing within the collapsed perimeter.

ink brushwork, printmaking, digital collage s mccabe

Beneath the Gaze of Spiritual Machinery

History will not tell you this but I was there

a gnarly oak branch growing out my back 

animals conceal buried acorns

Julius Caesar ignites his clothing

Jesus Christ recites the Brehon Laws of ancient Ireland

Mary Magdalene instructs me to bring my own basket

typewriters made of ice float in the sea

poets climb staircases carved into ice mountains

your neighbour conceals snakeskin sheathing his heart

the guardians of upper eternity affix their shadows

maps made of powdered sugar swirl into the wind

I forget the knotted scarf

I forget to die

I wash lead cisterns

my eyelids purple with prophetic script

beneath the gaze of spiritual machinery

I said take me with you.

Spiritual Machinery, digital drawing, S. McCabe

Ovid

I  gaze upon her at the walk-in clinic

only the two of us

she carries a brilliant white bowl made of clay

her name scratched into the white glaze

I said haven’t I met you before

she said a long time ago

in the library at Alexandria

I said why are you here

she said the people who started the fire

arrested me for reading Ovid

they sentenced me to life without honey

I said what is the bowl for she didn’t speak

I thought my conversation bothersome

& fell quiet

she said I read Ovid at the speed of light

I said like a honeybee

she said honeybees are slower than the speed of light

I snap my fingers like a jazz musician 

You got it!

Honeybees are slower than the speed of light!

She said it might be the title of a brilliant love poem

about snails

I said two snails conceptually in love

she said you have to become healthy

I said what’s wrong with me

she said consider velocity

consider clay pots breathing in a cave

unfurling billowing sail-skins of air

unfurling billowing sail-skins of sunshine

the Dead Sea Scrolls

rolled and telepathic

secretly rescued in the fire 

she winks one eye

I snap my fingers

she said Im not saying anything

a voice calls her number

two snails conceptually move about in the sunshine

wrapped in honey-coloured sail-skins billowing

unfurling honey-coloured sail-skins often

I am healthy often

the people who start the fire sentence her to honey found secretly on cliff-sides

I walk in circles upon the rounded peak of a vertical mound 

chosen because it has no shade trees

I am healthy often eating honey

the brilliant afternoon drenched in honey-coloured telepathic heat

swirling like butter from the ancient cows

a deer pushes his nose into the brilliant white pages 

I read Ovid listening to a brilliant buzzing sound.

This is the Scene

This is the scene

where I follow the animal

into the forest.

This could be a bird.

A Cubist experiments

with wind

and Morse Code.

One Thing I Can Tell You

Perhaps John Lennon never

considered old flat top a dolmen

never say never

I heard them say

in John Lennon world

You got to be free

forever

north south east west

never say never

I heard them say

beneath

beside

bequeathing dolmens

bequeathing breath

infinity

soul

north south east west

never say never

I heard them say.

‘I Know’

‘Do you need a ride home?’

‘Yes, I just arrived.’

‘Where will you be staying?’

‘Wherever they will have me and speak the truth.’

‘Have you heard of television?’

‘I have read The Little Box poems by Vasko Popa.’

‘Those are two different things.’

‘I know.’

Medieval Gamblers

Medieval Gamblers by Steven McCabe

I listened earlier to Bob Dylan singing ‘As I Went Out One Morning’ and put up a blog post about the revolutionary Tom Paine and the lyrics to the song (on Dylan’s 1968 John Wesley Harding album) and a photo of Bob receiving the 1963 Thomas Paine award (& how he went on a rant against the respectable liberal audience) & so it goes. In the end I decided to simply show this B&W art (Medieval Gamblers) created in Photoshop today via digital collage & possibly using elements of ink drawings. I could feel the atmosphere of the medieval inn, and textures like wood and burlap, and the mood of danger lurking. There seems to also be danger lurking here & now so it’s not so difficult to intuit. As for gambling I’ve never allowed others to gamble with me. At least I’ve tried & so it goes.

As I went out one morning
To breathe the air around Tom Paine’s
I spied the fairest damsel
That ever did walk in chains
I offer’d her my hand
She took me by the arm
I knew that very instant
She meant to do me harm

“Depart from me this moment”
I told her with my voice
Said she, “But I don’t wish to”
Said I, “But you have no choice”
“I beg you, sir,” she pleaded
From the corners of her mouth
“I will secretly accept you
And together we’ll fly south”

Just then Tom Paine, himself
Came running from across the field
Shouting at this lovely girl
And commanding her to yield
And as she was letting go her grip
Up Tom Paine did run,
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to me
“I’m sorry for what she’s done”

– Bob Dylan, 1968

Running Backwards

Running backwards on a night when all is lost.

When you cannot remember what is lost.

When you see the night-sky running backwards.

It could have been

In Neon Mystery, in Singularity, the Flowers Explode

Last night I walked home at eleven. Dark and cool. The streets and cafes were busy – lots of children.

Turning left, then right, I skirted the park. On my street I was startled by a sudden voice behind a large bush. A woman was photographing earwigs (feeding?) in the centres of daisies.

I’m taking care of two cats and one decided to make noise at 4:45 am to let me know she expected to be fed. I lay there trying to sleep and heard the phrase ‘in singularity the flowers explode.’ I thought it needed something so added ‘in neon mystery.’