poemimage

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

Tag: poetry

Prologue by Luciano Iacobelli

To create angels

Is to slice pie and name wedges:

difficult angles of light preserved in heart’s jelly

teenaged crushes trapped diagonally

undirected love felt in the presence of music

infatuation without object

movement in the skull

turtles waking in the mind’s mud

grape cluster the past becomes if artfully remembered

not images

but the script under them

negative space written in spelling errors

negligence that amends the soul

a family of perspectives driving a cumulative death

into the oncoming traffic

whole note in a black triangle on a blue background

disappearances denting the air

weather not noticed by the self absorbed

ignited visions

kissed ashes

barrel in the cellar

parallel fermentation of grape juice and darkness

the strong red taste of every humanizing event

stolen hour at the church dance

when a hard father’s daughter meets the one

who steals her from home

mines and quarries dug with the eyes

dream’s mailman

slipping letters through the slot

the white surrounding this

word

Luciano Iacobelli is a Toronto poet, publisher and editor. From 2007 to 2019 he was involved with Quattro books as both publisher and editor. He still runs a micropress entitled Lyricalmyrical press, specializing in hand made poetry chapbooks. As an author, he has published 6 full length books of poetry, his most recent book DOLOR MIDNIGHT was published in 2018 and deals with the subject of gambling. His next book, NOCTOGRAMS is due to be published in the fall of 2020 and deals with the subject of night and transformation.

Prologue begins THE ANGEL NOTEBOOK (Seraphim Editions, 2007)

Reposed in Flight by Ned Baeck

Basement bright with skin

shows dark, rapt faces.

They hold him

in their hearts and brains.

Someone whispered the world

is not worth becoming evil for –

On the ceiling, which is the maiden mother’s floor,

they pound, and pause, and pound again.

Blood pulsing in their fists,

the pierce of loathing under their ribs.

In a shadowed mezzanine

below the conscious mind,

they gnaw on river fish,

direct you to the wrong people,

put glitter in their eyes,

control the atmosphere,

arrange stillborn thoughts in old places.

Later they will say you brought down

the old, dull, rusted sword

with your own hands – and you did –

on the samovar that hid her hand

and the bed where she bared herself.

Motionless,

bird reposed in flight,

love for whose sake everything, murderous

and merciful, is done –

It’s so quiet now,

vouchsafed to a world of sullen depravity,

a few crumbs of dust for the broom.

The true operation of your mind – follow it –

 

Ned Baeck lives in Vancouver.

His poems have recently appeared in untethered, The Continuist and Sewer Lid.

His first full-length collection of poems is forthcoming from Guernica.

and we did have joy

When roadblocks appear.

Roads go to funny places.

One returns to a place.

I remember you burned the soles of your feet during coal walking at the weekend seminar.

Somebody stole your expensive Turkish sandals and replaced them with flip flops.

You didn’t stop walking.

We discovered a comet fallen to the sidewalk.

And then a colourful one.

You were afraid it would burn your feet.

You said my skin had cracked.

I touched my arm. It felt

Like a fallen column in the library at Alexandria.

Though not as old as a comet.

As old as the sidewalks put in after WW2.

On the roads that go to funny places.

Where you walked and kept going

After I stopped.

*

and

we

did

have

joy

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Satire to Symbol to Where is the Poem in That?

4 in 1 two

Recently in Canada we had a minor brouhaha in Parliament.  A satirical magazine depicted the former Leader of the Opposition wearing a neck brace with his caucus in body casts, wheelchairs, etc…

circle 23

I cropped the photo in a circle & added text to make my own satirical statement. No. I decided. Something else. So I began to manipulate the images. Emerging psychedelic shapes with the politician becoming 19th century-like wearing a clerical or clown collar.

4 in one

Shapes emerged as I worked intuitively with Photoshop.

circle 7

A symbol began to emerge. Or something that looked like it wanted to be a symbol.

with bordersymbol of om

Recently my investigations have led me (in books & online) to India where the Celtic God Cernunnos is preceded by a similarly depicted figure revealed by artifacts from the Indus Valley.

cultural contrast

The similarities of the visual language are striking. Mythologies are a bit like dreams, arising from the same ‘bedrock’ of consciousness. Or from somewhere beneath the bedrock.

green man in India

Jokes also lead to interesting places. And who might be both psychedelic and from an earlier century while wearing a clerical – clown collar. The depictor. Or the depicted. Or someone else entirely. And where is the poem in that?

where is the poetrywhere is the poetrywhere is the poetry

Original photo credit: The Beaverton

When Birds Were Fish

cave mist 3

One could write poetically concerning When Birds Were Fish.

transformation in a white mist 4

Or When Birds Were Suns. When Birds Were Moons.

are the beatles going to play

Soaring and skimming from here to there, across times, flying into the rivers of the underworld.

are they building a bridge to the mainland

Emerging silently into the forbidding underworld of Jean Cocteau’s 1949 film Orphee, situated within the relic of postwar France: A modern world as silently old order as mythology itself.

