poemimage

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

Tag: Rain

Alchemy Begins in the Rain

I stand in the rain

(alchemy begins)

curving like a river

(sparkling like radioactive particles)

loosening dried flecks of ink

swallow and

(flow through the manuscript factory)

curvilinear like a small and large intestine

sweeping & twisting

on television

experts prove it never happened

dance the paper airplane dance

launch-jab pantomime

surround a plaster statue

launch-jab pantomime

Julius Caesar

spies a peacock bobbing his moon-of-Jupiter head

spitting ‘Vox clamantis in deserto

the conspiracy unfolds’

a small and large intestine swallows the light of the sun

I dance myself into a golden egg.

SAINTS IN MY RAIN by Silva Zanoyan Merjanian

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I learned the rain in cursive slants

I learned 
lying on doubts

spread on the sacred and not

spread on my bed, my pillow, my exhale

the crust of every lie I loved

tainted with silver sliver of your tongue

frametriple

I turned that night on its back

after you went to bed

your streets indebted

to shadows of restless dreams

bruising on its replaced ribs

where trash collectors compress

disposed remnants

in the ruble

life’s severed limbs

an envy here

a longing there

a nothingness holier than my prayers

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and I add

that face without the lips

under the face with muffled shame

under the face I used to have

on heaps of unfinished poems

where a lemon tree and jasmine blossoms

promised mornings

colored and scented at my fingertips

shadow2

I learned the rain in every lie

in stammer of your pavements

where Saints gather in line at rock bottoms stacked

between my howl and a crow’s black squawk

wrists dripping prayers on St Rita’s solemn face

she sympathizes but says tonight she owns the ledge

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there’s always mad laughter at the foot of beds

where Saints sleep on their sides facing the drapes

that catch the city’s quieting breath

misting under street lamps

that catch impelled compromise

in bourbon shots and blues on a clarinet

as lonely as you

that time when you asked my name

sometimes I tell you

long after you’ve gone to bed

wispish

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poet residing in Southern California. Her work is featured in international publications.  Silva’s  second volume of poetry Rumor will be released by Cold River Press in March 2015.

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Row Back by Michael Gallagher

burma new

Petulant sun quarrels with crabbed sky

sky lyre

It probes, prods, sneaks

Through gaps in broken cloud,

stele new

Catches the crests of waves that roll

In deep swells across the estuary.

anewnettingfire faceinkwith

Gales lash the craggy headland

Pummel long-stemmed grass into submission;

tension

Rain shards pierce weathered faces

While wrens search out the whin’s snug core.

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It is midsummer’s day and Nature rages:

Brother Man, row back, row back,

Our world is not, is not, yours to destroy.

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Mike Gallagher lives in splendid isolation in Lyreacrompane, County Kerry, Ireland. His collection ‘Stick on Stone’ is published by Revival Press.

peaking

As One Listens To The Rain by Octavio Paz

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,

not attentive, not distracted,

light footsteps, thin drizzle,

water that is air, air that is time,

the day is still leaving,

the night has yet to arrive,

figurations of mist

at the turn of the corner,

figurations of time

at the bend in this pause,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

without listening, hear what I say

with eyes open inward, asleep

with all five senses awake,

it’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,

air and water, words with no weight:

what we are and are,

the days and years, this moment,

weightless time and heavy sorrow,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

wet asphalt is shining,

steam rises and walks away,

night unfolds and looks at me,

you are you and your body of steam,

you and your face of night,

you and your hair, unhurried lightning,

you cross the street and enter my forehead,

footsteps of water across my eyes,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

the asphalt’s shining, you cross the street,

it is the mist, wandering in the night,

it is the night, asleep in your bed,

it is the surge of waves in your breath,

your fingers of water dampen my forehead,

your fingers of flame burn my eyes,

your fingers of air open eyelids of time,

a spring of visions and resurrections,

listen to me as one listens to the rain,

the years go by, the moments return,

do you hear the footsteps in the next room?

not here, not there: you hear them

in another time that is now,

listen to the footsteps of time,

inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,

listen to the rain running over the terrace,

the night is now more night in the grove,

lightning has nestled among the leaves,

a restless garden adrift-go in,

your shadow covers this page.