For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. — Wallace Stevens, “The Snow Man”
There ought not to be anything but that my mind has ordered it so —
So I had been taught — for the mind is designer
Reality but the by-blow, bastard child that diminishes as I diminish
But that the Emperor of Ice-Cream has clay feet
Which stand on eternity’s threshold eyeing a feast.
There the bread and wine of Thy design
Grain and grape sweetly lies upon the tongue
To “taste and see the goodness of the LORD”
Yet nothing tasting if not sanctified by Thy Word
Blood spilled and body broken
Spoken gospel of love heard by a few
Who once nothing being are born in You
Till nothing become sons and daughters
Alive to You.
Laura at dVerse asks us to address paradox as a matter for today’s “Poetics” prompt, including using as a starting point and/or epigraph the above Wallace Stevens quotation. Click on Mr. Linky for more and join in!
Mish at dVerse’s “Poetics” asks us to take on the persona of a color, “imagine what they see . . . . slip out of our human bodies and become nothing but a color.” So it is written, so it is done, but in the voice of one particular color, Vincent van Gogh’s yellow.
Van Gogh died in July 1890 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest.
When you turn to me away from Rachel For whom you sheared your face of an ear Isn’t the world brighter, like sunflowers? And the walls of your house in Arles Lavishly canvased, as the awnings As cafés, bedframes, straw hats, sunsets I am the light running before you Swirling you up to starry nights and moons Away from the blackness of eyes That never see you like I have seen you Radiant in the waving fields of wheat Until the day you clasp your hands Round the ochred skin of despair.
Today, Grace at dVerse asks us to “Meet the Bar” with regards to setting. So I began with that age old phrase, “once upon a time” and discovered that it seemed to be a setting unto itself, one that the speaker and the listener partake of evocatively, symbiotically. Or so I indulge myself in believing.
Once, the old woman/man/animal/tree/rock began, in the ages when spring set in for a millennium water gushed from every nook and cranny of underground wells and the vaulted heavens opened she/he/it paused there was an orchard where a blind child played the rains dancing like fingertips, skimming her face leaving braille-like tales of love and longing the old woman/man/animal/tree/rock sighed, upon the upturned eyes that could not see, the nose, the chin the water savoring their quill-like strokes the papyrus face now a harbinger of things to come so that the blank eyes took on diamond sharpness – here a tear fell, or was it a leaf, or a stir of dust – her breath like the sifting wind among the chaff her words a beat out of time so that the foolish laughed but the earth claimed her as a shepherd’s star one still night in the ages when spring set in for a time.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo; likewise, dVerse’s Sarah prompts us towards “Poetics,” the watchword this time being fungi.
No longer there the Edenic tree though long I linger near its breathing traces like a dreamer awakening after a song-vision, aware only of her pounding heart as witness to the night’s transactions when what once was a maiden day eternal or a thousand years, where golden bridges lighted woods aflame with love so deep betrayal seemed impossible until a serpent came with clever tongue sowing seeds of deception, sly in its jealous conceptions, and I, plunging into deadly deceits, unstrung the heart-cords that made us whole, left instead with the decaying remnants, and vernal roots now dotted with fungus.
“Call me to lie down in fragrance.” D. Margoshes ~ Season of Lilac (epigraph for dVerse’sPoetics: Beginning at the End)
if there were no skies to darken in hues of blue to contain green scents what would I see but infinity’s reach my heart torn lungs bursting in timeless space racing stars hastening at your call arriving in final destination to find that after all the unmoored spinning the vain rectifications of physics and philosophy that vast expanse I was traveling through was you
Acts 17:28 ‘In him we live and move and have our being’
Lisa at dVerse asks us to write a quadrille (poem of 44 words) using the word “way.” Here’s my drowsy offering as midnight creeps closer. Click on Mr. Linky to join in!
When sleep comes my way darkness warm like mother’s milk lulls my hungry wakeful eyes, I sink at last in ocean light to caverns deep where you await a Prospero’s Ariel caught betwixt reflections of the world above and the mirrors of my mind.
Time rebounds in dabs of paint Watery sun soaks through space Sensations blur Colors seep Diminishing lines Reflections slur Your hands, your face Gaze untendered Unbristled, still A warm attention Encompassing all Formidable will Probing memory Dark sublime Time rebounds in dabs of paint.
A friend’s betrayal. The first crack in the heart. A child’s heart. Swallowing a sob, a gurgle hard against the throat. A nudiustertian heartbeat ago. The storm settles.
That friendship went the way of trains into the sunset, trains with Hercules propellers in a steampunk show, and a suddenly shrunken figure, lean with knowing, stiffening its back against the world.
The heart armored, now slow to trust, still easily betrayed, always anticipates the moment of departure, inexorable in its movement like the ticking of a clock, yet attuned to distant trumpets ushering in the dawn.
Frost-browned blooms Knew caskets of ice Await life.