the stolen poem -- summer 2012 -- part 2
Reversals and peculiarities fall down upon those too proud of their erotic life ---Elizabeth Hardwick
Belle Sans Mercy . Yolanda Mora . Luca ‘Skanf’ Scanferlato . Enrique Yañez . Arne Torneck . Maurice Bartels . Aydan Kilinç . Skuld . Francesca Castaño . Aurora Losada . Jen Sjolund . David McLean . Gillian Prew . Mystic Lady Art . Beasley Barrenton . Marian Webb
Yolanda
"Por su orgullo cae mojado del cielo con toda su hueste de ángeles rebeldes para no volver a él jamás. Agita en derredor sus miradas y blasfemo las fija en el empíreo, reflejándose en ellas el dolor más hondo, la consternación más grande,la soberbia más funesta y
el odio mĂĄs obstinado". John Milton."El ParaĂso Perdido". Canto I.---- photos by Belle Sans Mercy. Mercy.
Yolanda Mora
Yolanda Mora
You want me sex things You want me sex things You want to communicate Something I realize like a drug-addict Now Rows of fantasies will come true Or not They tell me sex things They tell me what they want, need,
Realize Then they don´t do Anything I tell you nothing I tell you nothing about my boss Fucking me against the wall Rape, tear my clothes down apart out Whatever – guess if i am fine! Violent facts, facts Come true, The Truth. You want to reach me Catch me, persuade me A book full of facts, deeds, sins A book in my hands Priceless of course One more book, so many books In our home.
Black as Snow-White Black as Snow-White You are white-skinned You lack your swimming-pool “Better! So you won´t get more freckles Distorting your face, worrying your lover!” I quit my job, i quit my lover Yet i´m worried. My belly moves With four onions They thought i was pregnant They said: “Beautiful!”, whistle-like and Now i have my own place in the bus, The place of Les Invalides and pregnant women She said, and besides, all my thoughts about it, “Are you pregnant?” “NO”. Oh i was so dry (I didn´t want to take my mask off Of sane, smiling girl, my mask hiding My label: “if you click here you´ll know about Mental illness in my DNA”) But she was looking at our bellies Scanning our faces and voices and false giggle About it ,,, False amounts of words kind of “everything Is fine with me and you are so beautiful” My face didn´t even blush, i was cold kind smiling
And nodding or waving my hand goodbye Goodbye, my love, i´ll miss you forever – -in between assedness and metal teeth Tasting, testing my Glory – “But what Gloriana Glory you mean? You were fired!” Yes. No. NO. Goodbye, my love I run away from claustrophobic hugs White walls with my boss´ sperm, Where is my love? Two years now, i have a Long black list of worries like Snow-White´s hair Or fake metal nerves, black teeth and white dress In the middle of the stage. Caught. Alone.
. yolanda mora
Photo by Yolanda.
Belle sans mercy
yolanda
Milk thing On my first travel abroad I was alone against the strong Divorced aunt´s row of vegetables Lettuce, seeds, tomatoes, farm, Liquids from soya or plants No drugs there – no medication No balance, eat what your body Really needs, Which is Holy Health – I was a skeleton there Measuring pure water with Soya milk, my waist with a ribbon Scrawny, uglier than Sissi And no cats licking the milk Pouring from my lips – no nothing Indecent out of my throat A crumb of natural bread A farm a little too far away My aunt´s bike to reach this Reach Heaven, mystical milk I should drink – And she had been told by mother Doctors to feed me fine, fats, proteins Of milk, and yoghourt, very easy to swallow No tubes, hoses to my stomac, Just “normal food”
But she was so unnatural with children Her son died – pointing fingers “I´ll get the fucking milk for her” And i was writing my paper about Rimbaud, Edie Sedgwick, Plath With empty stomac , Yet souled, passionate, Inspired by the gods above, Words they wrote so fluently on my Diary of sorts. And drawings explaining Rimbaud´s rib Against his flesh And walking, walking too much Too long abroad – I could hardly breath And walk at the same time, Just eat, sit and write the paper And my own thin fingers And ankles i walked so proud to the beach. I kept writing in a trance, lying on the sand Wrapped with towels, eccentric sun Perfect geometries, the farm, the Glory, The dance of Edie falling flat from the ceiling Like her dead child, in memoriam – I should fight against mother´s milk Dancing in the summer fire, over the dunes And warm waters.
