Speculation into the investigation:
An inked manuscript penned by sure hand,
billowing dark Satanic mills,
a winged and weightless choir,
shadow of a blooming oak
across the bowling alley,
7 – Eleven coffee to go,
shoes with blinking lights.
Bukowski’s Bluebird and Blake’s Tyger
in performance.
We could say the ice arrives leaping like a cat.
And the cat silently contemplates windows and branches
before moving on.
My simple paraphrase reworking the short poem Fog. To address recent weather: silver & luminous with shattered trees & a million people without power. Upon us like a thief in the night.
Fog by Carl Sandburg: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174299
One question I would ask Carl Sandburg, whose answer would intrigue me greatly: Baudelaire or Scarborough Fair?
You lie down in whatever bed
you lie down in, the pillow accepting
the weight of your head, the mattress
receiving your body like a longed-for guest.
You move in your sleep and the sheets
react to your turnings, the blankets adjust,
shaping themselves to your outline. The air
in the room keeps time with your breathing,
accepts being displaced while I circle the walls
of the city you dream. My papers
are worn, frayed at the edges; that picture
I have of myself, clouding-over and spotted
with rain: my face is dissolving before me. The night
holds you in sleep, you are stilled by its comforts;
by the fabrics absorbing the sweat you expel.
My cries go unheeded as I stand at the gate
pleading admittance. There is no one to turn to
as you shed a layer of your skin while you lie there,
dead to the world; my one reliable witness.
I am the moon
round
distant
cold light
reflecting the sun’s warmth
back to a blue planet
a lover’s smile
forever light years away
black space
gravity pulling
tidal waves of emotion
forever love
on shores of childhood dreams.
I am the moon
pale maiden in the morning sky
large orange crone at dusk.
Alone
I ignite the dark
for moonlight kisses.
Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews has two collections of poetry: “The Whispers of Stones” and “Sea Glass”. Nature and one’s place in it, is her muse. In 2013, she was shortlisted for Descant’s Winston Collins Best Canadian Poem Prize. She lives, teaches and writes in Oakville, Ontario, Canada.
I’m in the
laundromat
because my dryer broke
and this radio is too loud
and every song sounds insincere –
finally Annie Lennox and
the Eurythmics are singing
Talk to Me.
I wonder when I’ll ever
get around to reading
Ulysses.
The radiator is painted
an almost indescribable
shade of turquoise.
Lively but dead serious –
mechanical.
The top of each rib protrudes
thin, flat and sharp.
I can imagine these edges
pressing into my face
after they arrest me in the
grand sweep.
Harnesses and 19th century
contraptions hoisting the radiator
above prisoners strapped to beds.
Thirty full seconds for each
inmate.
What if they decide to heat them?
Loud sirens nearby.
A city wind blowing
through the open door.
A guy reading a
book asks me
if I smell
cigarette smoke.
“No.”
You have done well In the contest of madness.
You were brave in that holy war.
You have all the honorable wounds Of one who has tried to find love Where the Beautiful Bird Does not drink.
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;
It came to think I was five mothers On one hand.
Wayfarer, Why not rest your tired body? Lean back and close your eyes.
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.
Surely There is something wrong With your ideas of God
O, surely there is something wrong With your ideas of God
If you think Our Beloved would not be so Tender.
– The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the great Sufi Master
translated by Daniel Ladinsky
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
The same film with subtitles:
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.
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.
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 —
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.
Why is it I can see your face so clearly?
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.
Please.
But there is just light split
over water
that spills
and your face
adamant on the edge of dreams.
And I wake
as if you were really here.
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.
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.
Memory scorns the hand
In sweet response to heaven
Fame outlives
Mighty hearts
Earth and sea obey
The blood of many a son
Tarnished in liberty
An offended sky
Hoarsely sung,
Shadows wear the crowns
The conquering sons of
Neptune’s vaunted eye,
His dinted blade
The echoes sing,
Your faith of obedience
Like snow flakes
Comets of heaven
March on to glory,
No tongue shall number
A calm blue ocean
The glorious dead
Came upon the sea
Omen’d
The tide of that deep abyss
Struck by the Templars’ sword
Each vaunted knight
An inspiring heaven
One vast clay sun
Now morning emerald
Enchantment’s radiant form
In desolation’s train –
Her last revenge
The cherished isle of steel
A soldier’s bed –
Paradise
Goes terribly forth
The black herald of sorrow
Reeking in dying cadence
Linger on the carnival
Look on the headless brothers
Your work of hate
Maddening
A whirlwind’s Autumn on helmets clashing
Deaden the pangs of a soldier’s doom
Onward Templars press
A frenzied rite
On condor’s wing a cold embrace
Thunder blackening the lament
A winding sheet
Like seafroth
His swollen veins darkening
Hail our Queen!
The edge upon our lips
Mockeries
Wading in a fiery grave
Each convent bell
Joy
No seabird to warn the boatman
A fairy thing –
The whiteness of her sail
Raptures your lonely shore
Whispery the void
Nature a weary scene
Not a sigh escaped
Laugh of vacancy
Babylon’s lustful day
The night grown weary
All was still
The chains savage
The (original) 56 page poem is a retelling of history & loaded with glorification of battle & cultural/religious point of view, details of woe and foe, and the ecstasy of triumphs. It’s really quite the technicolour blockbuster epic. Followed by almost 30 pages of historical text. I found it when I was looking for a connection between the Knights Templar and limestone (believe it or not). Two things happened simultaneously: I was skimming an old Canadian educational book called ‘Pioneer Arts and Crafts’ written by Edwin G. Guillet, M.A. (dedicated to Marguerite Guillet Brooks – Designer, Thread Workers Guild of America) and reading a fascinating section about ‘Lime – Burning.’ At the same time I had a digital image, rather ‘knight-ish,’ which I wanted to use with a poem. I began to imagine Marguerite sewing silk tassels for a knight’s helmet. And somehow, well, it all came together. My ‘erasing’ was done fairly quickly, like snapshots, grabbing a few impressions.
poemimage 