poemimage

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

Tag: Night

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.’

here

*

the key to here

pulled on a string slowly away

*

I didn’t even notice

*

image originally from the book Ethiopian Magic Scrolls – manipulated in Photoshop

A Sailor in Hamburg (1&2)

The quiet sailor watches the Beatles play in the Kaiserkeller bar in 1960.

He listens to a song in time out of sync

composed for the Abbey Road album

in 1969.

A song born for the future –

silently asleep

in the silence of crystal stars.

He listens above the open sea

climbing a ladder made of coal

rising from the depths –

dreaming itself

into a structure

aimed into the obsidian sky.

GIF Experiments: 9 (Variations in the Middle of the Night)

I woke up at 2:30 am and made coffee. No lights in any other windows.

Thoughts while creating 22 new images for Page 70, vignette #2 from Meme-Noir:

I heard a song that reminded me. Those of a certain age who participated in a counter-culture activity will remember ‘coming down’ after ‘peaking.’ Peaking was a moment when the absolute cosmic explanation for Why made itself known as you rushed straight up into it. Just as you grasped it (inside your head) it vanished. You tried to remember, wasn’t it only a second ago, but it was gone. And suddenly you were ‘coming down.’ Coming down in your body, through your body, was fraught. I started thinking about Theosophy-inspired landscapes and symbols. How those artists would depict peaking. I thought about young people with no tribal initiation or shamanic guidance thrown into powerful hallucinogenic experiences without protection.

Ten of the new images:

 

Where You Are by Eileen Sheehan

solstice december copy

garden god

 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.

this green tree copy Read the rest of this entry »

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 »

Beulah Hill: Slideshow. by Michael Gallagher

033

Crescent Moon hangs loose from sparkling Venus,

Blinking satellite hobbles through cobalt sky,

035

City silhouettes haunt low horizon,

bright moon

On a garden bench, frozen crystals

Reflect the hidden stars,

002

Robin song greets nascent dawn,

015

Chimney crow steals dregs

Of last night’s heat.

001

Sudden gust stirs the stillness,

019

Threads the willows dangling tresses,

026

Scrapes the bones of a dying oak

And drives snow-clouds over

Croydon Town.

007

Mike Gallagher’s collection ‘Stick on Stone’ is published by Revival Press. His poetry has been published worldwide and translated into Croatian, Japanese, Dutch, German and Chinese.

new pi

Before deciding to address Beulah Hill: Slideshow. I had been creating images of an eBook Reader in the future, discovered as temperatures shifted, revealing a poem covered with soil and frost & still mysteriously visible. I decided to adapt those visuals and, befitting the poem, layer earth-tones with space images from the NASA Goddard Photo and Video files @ Wikipedia Commons.