Writing, possessed, starving yet denying it. Running abroad, further and further Until exhaustion, until Graduation I excelled dancing, dancing silent performance – Then the ambulance The hospitals and hoses and noses And stomacs everywhere Command, signatures, your name, your body name, Drink normal milk with a pill to sleep And balance, weight, size, pair of shoes Off and tickling to make me smile And swallow that thick liquid And sleep everything off, Unsouled, paper done i excelled, i excelled Doubting about my sanity And my aunt´s son, dead too soon And my pointing finger –
--By yolanda
Sick girl in hospital- by Yolanda mora
Sick. By Yolanda
yolanda
Belle sans mercy
yolanda
yolanda
yolanda
Luca ‘Skanf’ Scanferlato
RETURNABLE We are returnable empties so I enjoy the content in small sips letting the nectar amusements my taste invading the mouth and come down slowly unhurriedly savouring every single molecule until I’ll see the bottom. Meanwhile, I had already pissed off the slag from a long while!
THE PRIVILEGE It is a privilege to have you next to me and can talk with you It is a privilege to be able
to make you laugh merrily and to admire your mouth. It’s a privilege to watch your chest swelling every time you breath bringing out your healthy breast. It’s a great privilege to examine your eyes divided by a perfect nose and immerse my thoughts in your soft hair. It is also a privilege to see you go away and watch your swing round buttocks being proud to don’t be obliged to try to show how man I am and this makes me feel incredibly manly.
A BLADE OF GRASS a blade of grass breaks the concrete when you don’t want to stay in the darkness nothing can prevent you to reach out for the light
CYCLE it’s raining I flow with the water in a stream and I fall down in a gully-hole but I know one day I will evaporate and I’ll return to fly high
ENVY I’m on the shore envying the fishes but they don’t envy me because I have bitten
MODERN SOCIETY the deception of life keeps on injury our own time
HOPE sometime I comb my hair I never can tell my hair will grow again better don’t lose the practice
THE PREY Fierce teeth snap me take my leg feed your obtuseness take my arm and suck my guts gnaw my bones. But you will never have the best part of me if you don’t ask me it with gently kinds
RHINO SKIN Everything I see everything I ear is acid and indigestible and I suffer it
there isn’t no sense there isn’t no satisfaction I can’t swallow it and I regurgitate it
As the rhino skin so raw and brutal but so delicate and sensible I roll myself in mud to protect me you just see the crust that covers me but you can’t see all my wounds bleeding under the surface. That’s the way I protect myself from parasites
I WANT TO LICK YOU I want to lick you all I want to begin from your soul to taste the best of you and to remove the dead cells of the time like a mommy with her puppy. I want to lick you face to clean up your tears to erase the reasons that made they shave. After I go to your neck
and your shoulders straight and proud showing how proudly female you are. your breasts are waiting, source of life and food for the male eyes. And then lick your belly where are the instinctive emotions which spontaneously gratify me. Further down and then I lick your thighs for gratitude 'cause They bring you to me. The smell takes me to your nature waiting in thrill, generous of moisture that I greedily lick and feeds me I know your substance becomes part of me and I lick again to make you burn of passion, the same I feel for you and makes me feel awfully man so I can love best your magnificent femininity.
By yolanda
LIVING, DYING, FISHING‌ I WANT A NICE LIVING BECAUSE WE ARE FOOD FOR WORMS AND WHEN I WILL DIE WITH MY WORMS I'LL GO TO FISH.
