poemimage

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

Tag: light

GIF Experiments: 22 (The Charge of the Light Brigade)

Although the title in the GIF looks like a book and the GIF looks like a book trailer it’s not. However I created poetic text after the fact.

*

The Light Brigade

As in

Let There Be Light.

Witness

The mechanics of charging light.

Witness traction activate

Clouds of unknowing known

As muscled determination.

The mechanical opposite to A sucker born every minute.

Touch your tongue to the tent of your mouth. Announce

Charge

Pronounce light

As in

Let There Be Light.

*

Notes on the GIF: Intimations of Runic script transform into curvilinear vegetal design indicating a charging beast. It happened visually by itself (so to speak) during the design process.

Finding ‘his’ footing. Gaining traction. The irony of a ‘massive’ beast doing double-duty as charging light. Charging like flashlight beams in a force field? Surely he is not disembodied.

This GIF ponders our pressing situation, universal as it is, and the question of something, anything, out of the blue in reply.

*

Rays of an Ancient Light Driving You Home

birdlandia

Did you possibly imagine (you couldn’t have)

t

On that youthful, sun-dappled afternoon,

p

The rays of an ancient light caressing your skin & inspiration, when you were

oo

A skipping stone striking at the perfect angles & gaining your balance,

o

Amusedly & perfectly crossing a warm stream at the edge of town,

spanish

The water fresh and the fences down,

ochre

Driving home after closing time…

h

The years marking your skin in ways the Great Depression & the

c

Enemy marked your psyche, past an abandoned brewery,

ff

Seeing the quiet streets coming up fast like a flood, silent as a submarine,

cc

Balancing on wet stones, laughing as you splashed & driving home

s

After closing time, to a lonely house, impervious to depth charges,

ee

Past the dislodged bricks of the abandoned brewery,

mm

Imagining that sun-splashed afternoon & shallow, sparkling water,

truly

Your children crossing streams within darkened rooms,

g

Finding their balance, in ways the enemy

faintly

Marked your psyche & warm afternoons caressed your inspiration,

a

An ancient star illuminating quiet streets, starlight splashing,

x

Streaming into and beyond abandoned spaces,

oo

Rays of an ancient light driving you home.

slbirdlandia


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.

Read the rest of this entry »

Lough Ree by Colin Carberry

c

8888

77777

blu flame

A trout flares at dusk,
silver scales
in the heron’s ears.

blueish a

new blue

Colin Carberry is an Irish-Canadian poet and translator and the director of the Linares International Literary Festival (Mexico).

a.

I am struck, reading this haiku, by the heron hearing silver scales. I imagine sunset splashing chaotically on thin, reflective surfaces and the heron’s acute sensors turning and tuning. I remember summers (it seems long ago) driving cross-country, through the night, listening to the radio. Car radios were manually operated. With your free hand you would find the spot where there was no static, bringing in the station clearly. Adjusting the dial frequently to receive the perfect reception. Ambient static would slowly creep back in and you would fine tune again listening carefully. Though, unlike the heron, your aim was enjoyment not survival. Surely our ancestors knew the life and sounds of water, within and without, like a heron. The poet, crafting this poem, brings us to the edge of our deepest memories.