poemimage

The visual & the poetic.

Tag: metaphor

Consider the Shadow-Rain of Guernica

In hanging gardens & multi-dimensional language,

in empathetic irrigation of the human-heart,

in roots shaped like geometrical echoes,

consider intention.

Consider a symmetrical sun, almond-yellow, radiating the sky

buoyant as a cloak reconfigured by the wind

& reconfiguring a composition: the human heart

unfolding like origami or a magician’s flower bouquet.

Roots drip amber-nectar-sundrops

disguising archeological diagrams of the human heart

with geometrical echoes.

Consider intentions.

Consider soil trailing tendrils as it climbs the clay wall.

Consider two-dimensional projections of Guernica (the painting)

hovering face down.

Consider negative space in the X-rays,

thin wires tightened floor to ceiling,

a cloud of static pressed flat.

Consider the shadow-rain of Guernica.

Consider the surface of mirrors.

Along the ruined street

a young Palestinian father in a backwards baseball cap

carries his child wrapped head to toe in white cloth

up to his waist in waters gushing from concrete pipes

smashed to rubble.

Two actors view Picasso’s Guernica convincingly & with one fork

share a sponge-like delicacy dribbled with chocolate on a gold-trimmed plate,

the edge of the tablecloth wet with dank water swirling, as they whisper

convincingly in dulcet tones & put a coin in the jukebox, suddenly aware

of the shadow-rain mirroring two worlds and one reality.

Yesterday, for the first time this summer, I saw

a grasshopper – perched on a drainpipe at a slight diagonal,

hyper-vigilant, his shadow deep green ash.

Consider a symmetrical sun, almond-yellow, radiating the sky

buoyant as a cloak reconfigured by the wind &

reconfiguring a composition: the human heart

unfolding like origami or a magician’s flower bouquet.

Roots drip amber-nectar-sundrops

disguising archeological diagrams of the human heart

with geometrical echoes.

Consider soil trailing tendrils as it climbs the clay wall.

Consider two-dimensional projections of Guernica (the painting)

hovering face down.

Consider negative space in the X-rays,

thin wires tightened floor to ceiling,

a cloud of static pressed flat.

Consider the shadow-rain of Guernica.

Consider the surface of mirrors.

Digital manipulations of linocut prints by S. McCabe

One Very Sunny Day An Egg Enveloped My Shadow

photo S. McCabe

One very sunny day an egg shall envelop my shadow. An eagle shall be overhead, perhaps a bit to the east or west, lowering into the updraft, on the hunt & returning to the nest satisfied.

A robin swooping into shade swallows a delicately tangled necklace of humming insects. A heron drapes her wing upon a sloping stone & swallows magnetic frogs who prophesize.

A hen clucking like a sticky typewriter key repeats the sound of curvilinear incantations, unceasing, between echoes of breath, sleep & a sudden kerfuffle.

Photo S. McCabe

Egg, tell me how we shall begin.

Photo S. McCabe

Egg, tell me how we shall accomplish our mission.

Photo S. McCabe

One very sunny day an egg enveloped my shadow. I was minding my own business. I felt my blood in the sun-blood of my ancestors.

I felt them go ashore. I felt them carve and chisel enveloped by shadows. I felt them carry fire. I felt them carry a weighted promise.

Photo S. McCabe

Egg, tell me who & what, alchemically one very sunny day, you shall become in traveling a distant path to yourself: An eagle, a fluent ballerina, or a sun-flecked tidal wave. An astronaut, cosmonaut or vimani pilot. A Spanish painter rising like cream in early Modernism.

Or the hen caught up in a sudden kerfuffle. Or the heron draping elegant ink-like feathers. Or the barrel-chested north wind whiplashing trees. An opera singer who resounds triumphantly or a trumpeter swan harkening. A blue parakeet, nodding his fuzzy head, asleep & dreaming.

Or a sea turtle diving in the dark. The Ice Age thawing, a solar flare consuming or a fairy-tale princess personifying an archetype. A sphinx-like barn owl in the rafters, a barn swallow exiting a hole, or an amber bale of hay. A cosmic chant vibrating hearts. Fire-flame in a bowl. In a deep cauldron.

The language of trees. Dotted zigzags on grey stone carved with a chisel. A dotted triple spiral carved with a chisel. A feather wafting into a mist. A deer-god in a yoga position. The full moon fully incandescent. An escapee escaping hollow & corrupt civilizational madness. A druid-like hero, positioned in the now, opening portals to before. I promise I will tell nobody.

Photo S. McCabe

Egg, tell me where & when we shall meet again.

Photo S. McCabe

One very sunny day an egg enveloped my shadow & all shadows.

Photo S. McCabe

One very sunny day an egg enveloped salt & the volatile, shadows of the mighty & ancient world, honey & vinegar, shadows of this world in the light of this world, goats hanging in a market & geraniums in shade, clandestine meetings, the animated shadows we imagine spilling forward, the final page of a novel steeped in symbolism, shadows of a future dread we pledge to circumvent, sacrificing & shattering our personal selves to preserve, as guardians, the original innocent nourishment of joy & play, for all children & childhood, unfolding like the age-old unseen.

For the original brilliant sun. For the mechanics and gears of illumination, opposite to opaque – yet weighted with antiquity. Like an ancient accordion book, one very sunny day, unfolding & evolving.

Egg, show me those secret markings you made on the trees.