SACRED RITE As a priest I come to the altar of your body to celebrate the sacred rite of love. Solemn acts magnify your femininity your fragrance is poured out like incense giving around a cathartic atmosphere. Our bodies, our moisture melts in one spirit and soft moans and languid sighs
like a prayers gives up our essence corporal but not material. As a medicine man in a tribal rite I rise up the magic shaft and the rhythm starts pulsing cadenced like hundred hearts moved up by an intense emotion. Movements gets free from solemnity to give space to the irrational to the instinct. Moans becomes low screams whispers as wild calls. Rhythm accelerate ever more hypnotic and involving uncomely movements becomes individual daces but co-ordinate in just one intense and collective bustle. The rhythm is wild
screams and shouts gets high intense and free. Fire starts and matter melts steam is unrestrainable and pushes to come out at the mad throbbing of the dancers now in trance forsaken at the incessant beat of their bodies without breaks anymore. Warm squirts filling the atmosphere became hot before the celebrants left out exhaust on the ground. Steam thins away The beat slows and lowly dissolves. A smile lights the faces. The rite is complete.
GUILLOTINE There was a time When my mind Wasn’t severed By my corpse A drop of blood Slides down my neck Tickling me Making me laugh
I don’t know How I can do it Without my lungs But I’m laughing May be is this The sense of life To keep a smile Till death.
Laying down In this basket I look back my life And I don’t care. I look back And I don’t care.
Belle sans mercy
Untitled by yolanda And the music in my imagination Is telling me more and more Like the sound of a weeping sister Crying for her inspiration Speak to me, little sis Speak to me.
And wandering and squandering money For the separation Never felt pure, true love
Just organic food and two babies But i don´t want this cabin anymore Speak for me Speak to me.
She told me she had a panic She told me it´s been a fight He was shouting, yelling at her Don´t dare to leave this woods Don´t leave her without food.
But the embryo was wrong She was wrong & beautiful & pregnant She called me wrote a letter to me She appeared after years
Of depression Talk to me, little sis Tell me the truth.
Hell, tell her the truth He screamed And she cried and cried and cried And she spoke to me on the phone And she spoke to me in the mind Shuddering she said something Can´t you see I´m a bitch
Cry with me Talk to me.
And i spoke for her For she couldn´t say a word Wondering about gens and looks Asking me if the girl was fine So fine that she could live And live and live and be free Baby, baby, baby i´m burning Set me free Little sis Watch me free.
And the embryo was wrong Like the music in my imagination And she´s telling me more and more About things only she could see not speak Baby, burning witch in the pyre Talk to me And the embryo was wrong And the embryo was wrong And she tried to speak for me Like some music in my imagination Telling me more and more About our damn scared separation Talk to me, i shriek I crunch i cry little girl.
Belle sans mercy
Belle sans mercy (Spain)
Enrique Yañez
”Nosotros”
”La falda”
”La cocina”
”La bebida”
”Éxito”
”El ritmo”
”Alminar”
”Folclórica”
”Franco y el mono”
”La pantomima”
”Mujeres”
Enrique Yáñez. Spain. Contact him: lagrany@gmail.com
Arne Torneck
Those Hoppers: Memoir
The impressions on the imagination make the great days of life; the book, the landscape or the personality which did not stay on the surface of the eye or ear but penetrated to the inner sense, agitates us, and is not forgotten. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Prologue
Some time ago, I traveled to New York city to view the retrospective of Edward Hopper paintings at the Whitney Museum of American Art. It was a revelation. Whereas I had previously considered the content of a picture to be contained within its frame; a landscape, a street scene, a portrait, etc.; I came away from the exhibit with an entirely different perspective. And it changed my ideas about art.
Hopper’s paintings coincided with my chronological growth, and seem to have been painted to illustrate the ambiance of my life. So that fifty years on, these scenes are imbued with a nostalgia that have become a separate element of the work. Indeed, I found that the content of the paintings was not so much the thought-bound woman at the marble topped table, alone and sipping coffee, in Hopper’s Automat, of 1927; the young couple on a cottage porch, bathed in the light of a solitary bulb in his Summer Evening, of 1947; and the shirtsleeved man at the pump island of a highway gas station in Gas, of 1940. Rather, the content of the paintings were the ghosts of nostalgia that one felt in their presence. Edward Hopper was able to paint memories. Before the fact!
