I fell in love with this fabulous dreamy painting by Cornish artist Jo March and got very excited when the postman brought the print I’d ordered today.
Since at the moment I can’t seem to write except in fits and starts- I have very bad attention issues sometimes- I tried to focus by giving myself just five minutes to set down a kind of free verse inspired by tuning into the picture.
It’s rough and ready but hopefully conveys a sense of the painting.
Marshmallow clouds come bubbling
as soap suds engulfing this piskie mound
Where plough turns myths from the ground
Probed by roots of sentient trees that cluster
Heavily round secrets of this rolling land,
Eternally bound ‘twixt depthless sea
And pin-pricked sky; each star an eye
To dreams of watchful crow and hound
That flap and pace her sleeping mind.
Rocks and Bones are what is all comes down to. I love this poem by exiled Welshman, Roger Moore…bred from the Welsh limestone but in this stark and haunting bone-scattered poem you can hear the fading voices of Cree ghosts…
Their violinist has taken time out, leaving
his last notes dancing from a street lamp.
Only the Fire-Brave remains, inhaling thick
black oily smoke. He juggles twin balls of fire.
Bones gather together to gather dry dust. Hollow
metal buffalo: a cold wind blew and plucked out
his heart. Five climate controlled pedestrian
walkways cross the prairie, linking building
to building. A glass wheat field shimmers
and tinkles to the rhythm of air conditioning.
The black cow, cast iron hide set free from rust,
ruminates behind its plate glass window.
The night wind whisks white buffalo bones
pale across the sky. Oskana ka asasteki.
abruptly. A light going out. Now I am here.
Oskana ka asasteki. And now I too am gone.
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A brilliant and resonant piece on your own happiness from V as in Vixen.
Happiness isn’t something you stumble upon or find settled in side walk cracks.
It’s not in the same experiment you try back to back to back.
You make it like you make the air to help the trees breath. It’s energy you expel and your soul then feeds.
You deserve to choose you. A long Winter ago, I did too.
You break a cycle and you slowly chisel away at war torn walls. You choose you and you can finally turn a corner and stop haunting the same halls.
Pull the weeds that overgrow your mind; throw down seeds, loose your anxiety, and just feel the breeze. You are allowed to choose you. You are allowed to take care of your garden. That’s what growers do.
Thinking about dreams a lot recently, partly because of the wonderfully thought-provoking and philosphically solid blog Cakeordeath, and partly because I have been having an awful lot of them. They’re nothing remarkable but for the fact that I believe that certain symbols, scenarios and sensations are common to most people. Whether this constitutes some kind of common language of the subconscious I am not qualified to say, but I have just distilled down the first three recent dreams that came to mind- the emotions, images and observations- into three individual Haiku. I wonder if they strike a chord with anyone else; I would be interested to know so please feel free to comment.
On your knees you grope.
Soft, dependent thing is lost;
Poor broken creature.
Dusk falls too quickly.
You turn; everyone has gone;
But you’re not alone…
Yet another room
Where people you know mingle.
Though they’ve never met.
I could almost eat some of the images and lines in this lustrous piece from Allison Marie Conway. Fitting perhaps, given the title.
You are only love, a child of the underground, flower of the morning carving images on the walls all night; soft petals dripping from your heart and your thighs and your feet, cold are the hands which once held me.
To sleep is to breathe oceans through broken windows, to leave is to return, to break is to be rebuilt without bone, without walls. In the depths of your bruised ribs I am swimming, I am changing from sea creature to animal to woman to lover as you paint my lips from blue to lavender to vanishing.
This fervent greed which laces his gruesome tongue through your palms, which suckles the wrists of your newborn skin, it is passing, passing, passing through you, you the arms of a finely crafted instrument, you at the beckon of deliverance, glistening nude in the bronze cured sun.
Would you kiss me here in…
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Wonderfully haunting stuff exploring how we inflect and impress our own dreams, desires and obsessions onto the ones we think we love…do we in fact love the ‘real’ them or a composite of our own dreaming?
Toyen-A l’entree du silence 1954
Here’s another chance…
I have never really been present
In the right here,
The right now.
I am never fully awake
Until I close my eyes
And live the dreamlife.
Haunted by the memory of the woman
Who was in turn possessed
By another love
Who bore a supernatural
Resemblance to the original
Girl I loved long ago who was
Haunted by the memory.
But here’s another,
You remind me of someone,
Yes someone I once knew.
If only you were a little blonder
And would change the clothes you wear
That shade of lipstick is all wrong
Here, try this on
It’s not exact
But maybe it will do
In this half light yes
You could even beher.
Andwhile drowning in your grey eyes
I see reflected
Back at me my own copper eyes
ThenI see myself
In your body…
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