A Dream...recorded in the night
without a date stamp,
so when, & of Who?
...a face, half of which
is covered by a mask;
the other half,
where the cheek should be,
it's all been eaten away
and it's been reconstructed
with stories,
story after story...
he had no feet
and he is perched
on the window ledge
like a vampire or an angel,
I couldn't tell which...
©Brenda Clews 2005
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Woman with Flowers 7.1
(7th sketch in series, first iteration of this one) Woman with Flowers Flowers, props upholding the woman. The flowers, fragrant, imaginar...
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The Buddha says: “ You cannot travel the path until you have become the path itself .” The path is uncertain. Uncertainty is the guiding for...
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What if relationships are the primary ordering principle? What if the way relationships are ordered clarify, explain, and instruct us on th...
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direct link: Tones of Noir music: Alex Bailey, ' Piano Improvisation No 7 .' Do poems wait to be born? A poem whittled out of t...
Actually when I was listening to a recording made late at night for my next photopoem, I found this little dream, my sleepy voice telling it in the middle of the night, who knows when, and it's written pretty much as spoken... so... can't dreams become poems? It was actually quite miracluous to see this deeply wounded person, so wounded they didn't even have a 'face' anymore, eaten away, ravedged by the brutality of their life, only a mask to show the world, a way to hide the pain, but he didn't sink into depravity or despair, the stories that he created and which composed his face were wondrous, sonorously beautiful, elegiac, painful but deep and abiding, truely art, and alive with mystery, so many stories interweaving with such depth... I was in awe but afraid, too... and I think he was both a vampire and an angel, and that image is impossible to explain on this warm and wonderful Saturday morning...
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