And he was able to cast these phantoms of remembrance into the hearts of anyone fortunate enough to stand before his works. Though the overt subject matter in his pictures may have depicted a scene a world away, the real content was the backyard of our own recollections.
∆
The most amazing thing about my favourite Hoppers is that the artist painted them in the places I inhabited as a child. In Toronto!
In fact, the outside of the very College Street building housing the ghetto flat in which I was born, in 1938, is depicted by Hopper eight years earlier in Early Sunday Morning. This is my favourite painting, period. From upstairs, through the entrance second from the left edge of the picture, above Mandel’s Dry Goods to the left and Wise’s Grocery Store to the right, rises up my earliest remembrance: unheeded, interminable crying, soft-flannel sleepers, a barricaded crib, pregnant bulge of cold wind in drawn curtains billowing out from an open window, something beckoning, drawing the toddler over the barricades, through the window, across the corrugated tin back verandah roof, down rickety wooden steps to the back lane where he climbs the tricky machinery of a sleeping cement mixer and hunkers down inside its dark drum. Frantic parents hours later respond to frightened whimpers in the laneway, slap the ass of the rescued child, one slap for every step back to his crib. Crying. Crying.
The painting, Nighthawks, which depicts the late-night stopovers of a few shady characters in a coffee shop, actually uses as its model, Eddie’s Coffee Shop, a small restaurant at the end of the block on which I lived.
Whenever I look at this painting I recall one of my most enjoyable memories. I was five or six years old. Some friends and I were playing in the street in front of Eddie’s. Suddenly we noticed cash blowing in the wind, seemingly everywhere. Gleefully, we began to collect it, stuffing it into our pockets, and when these were full, into our shirts, our pants, our fists. One of us would cry out, “Here are some fives,” and those who were snatching ones and twos from the swirling wind would run there, only to abandon that bounty to run after the one who spotted tens or twenties. When we had collected all we could see in the street, we stuck chewing gum on long sticks to reach money that had fallen through the sidewalk grates.
Filthy from the search, and virtually stuffed with cash, we went to my parents to inform them of our good fortune. When could we begin to spend it, we wanted to know. The logic of morality dampened the fire of our spirits. We could not spend the money, we were told. We would have to wait to hear if word that someone had lost it was forthcoming. If it wasn’t, we could spend a small amount, and put the rest in the bank. When could we do this? Tomorrow. We waited in excruciating anticipation to see if the unknown stranger would or would not redeem his fortune and rob us of our windfall. Maybe he wouldn’t come. But he did. And though I was very young, I remember him still. Not so much his physical characteristics, but what he did. To make five youngsters, who had just found the streets of the real world paved with cash, feel they had done the right thing by giving up their treasures, might seem impossible, but this man did it.
He took us to Eddie’s and allowed us to order anything we wanted. We gorged ourselves on ice cream sodas, salt-water taffy, strawberry licorice, and a dozen other candy delights of a bygone time. Of course, we made ourselves sick, and it was weeks before any of us would even think of another sweet. When we were green with nausea, the man, who, through all of this, had told us happy stories about his own childhood, gave us each a crisp ten-dollar bill.
There are some who would say that the man did none of us a favour when he rewarded us by stuffing us full of sugar. But what he did was to reach us on a level on which we could relate, do something for us that we really desired, that would make us relinquish our fortune gladly, and know it was the right thing to do. What he took away from our bodies meant nothing in terms of the sense of conscience he inspired in us. More than anything, he attended to this in a personal, caring way, which years later caused me to perpetuate the myth of the man by praising him to my own children.
