poemimage

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

Tag: surrealism

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)

Distance Swimming

circle

In her mirror

detail with green ball

She feels illumined by an accelerating process

blur all

Initiated by the 20th Century.

watery

A darkening fog.

the heroic ball and glove

Klee-song,

hand

Cocteau,

newly

de Chirico,

love

Arise from her in swirling, serpentine eddies. A ventriloquist.

angles

She unties a boat on the shore. The underground river.

final circle

Languages of illumining clarity speed into each other like blood in water,

watery

As vast and translucent as the Northern Lights.

final circle

 & For reasons both utilitarian and mythopoeic

watery

The face in the mirror anticipates leaping.

final circle

& Distance swimming through shadow-lands,

watery

Beneath the precipice of shallow, atomic time,

final circle

Within and without darkened chambers & coincidentally

watery

 Light reflecting upon ancient vials.

final circle

 & Our spines an unbroken chain of receptor cauldrons.

watery

& Her gift. The mirror.

zoom

Paul Klee catalogue (1951), Giorgio de Chirico painting ‘Song of Love’ (1914), photographic still from Jean Cocteau’s ‘Orphee’ (1950), pictured: Jean Marais  and Maria Casarès

Revolution 9 by The Beatles

9b

0:00 – 0:56

9g

0:56 – 1:12

9c

1:12 – 2:10

9a

2:10 – 3:06

9x copy

3:06 – 4:02

9r

4:02 – 4:58

9xy

4:58 – 5:54

9v

5:54 – 6:50

9u

6:50 – 7:46

violet

7:46 – 8:23

9detail 9

9detailc

9detaili

9detaili

9detaili

You can silently enjoy

the Beatle’s sound collage

Revolution 9

by  following the time code

between images

above

(a Dada/Fluxus action)

or

this link

to

the full

eight minutes +

of inspired mayhem

on their White Album:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJeqOoc4HmI

Amazingly

within five years

The Beatles traveled artistically

and sonically

from I Want to Hold Your Hand

to

Dada / surreal poetry

and a psychedelia infused with literary and cinematic

overtones.

As 2014 begins

you may find yourself

beginning or ending

travel

into or out of

cyclical spheres.

Like

a comet.

Like

comet #9.

I don't know

opposite

 

 

 

 

 

My Story Is Not My Own (a film poem concerning Nov. 22, 1963)

The same film with subtitles:

still with credit

In 2009 I created My Story Is Not My Own, a metaphysical & surreal film poem concerning the Kennedy assassination. My statement concerning this project is beneath the video on the YouTube page.

Paul Klee by Paul Eluard – translated by Nancy Kline

f

what is to come

On the death-­dealing slope, the traveler makes use

Of the favor of day, the slippery frost, no small stones,

And eyes blue with love he discovers his season

Be­ringed on all fingers with stars.

white whirl

d

monumental whirl

On the beach the sea has relinquished its ears

And the sand digs the spot for a beautiful crime.

underwater book

n.b.and

Torture is harder for hangmen than victims

Bullets are tears and daggers are signs.

brightly dark

fish

Capital of Pain, Black Widow Press, 2006

translated by Mary Ann Caws, Patricia Terry, Nancy Kline

originally published 1926.

i

I was apprehensive about applying my images to a poem about Paul Klee. Klee is one of my favourite artists for many reasons. He used line masterfully. His sense of colour and texture was both magical and visceral. He was intellectual as well as full of child-like wonder. He experimented imaginatively while rigorously creating an expanding body of work. This poem by Eluard is like a prism capturing various realities & dimensions one might encounter in Klee’s art. I wanted to depict the sensibility & feel of the poem but I wasn’t sure how I felt about making images about somebody who made images. And I didn’t want to copy Klee in any sort of obvious manner. I shared this concern with Nancy Kline, the translator of this poem & many of the poems in Capital of Pain. Nancy suggested that one visual artist interpreting another might be an worthwhile experience yielding interesting results. And with this encouragement in mind I worked on composing images that hopefully come near the boundaries of ‘Klee-ism.’ 

Vitam Impendere Amori (To Threaten Life for Love) by Guillaume Apollinaire

Read the rest of this entry »

Down The Pipe by Angye Gaona

Please refer to January 15, 2013 for a more in-depth treatment of this poem

I follow the way of the sternum,
I search for the origin of thirst,
I go to the bottom of a pipe of silver walls,
solid due to time,
moving when the flood,
when childhood, was freezing.
I collect the rootlets of thought.
I carry them on my eroded back
next to the wild oblivion falling from me.
They look out
from small caves,
the signs of pain,
and fast elude the looks
and hide again in the skin of the pipe.
Inscribed on the walls
are the undecipherable coordinates
of the prehistoric ray
that formed my face.
It is a time of depths,
a time without syllable,
when I am only a sound
in transit to fatigue.
I search for a spring
to bathe the question affixed on my history.
I search for a new-born life
and I find thirst.
I follow the way of the sternum.

Translated by Nicolás Suescún

Angye Gaona is a Colombian surrealist poet facing politically inspired legal difficulties.