Thursday, June 12, 2014

Hibiscus


Hibiscus

The flower tumbles
I watch
She replaces it with a blade

1
Memory is a mirror
that has no face
hibiscus keeps the woman
who has lost her place

Covet the key
worn dull by habit
the pop and the stutter
of deep rutted groove

Worn dull by habit
the secreted blade
slumped back lounger
a witness, a spade.

The secreted blade
squat sodden loaf
damp strewn news,
a squandered note.   



2

Glint of desire
slipstream of dreams
distance transfigured
not what it seems

Spit slick the key
draw swift the blade
a puzzle-- a mirror
three sisters, a braid

Where shadow meets shadow
she floats the stair
lover, assassin
sandaled and rare.

Memory is a mirror
that has no face
hibiscus keeps the woman
who has lost her place.

Tags:  The Yellow Wallpaper, Picnic at Hanging Rock, eros and thanatos, strangers when we meet


At Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Susie offers “bits of inspiration” via Maya Daren (1917-1961), filmmaker, poet, dancer, ethnographer.
Deren believed that the world of film was an untapped medium for exploring time, memory and movement.  Her groundbreaking work influenced such artists as Luis Bunuel, Jean Cocteau and David Lynch, among others.
In her seminal film, Meshes of Afternoon, Deren probes the themes of memory, identity and ritual via a woman’s subjective experience of familiar objects and domestic routine. Deren employs continued motion through discontinued space to induce a trancelike state in which the ordinary is suspended.  As the woman descends into a stuporous dream state, a vortex of raging and stifled energy emerges.  A play of repetition and variation heightens her sense—and ours –of restlessness, claustrophobia and anomie.

“And what more could I possibly ask as an artist than that your most precious visions, however rare, assume sometimes the forms of my images.”
Maya Deren

Sunday, May 4, 2014

heads or tails



Head or Tails

Each nickeled coin
recalls you

Young drakes
dunk, dive
chase
in predawn sport

Every silvered blade
conjures a pretty bird

Me, I’m brown and mottled   
dabbled in disguise
I secret the reeds
narrow my bore

How well I know
where this all leads

So, sinking the breadth
I snap my muzzled head 
to a puddled trail

Why not
Be in the sloppy
now--no matter how
wet          it is  
better
better than this

Still         you 
surface
in my wake

Always
sorrowed
predated
Thirsty
beyond belief

Friday, February 21, 2014

Dream, dream, dream



Dream, dream, dream

It was beautiful
the overdubbing
It didn't take long
to figure out
that all the voices
were yours.

For Heretomost’s challenge at Real Toads about “mixed tapes” in 300,000 words or less.