Though the pharmacy depicted in Hopper’s 1927 painting, Drug Store, displays the name “Silber’s Pharmacy,” the model for the painting was Ball’s Drugs at the corner of Ossington and College Streets. My maternal grandparents lived in the flat above the store. A gentile camaraderie existed between the pharmacy owners and the second-story residents, and often, when being looked after by my grandma, I would make my way down to the storefront and stare as though hypnotized through the window at the hanging apothecary ampulas, filled to their bronze-crowned brims with glistening, transparent, green and redcoloured waters: helium balloons of lime and cherry jello. Beckoned from within by kind, old Mr. Ball’s brandishing of a candy bar, I would step inside. Virgin senses were set afire: smells of sickly sweet brilliantine, after-shaves, snake-bite tonics, and freshly mortared drugs; the glinting shoots from glass bottles, of blue and brown and green. And the incessant clanging of the grand and shiny, old bronze National cash register; this many-levered, money-eating monster compelled my attention.
“Maybe it’s time you learned how to use it,” said Mr. Ball one day when grandma brought me with her to have a prescription filled for the pain in her gnarled, ginger-root hands. So Mr. Ball (whom I thought dropped everything when grandma came in to visit) and grandma (whom I saw brush her ample bosom against Mr. Ball’s white-frocked sleeve at the least opportunity) trumped up a job for me: sales clerk. I would attend to customers, and with the help of Mr. Ball, make change from the opulent register. I didn’t know, but, of
course, none of this was to be taken seriously. It was simply a ruse that allowed me to play.
I approached my first customer. The customer played along. Why not? The lad was as cute as all get out. The price of the article was confirmed by Mr. Ball to be twenty-five cents. Beaming, I accepted the coin and pocketed it. I was ecstatic. Grandma came hurrying with the explanation that the money wasn’t mine, it belonged to Mr. Ball. Thinking that the money a clerk received was his to keep, I was heartbroken and would not be placated. I was carried back upstairs, heaving silent sobs into that great consoling bosom.
So many other memories were triggered by Hopper’s depiction of my childhood venues: the Chinese restaurant (of Hopper’s 1929 Chop Suey), Toronto’s first such eatery, upstairs at 12 1/2 Elizabeth St., called simply 12 and a half by the few who knew of it; the entertainers, gamblers, rounders, and whores: the Casino Theatre (of Hopper’s 1941 Girlie Show ), managed by my grandad, where my mom left me to be babysat by make-up-masked, netstockinged dancers and smoke-drenched, whiskey-breathed musicians: the engulfing, dark, womby sanctuary of Shea’s theatre (depicted in New York Movie, a 1939 Hopper painting), where, testosterone-bound, I masturbated away the lazy matinees. Memories. Memories.
On a rainy October day in 1995, I stood in line with thousands of people to see the Whitney retrospective of Edward Hopper paintings. Once in, I bathed in their emotional extravagance, and guards had to shoo me out the door at closing time. The other viewers drifted aimlessly from one painting to another in no particular order, returned repeatedly to some, or sat for a while to contemplate nothing evident. I wasn’t surprised that these thousands had found their journey to my memories such a sentimental experience.
As closing time approached, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with an elderly woman before Office at Night, from 1940. She turned to me and struck up a conversation. She was a writer, she told me, and rambled on absurdly as if the picture in front of which we stood depicted her husband’s office, before he passed away more than forty years ago. She had five typewriters at home, she continued. Pointing to the Underwood in the lower left of the painting she said, “But this is the one I always use.” The old girl was rounded up by two, well-heeled companions and spirited away. With her arms locked by the others she glanced back over her shoulder at me and smiled a whispered goodbye. I turned back to Office at Night. The old girl was a bit confused, I thought warmly: the office in the painting had been my dad’s Spadina Avenue office. And that Underwood? It was the one I had banged away on ... as a child.
Those Hoppers!