O1

 Orphee, played by Jean Marais, interrogated by an underworld tribunal.

O2

Stating his occupation as poet.

square

To write without being a writer. 

flight

The Princess of Death, played by Maria Casares, asking him for a pen (to sign her confession).

face

Her confession of love. He has no pen.

face

She laughs. She forgot he is not a writer.

face

The scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_o9l3OqPMk

flight

Film images courtesy The Criterion Collection.

flight

Marilyn Monroe reading James Joyce in a Public Park: Druidic and Bardic Powers of Enchantment (Text by Tina Fields & Photo by Eve Arnold)

1

Inspired poetry, regarded as a vital skill of the pagan Celtic seer, fits in with the shamanistic tenet that one must bring back any information gained from the Otherworlds to benefit the people.

2100

One challenge to this is that visions wildly pouring forth while in deep trance can easily be forgotten during the return to ordinary waking consciousness.

3

They are much more likely to be retained and recalled for later use when placed in some sort of pattern which the cognitive mind can hold onto.

4100

Through the uses of rhyme, alliteration, meter, repetition and tune to this end, the crafts of music and poetry became intimately connected with magical practice and otherworldly power and knowledge in the Celtic world.

5

Besides voicing deep and otherwise hidden wisdom gained while in an altered state, bards used sound to harm, heal, and alter moods and probability.

6100

Poetry and music were not considered beaux-arts to the pagan Celts, but tools of raw magical power.

7

Scorching satirical poetry known as the briarmon smetrach was intended to ‘puncture’ and to publicly destroy reputations.

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Well-aimed, the poetic form known as glam dicin was used to drive out rats and to disfigure or even kill an opponent.

9

The Irish cattle-rustling epic Tain bo Cualgne describes the bardic warfare employed by Queen Medb against her enemy Fer Diad:

10glass3

Then Medb sent the Druids and satirists and harsh bards for Fer Diad, that they might make against him three satires to stay him and three lampoons, and that they might raise on his face three blisters, shame, blemish and disgrace, so that he might die before the end of nine days if he did not succumb at once (Kinsella 1969).

11

Bardic incantations could also be used to end hostilities. Diodorus Siculus observed this magical use of sound in the late 1st-century B.C.E.:

12100

Frequently when armies confront one another in line of battle with swords drawn and spears thrust forward, these men intervene and cause them to stop, just as though they were holding some wild animal spellbound with their chanting. (Diodorus Siculus 31, 2-5, as cited in Ireland, p. 181).

13

Tacitus describes the effect of this weaving of enchantment against Roman invaders on the Isle of Mona in 60 A.D.:

79100

On the shore stood the opposing army with its dense array of armed warriors, while between the ranks dashed women in black attire round the Druids, lifting up their hands to heaven and pouring forth dreadful imprecations, scared our soldiers by the unfamiliar sight so that, as if their limbs were paralyzed, they stood motionless and exposed to wounds. (Tacitus, AnnalsXIV, 30)

53

Finally, bardic powers could also be used to heal – as when a master harper restored speech to the dumb prince Maon through his music.

42fade out 3

The small harp was often employed by bards as a magical tool.

101

Part of the Celtic harper’s toolkit was working knowledge of the Adbhan Trireach or ‘Three Noble Strains,’ attributed to the chants for childbirth sung by the god/spirit Dagda’s harp Uaithne.

100glass3

Each Strain was not only entertainment but a form of enchantment: ‘Sorrow-‘ or ‘Lament-Strain’, which could reduce listeners to tears; ‘Joy-Strain’, which could turn tears to laughter; and ‘Sleep-Strain’, which could soothe listeners’ hearts into deep sleep.

shdows 13

Gaining songs of power from spirits is a common element occurring in many shamanistic cultures.

1100

 Text above from the section Druidic and Bardic Powers of Enchantment in Celtic Shamanism: Pagan Celtic Spirituality by Tina Fields, Ph.D https://indigenize.wordpress.com/about/spiritual-ecopsychology/celtic-shamanism/

7

My digital manipulation of source material is intended for purposes of commentary & creative pastiche/creating a new work incorporated with original art & based upon Marilyn Monroe Reading Ulysses, Long Island, New York, 1954. Photo by Eve Arnold.

