Her eyes are smoky, dark...

Her eyes are smoky, dark. It is as if clouds swirl over the moon. I see flashes of an unusually high intelligence, even across the train where I stand holding a pole swaying to the motions of gliding and stopping. She reaches down and slips a sheaf of papers into a large lawyer's briefcase that has wheels. Her ring finger is studded with diamonds that shimmer in the underground light. When she stands in her ruffled short black skirt and pressed white suit jacket, of a nylon and satin blend, she looks diminutive, her blonde hair tied back, perhaps sprayed into place, preparations of a night's intense research filling her mind. The sense of an obscuring moontide about her that originally drew my attention disappears. I see her pull herself straight; breathing confidence into her gait, she steps off the train on her way to a fierce day at court.


(Note: these little pieces started with qarrtsiluni's current short shorts, and then I read somewhere of an author who writes books sentence by sentence, spending sometimes an hour on each, but never revises afterwards, and I thought, one sentence a day, I can do that. They grow a little - it's fun.)

Sultry Dark Air

These little lyrical pieces in the first person continue (one sentence a day, I can do it, I can do it, and it expands too)... with apologies to those of you who find the heat unbearable :) I have enough of these small prose poems for a suite now and I'll try to do a reading over the weekend and post it for you.


Heat presses like a great Turkish steam bath. I lie on my back contemplating hotness; on sand yellow cotton sheets, the soft aquamarine silky nightdress a wave that partially covers me. Soaking in warmth without resistance, so unlike the rigid response to the cold Winter air when I am retracted, conserving heat. This is the season that I await, these are the nights that I await; the air thick with the steam of a sweat lodge, I sprawl open, the incalescence that pervades the air an insistent masseuse. Breathing the torridity, the loves of my life flicker like heat lightning in a slideshow of memories that reach into the past, and in the deep and fragile night, smiling, my glowing heart, my sighs join the sultry air.

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Without a Guide

I dive. Into a moat of possibilities, primal soup of beginnings, where things are disjointed, undefined. A flux of moments not yet become time, flotsam on the edge of becoming, half-formed bits of genetic material seeking connections, a way to complete what is only dimmly begun. It is dark, watery, and things fly at me, scraps of detritus that perhaps I could make sense of if I knew the design. Do flowing magnetic waves draw disparate things into new configurations? In this place without rationality that I have so dangerously found myself in, how are things connected, and through connection, created?

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What revelations are to come...?

...red spots develop under my cheeks, and as I powder them they become raised wheels, one on each side, which the thick powder whitens, six spokes, a central hub and an outer wheel, a relief scultpure of perhaps a millimeter depth, like something from myth, an archetypal drama of the ancients, which the attempt to hide with powder only accenuates. I feel no horror, or pain, but awe as I brush the powder on skin that has become wheels and spokes. Sculpted like Alchemical wheels of time, or Tarot wheels of Fortune, the configurations are mysterious, almost reverential, an embodied reference to the Wheels of Ezekiel, but also to the powdered faces of highly-stylized Oriental performance, and somehow the magnificent coiled antlers of Bighorn sheep...

_____________
probably unecessary note: ...yes, it was a dream, the one I woke with today, but I have decided to treat dreams as real and as poetry in themselves... hence I've cut away the narratorial voice of the daytime ego that we use when relating dreams, as well as any analysis. There is resonance with the Symbolist and Surrealist poets, I know that...

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Painting Time

Let go of the stability of knowing how to see, the molecules are dancing, big bundles of energy like rivers of colour and the jostling of air, where you can see wind currents by watching the way they move, and how the air sweeps back from the leaves and branches and the knotted woody bark of the tree that is a current too, one thicker than the other, both humming with motion.

What does a still world look like?

Always the humming, buzzing, jostling from inside things; I've never seen it flat still like a photograph.

Everything is singing, transforming at different rates with different densities, and I don't know what separates anything from anything else.

Spiritus Mundi, perhaps. It's all animated all the time: vibrating; singing.

Our words mapping the design of ourselves
in the world in frail gaps.

I reach for you
without
solidity.

---

with thanks to Robert Preuss for his ekphrastic writing on Van Gogh

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In the time it takes to write a paragraph...

Sipping coffee, slowly, flicking from site to site, reading here and there, fat Summer rain falling on the open windows behind me spraying a little inside, checking the books on the windowsill, Life of Pi, Only What Is, Rocking the Cradle, they're fine, fluffy dog at my feet who stands every now and then and looks into my eyes to see if I can hear the loud drizzling and noisy plonking drops, and gets her ears rubbed. This rain so heavy, it would redden the skin if you were out uncovered. A cloud burst that's poured and already spent, the thunder god disappearing over the city skyline, leaving fast running rivulets on the streets, in the drainpipes, ecstatic drenched leaves, mud wherever it can be, flocks of flowers, and a brightness everywhere that is visionary in the time its taken to write this paragraph.

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The Magic of Mantra...

In the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, deep in the cocoon of sound I've woven tightly around myself, if I become a slush of nutrients as the waves of colour begin radiating through me, making iridescent wings, then that's today, where I've meditated most of the day, chanted my silent mantra endlessly until I've forgotten who I am until my life is unrecognizable until I'm bliss floating through the air rather than a woman walking her dog in the summer-scented warmth of the late evening air.

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