---
I have recently begun investigating the metaphysics of archetypal patterns becoming manifest in 3dimensional form – what Kabbalists refer to as Yetzirah (creation), and that I, as a neo-Kabbalist, call The Anatomy of Becoming. The task at hand, in trying to render phenomena of this nature by aesthetic means, is basically an attempt to represent the unrepresentable. Some years ago, I experienced an out-of-body episode in which I witnessed from above it, my own body fighting for its life on a gurney in a hospital corridor. Upon full recovery, I was obsessed with the idea of creating aesthetic co-relatives to the experience. That is to say: I hoped to represent in name and form a notion that I considered unrepresentable. The archetypal pattern that was swirling into manifestation, and that I wished to symbolize graphically, can be referred to as staving off death; or “Recovery.” Though this phenomena could only have
been possible through a process of Will and Imagination (Divine or otherwise), I attempted to express it photographically. I have included the resulting images:
Israel Diary By Arne torneck Jerusalem 1 In the market in the old city, I buy a kilo of grapes from an Arab woman squatting amongst her vegetables. I wave away the proof of her scales and absorb her consequent gap-toothed smile. Like her: the purple grapes have the look of aged wine. I masticate the skins. They taste like tannin. Coffee at a kiosk in front of the Damascus Gate: I am gathered up by an elderly, East-Londoner, bible-student, David; we share a chai, some grapes, and are in turn gathered up by the Israeli-Scot, Lenni. He takes us to his home nearby and prepares a strong Arabic-cardamon coffee. He's an archaeologist (who, in Jerusalem, isn't?). He shows us the many wonderful things he has uncovered, but doesn't have a recipe fot gefilte haggis. In the street outside Lenni's, we meet Yussie, a Kibbutz manager from Ein Gedi: He tells us tales about the diamond mine he operated in Liberia ... stories about the Jin Jin men (witch doctors), cannibalism, female circumcisions, murder, and slavery; He knows a man I've recently met in Jaffa, the weapon's merchant Yar Klein, who lives in the tallest structure in Jaffa that isn't a mosque - a rampart keeping watch on the lurking assassins below. I have named Yaer, the scull-cap of Yaffo. The wisdom of might. Down in the streets of the shuk, you can tell by the way people huddle around their radios that another incident has happened: Petrol station ... West Bank ... 3 dead (so far) ... 30 injured (15, badly). It goes on!
Š 2012 arne torneck all rights reserved----- Images arne torneck
Artist’s Bio
Born: Toronto By trade: photographer Retired from professional photography to study stone carving in British Columbia Took up drawing Began making collages incorporating image and text Produced radio broadcasts from interviews conducted on the Toronto Subway line The common thread running through all of these disciplines is my writing
The critical point in the life of any artist, great or small, is when the private life of the studio is adjusted to meet the world outside. – Henry Moore
It’s the truth, even if it didn’t happen. – Ken Kesey
Maurice Bartels (Germany)
“mama�
“axel”
“dave hock”
Aydan Kilinรง
Skuld and Yolanda at work da Books
well, i guess i'm unable discuss current events here or any of my factual observations or opinions so i will attempt to depict what i felt through photos and art. when did the world become so unfree? well, art will always penetrate where the written or spoken truth is not allowed, no matter how furtive and masked it ends up being. it takes a little courage, that is in short supply in my neck of the woods, me being one of the least courageous people i know, i'm pretty laid back but i have to justify my time here with something of substance, probably everyone is still waiting for that. wait on, i'm afraid. ha ha respectfulness and humility.. alright.. there are heroic, caring acts by people, on an individual level, every single moment.. by the people for the people. when will we start to care for nature as it is, i'm no preacher, but you know my bit, those who have known me long know i'm serious, usually quiet lately.
BOXES
Francesca CastaĂąo (SPAIN)
Auto-da- fĂŠ We burn, streetwalkers coming to a dead-end; ashes landing on the pavement. Is it all a dream, this appearing and disappearing Tragedy and comedy travel the same train, often running out of fuel. Clarity is a hard light; it projects dark spots within the eyes when closed, no clocks ticking nearby.
Petals The glass jar is full of dying flowers; their petals fall over the table like dizzy butterflies whispering sighs without disturbing the air. In the distance, a church bell rings awakening birds that rest on gargoyles with grotesque, stony faces, full of mischief.