I don’t know how this egg came to be (unfortunately) on the sidewalk but the encounter stayed with me. This posting developed over a couple of weeks. First I put up ‘scene of the crime’ photographs along with the first draft of a poem. Then I edited the poem, with changes to the text visible in almost ‘real time.’ Then I created digital (Photoshop) manipulations of the photos using colour. Then it dawned on me to check a symbol dictionary for meanings associated with this entity and shape.

In The Book of Symbols: Reflections on Archetypal Images I read: ‘The egg is the mysterious ‘center’ around which unconscious energies move in spiral-like evolutions, gradually bringing the vital substance to light…’ If the egg had not been on the sidewalk (with yolk & egg white spilled out the cracked shell & spread across the concrete) I doubt I would have thought of an egg at that moment. Thus, my imagination turned synchronicity into images & text. One might also say sound. The egg, there and then in loss, became a poetic vessel for hope & empathy.

Night Falls (when you least expect it) 1 & 2

Night Falls (when you least expect it) 1
Night Falls (when you least expect it) 2

the flowers

In neon mystery the flowers explode.

In singularity the flowers explode.

Page 46

I told the painter, who had lived on a boat in England’s waterways, my idea for a poetry video about JFK’s widow in Dallas. I want to use a passage from my mother’s journal about tree shadows. She walked past a garage sale and picked up a book with pages blowing in the wind. It was Jacqueline Kennedy’s biography. She took it as a sign & told her ex-husband, a cinematographer, about my project. He traded time and expertise for my paintings & we worked on many projects, over many years.

From my book Meme-Noir (2019).

The video:

Mother in Her Rare Blue Shroud

Mother envelops children  

Sideways roll, forward roll, tilt back

Father leading golden animal 

Beneath the obsidian ceremonial archway

Gift of bread

Gift of water

Caravan single file behind golden animal

Golden animal envelops dream

Dream envelops form

Mother in her rare blue shroud

One star rolling above

the obsidian ceremonial archway.

Painting: Mother, 2020, acrylic on canvas, 9″ X 12″

If You Decide

a

We need to learn an almost extinct language I will study with you.

e

We need to live among the people whose language is almost lost I will join you and also learn traditional survival skills.

c

To leave me for the shaman I will drive a stake through his medicine box, realize my grave error instantly, and escape, although barely.

d

To beckon and summon, seducing me with whispers that reach into my blood, I will return.

b

I must stand trial for my crimes against love and magic, I will escape, again.

fadeout

If you decide to hypnotize me while I sleep I will seal my heart against your vibrations and embrace the crazed dream of modernity. Because I am a fool. Weary of surviving on roots. Even the root of you. Even the root of me.

fadeout

If you decide I must seal my heart against the sounds you once made I will throw the window open a final time, upon your murmur coursing & drenched in starlight, intersected by a highway carrying the disappeared.

fadeout

If you decide to remain quiet I will train my ear to hear the sunlight falling.

fadeout

If you decide it is my duty to dig out the wooden stake I will return in the dead of night speaking an extinct language.

fadeout

Photo credit: Renee Perle, a Romanian Jewish girl who moved to Paris, is famous as the first muse of the famous French photographer Jacques Henri Lartigue (1894-1986), who is considered one of the leading photographers of the 20th century.

http://www.romanianculture.org/personalities/Renee_Perle.htm

shadowssoftly 3violet detail 1

Air and Fire as Force

in black rain

Xenophanes is said to have argued against the thesis that the world breathes: he must have been thinking of some Ionian nature-philosophers. Possibly Anaximenes originated the idea.

ralph 2

Aristotle says that among older Pythagoreans was a similar belief; its advocates connected it with the theory that the world contained empty space.

the ice storm

Sextus says that the Pythagoreans and Empedokles based it on their creed that the fellowship of men is not merely with one another and with the gods, but includes animals: “For there is one pneuma which pervades, like a soul, the entire universe and which also makes us one with them.”

cosmic physics

By adding the opposites dry and moist, hot and cold, to pneuma, thinkers were able to differentiate the pneuma of psyche, dry and warm, from the pneuma of physis (world of plants), moist and cold.

as emotional

Orphic theology represented the psyche as entering the newborn child on wings of wind.

in detritus

We are not sure how far air was active or passive in early formulations. There seems a confusion in Aristotle and later writers, perhaps through a linking of air and water-vapour.

quad

Poseidonios makes moisture produce the chill of air over marshy ground; but his pupil Cicero stressed the caloric content of air.

shadows 1

Ploutarch pointed to the active role of air in freezing water, and assigned air a mid-position between fire and water.

surrealistic insurance

The Stoics made air and fire active.

black bucket wreckralph 2

Ch. 6  – Air and Fire as Force

Blast Power & Ballistics: Concepts of Force & Energy in the Ancient World

 by Jack Lindsay

ralph 2

 I do not own the copyright to the original image

of the auto-insurance agent found in the Toronto Star.

I altered it for purposes of commentary

under fair use provisions.

ralph 2book cover 2

Deep Sea Diving

c-blakes-ocean

 Blake’s ocean

A gas station

Black medicine

In a vial

You said I thought I was Jesus

deep sea divedeep sea detail b

You said I thought I was Jesus

In exile

We handled snakes

I was yours truly

deep sea divedeep sea detail c

I was yours truly

I swallowed a shot of ink

We faded

deep sea divenee
We faded

Vibrantly

In retrospect we were children

deep sea divedeep sea detail e

In retrospect we were children

At the carnival

Deep sea diving

thenomatic

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.