Now I know that poetry is a razor blade slipped into a caramel dipped apple of eve’s desire sharp and tangy . . .
is as love’s wounding rigor mortis of bites ennui-soaked languid post-mortem of shamanic rites . . .
is a coroner’s tableau of victims bodies stretched out on gurneys for the inquest after the serial killer slips free of the electric chair because the judge knew his brother cain at harvard law . . .
is hummingbirds and bats dandelions, a lover’s hand broken stalks, memories . . .
is my heart laid out across the sky a constellation charted out of unknown algorithms multiplied to infinity dove’s wings rapidly beating now.
Today Victoria is guest-hosting at dVerse: Meeting the Bar and asks us to write a "Solilo-Quoi?", paying extra attention to form or other poetic devices in our self-talk. Click Mr. Linky for more and join in.
Laura Bloomsbury at dVerse challenges us with “Poetics: The Poet as Painter”: She writes, “For those of you who like an extra challenge, then only after you have completed Part 1 [using only the title of one of the given paintings], look up the artwork link of your title choice and write a second part to your poem as ekphrastic.” The title and painting I chose: Bridget Riley’s “Movement in Squares.”
Movement in Squares
I’ve seen movement in squares when no one’s looking:
peeling yellow edges, masks removed the triangulation of centers multiplying or rounding a buttery corn on a cob a cluster of seedless green glowing grapes sunlit reifying corners into succulence the pear juice piercing sweet the sticky drippings of watermelon seeds mathematical
I’ve seen movement in squares when everyone’s looking:
until they march row after row checkerboard cells of interlocking black and white, marching in step devolving, eliminating, disappearing into folds of antiseptic non-existence squares no longer, inching lines rectangular, a comedy of illusion designed to perpetrate a hoax teleological
careful, my friend, around squares there is no end of desire finally
I thought I’d write this quadrille (prompt word “magnet”) in anticipation of Halloween with its cornucopia of bat wings and eerie skeletal thrills. Quadrille Monday at dVerse limits each offering to 44 words, so be warned!
She walks in a drysalter’s den wearing death, her subfusc, scattering acedia’s magnetic coils, like iron filings shot hard against fate’s blind eyes, their littoral currents crashing against her noon day commerce of herbs, bone dust, pharmacopeia, against concinnity escaping fruitless desire, skulking caitiff.
She came sailing in — foxgloves in murder digitalis shape-shifters in book-covered heat an Austen novel in her head pharmacopœia of bottled lust in everyone else’s closet Gothic unholstered in a room of Macbeths unshriven, exhumed desire — sailing in, lighting torches blanketed fire, lavender swan.