Fireworks I sit to write, but words have legs and today they walk out with a provocative laughter as if drunk on their own passion; they move quickly leaving behind traces of a well-known nostalgia: If not now, when? I yell at them! but they keep running, breathing white smoke into the air, murmuring like rivers throbbing in my head full of hurried meanings burning out in spirals on a sheet of paper, empty still.
Prongs It's good to find quietness in the turmoil of our times When we raise to cold skies in the middle of summer And sharp fingernails scratch the surface of the day in, day out, so hauntingly. I'd like to put my rolling-brain out of it, out of this pitchfork widely spacing its prongs, where flowers dry out before blossoming, much later than they should, if ever Fear and uncertainty come to an end.
Aurora Losada (Spain) http://papanoesta.blogspot.com.es/
“Es una pensamiento habitual en los niños en proceso de negación... la muerte es "un sueño muy profundo" y luego es posible despertar al fallecido. Como en los dibujos animados…”
ARGUMENTO Leo vivía feliz con su papá, su mamá y su gata. Pero un día papá empezó a ponerse raro... y no volvió nunca más. El niño iniciará un viaje por la negación, ira, negociación, depresión y aceptación hasta reencontrarlo.
Hablar con niños sobre la muerte puede resultar sorprendentemente directo. Pero a veces puede que nos sea difícil decidir como empezar, como relacionarnos con ellos, que palabras usar para que nos entiendan. Es importante encontrar vías de expresión. Este cuento le ayudará a hacerlo.
Su finalidad es ayudarles a hablar de sí mismos de un modo indirecto. Haciendo hablar a marionetas o juguetes, los niños expresan lo que sienten y quieren decir sin sentirse amenazados. Así podemos acercarnos a su mundo, a la forma como ellos construyen la muerte y los procesos de duelo y a los sentimientos que este tipo de acontecimientos suele despertar.
SUGERENCIAS PARA EL LECTOR ADULTO Elisabeth Kübler-Ross fue tal vez la psiquiatra de mayor prestigio mundial en procesos de duelo y quien lo clasificó en cinco fases: Negación: La persona no puede creer la noticia. Ira: Aparece la furia, la culpa, el enojo... ¿por qué a mi? Negociación: Se quiere hacer un acuerdo para que las cosas vuelvan a estar como antes, o al menos en parte.
Depresión: Tristeza y soledad. Aceptación: Las personas se vuelven más objetivas y se suaviza la intensidad del dolor. Bien porque la persona está cansada de estar afligida o bien porque esta preparada para lo que va a acontecer. Si desea profundizar, permítame que le recomiende cualquiera de los maravillosos libros de esta psiquiatra que abordan el tema.
SUGERENCIAS PARA SU LECTURA A UN NIÑO El cuento que tiene entre sus manos es un vehículo para hablar con los niños sobre su proceso de duelo. Me gustaría recomendar que los adultos lean de forma completa su contenido antes de hacerlo con el niño. No todos los niños tienen las mismas necesidades. Por eso, aconsejaría que haga un uso selectivo de cada parte de la historia si así lo estimase. Podemos estar serios o alegres en su lectura, según el ritmo y la profundidad del niño. Dicho ritmo tiene que ser asumible emocionalmente. Sea creativo si lo desea. Los niños responden bien ante adultos imaginativos. Podemos ayudar a que el niño exprese, en aunque sea en parte, el pesar que padece; podemos ayudarle a aclarar malentendidos, a encontrar respuestas y calmar miedos que pueda tener. -- Si desea contarme su experiencia con el libro contacte conmigo; estaré encantada de atenderle.— ARGUMENT Leo lived happy with her dad, her mom and her cat. But one day, Pope began to get weird... and did not return anymore. The
child will begin a trip by denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance to rediscover it.
Talking with children about death can be surprisingly direct. But sometimes you can make us difficult to decide as you begin, as relate them, words to use so that we can understand. It is important to find ways of expression. This story will help you do so.