101fade out 3

Original photo by Eve Arnold as well as information about Marilyn Monroe’s reading habits and book collection can be found at http://www.booktryst.com/2010/10/marilyn-monroe-avid-reader-writer-book.html

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A Bolt of Black Cloth

9

I imagined a colour the density of funeral bunting,

new 10

A bolt of black cloth,

a singed songflaring

A sudden black waterfall quickly dropping six stories,

dales 17 new

Unrolled from a balcony,

dense nights

The beginning of a voyage,

fire lotq

Negotiating darkness.

flaring

My father shopped at Dales for paper bags full of groceries,

parkinglot

I waited in the car listening to the radio,

people who knowwaiting in the car 1

I tried to describe a song called Eve of Destruction,

q

He looked at me in the rear-view mirror,

r

Columns of black smoke rose above the Pacific Ocean,

spark 2a ring

Like poisonous vines,

the projector shining

Morse code blinking through the darkness,

waiting in the car 1

At night he came home as late as possible,

xxp

Then looking again into the rear-view mirror,

new 10

He repeated the name of the song,

‘Eve of Destruction.’

dales 17 new

I pictured a wooden bowl in my chest,

parkinglotthe projector shining

Smoothed and worn by water,

p

& Climbing the stairs into this language,

a ring

Gazed, longingly, into a rear-view mirror.

new 10dales 17 newxxr

Tasting the Light by Ellen S. Jaffe

za

I  taste the light

coming through the window.

(from “Odysseus and Circe,” Anne Simpson)

yyyc

Pouring, like you,

 into my heart,

washing over my skin

o

falling

through glass

lightly

ma

flowing waves and circling particles

currents of surprise, delight.

u

I am water, and I am a gull, flying …

mona xround q

a gulf wide and deep as Mexico

k

replenishing after spills and spoils

mona vd

You fish me, for stars

for pearls

lost boys and missing girls

b

fallen into the hole of our fears

O  is an open mouth,

mmmmnmmmnh

one closed eye,

and one open

mona sl

a black hole where light cannot flow

out

mona j

 now light from the window of opportunity

         swallows us whole

33

and  we  shine

we

mona round

shine.

amber

Ellen S. Jaffe’s most recent book of poetry, Skinny-Dipping with the Muse (Guernica Editions, 2014) has recently been launched. Tasting the Light is a new poem, not yet published. Ellen lives in Hamilton, writes poetry and prose, and teaches writing in schools and community centres.

swirlsllround

 

 

Crown Island by Catherine Graham

crown island 1
I am surrounded by Crown Island,

a weave of rock and sand; the waves

lap against me, sizzling white strings.

crown island aa Read the rest of this entry »

Brume by Cristina Castello (translation Pierre L’Abbe)

and alwaysthe calling twoo

 The planet is a little outraged girl

With its days without dolls and its eyes without pupils

Her bundle awaits on a strange train platform

Next to millions of sadnesses without reply

A train that will carry to the tomb her gloveless heart

depth organnand seafaceand and french tunnel

A plucked nib on my chest, this is the world

Stone hole, empty gap

All the chalices converge on my blood

I am a fountain positioned to offer

But the wound passes through the mouth of the poem

Abandonment resists the sky

And rattles the soul of the earth.

Or perhaps, is God dead?

All abandoned

Abandoned

and textured doubleand old gold

Why do they, my eyes, look at them inside?

And why do they inside these beings look at my eyes?

No one but the Absolute answers.

Crystal and steel I am, but everyone sees the sword

And no one could imagine my crystals in shards

and cool depthsand alabasterand another sphere

I will resist in an armour of poetry

I will resist swinging from the murmur of the stars

I will resist perched on the peek of a blade of grass

Attached to this moon of snow sailing through the mists

Who stare at me from the branch of the tree, that they cradle.

I can still open my hands to Those about me

village woman xx

I will not die without seeing that in the bundle Christ sings

I will not die before the compass foretells an epiphany.

and loyoroand overlap

Cristina Castello is an Argentinian poet and journalist now living in France. Her work is committed to peace and beauty against all social injustices. Her poems are always a commitment to the dignity of life, beauty and freedom. They have been translated into several languages. Her books include, Soif, (L’Harmattan 2004); Orage, (Bod 2009),Ombre (Trames 2010) and “Le chant des sirènes” / “El canto de las sirenas” (Chemins de plume, 2012).

and where you are

Pierre L’Abbe is a Toronto translator, publisher, ebook designer and author of both poetry and short story collections.

and full scaleand thumbprint