Its purpose is to help them to talk about themselves in an indirect way. Doing talk to puppets or toys, children express what they feel and want to say without feeling threatened. Thus we can bring us closer to their world, the way as they build the death and processes of mourning and feelings that this type of events is usually wake up.
SUGGESTIONS for the reader adult Elisabeth K端bler-Ross was perhaps the psychiatrist's most prestigious global processes of mourning and who ranked him in five stages: denial: the person can not believe the news. IRA: Displayed anger, blame, anger... do that to my? Negotiation: You want to make an agreement that things are back as before, or at least in part. Depression: Sadness and loneliness. Acceptance: People become more objective and softens the intensity of the pain. Well because the person is tired of being troubled or either is prepared for what is going to happen.
If you want to deepen, allow me to recommend any of the wonderful this psychiatrist books dealing with the subject.
SUGGESTIONS for your reading to A child the story that has in his hands is a vehicle to talk with children about your process of mourning. I would recommend adults to read its contents fully before doing so with the child. Not all children have the same needs. Therefore, I would advise to do a selective of each part of the story use if he deems it so. We can be serious or happy at reading, according to the pace and depth of the child. This rate must be manageable emotionally. If you want to be creative. Children respond well to imaginative adult. We can help the child Express, in albeit partly grief that suffer; We can help you to clarify misunderstandings, to find answers and calm fears you may have.
-If you want to tell me your experience with the book please contact me; I will be happy to assist you.-
Jen Sjolund (USA)
David McLean a time will come a time will come when there are no plans in the coffins of the fussy dead lying there redolent of missing flesh and our grave metaphysical failure when directed processes stop and we figure only in ontologies of abject objects, smelly things. a time will come that is done with living and is neither time nor being
pouring wine they pour out red wine as a libation to nothingness and the forgotten dead inside them pagan midnight and timeless amnesia is the drab blood that runs home at last, red wine poured out back to the infertile past
Hรถlderlin and his rays (see Hรถlderlin, Poems & Fragments (trans. Hamburger,1967) the madman standing on his arrogant hill bareheaded was not grasping God's bolts or rays, just the blood from god the body being its life and spirit, not translating tablets but teaching that spirit flows hopeless, though it never existed, to those who never tried living, you never tired of being
no exile freedom does not exile itself into words, the scribbles that fall from the self like scales shed by a snake curled round Eden's blasted trees, free of meaning and dreams, to constitute an asexual art, to seed unreason, to fall erect away from being; freedom does not need to be
dead dope night falls like dead dope nobody smoked ever curling wisps of forgetfulness like shedding shredded flesh and falling faster. too few photographs are taken at funerals to make life seem a little less pointless, a little less fictional. (depicting living things is a waste of pixels)
David McLean has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there on a small island in the Mälaren with partner, weather, boat, dog and cats. In addition to six chapbooks, McLean is the author of three full-length poetry collections: CADAVER’S DANCE (Whistling Shade Press, 2008), PUSHING LEMMINGS (Erbacce Press, 2009), and LAUGHING AT FUNERALS (Epic Rites Press, 2010). More information about David McLean can be found at his blog http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com
books Laughing at funerals from Epic Rites Press at SPD Cadaver's dance from Whistling Shade at Amazon
Gillian Prew After the Funeral Out of sound, from the drowned clouds the magpie’s ragged song. Sky shuts my ordinary lifted friend and the light shouts with a new grave. The river rocks solace to the hill where the rowan rests ruined from death’s decent rumour and a best life is gone in a burst joy.
Upon Waking To wake walking from the fragile, pouring dark into summer’s swollen parentheses and fly like an old sound loud as this flustered sanity I kept quiet in my bubble gut. To wake from the bird’s disgusted nest and call my wedding the grave; a rough winter wife washed and slapped by my own blood, my heart a soaked lace root. To wake in the world a small rude light: lost glow of an apparent suicide lifted
from a dwelling grief, an upturned truth lime-scented like a holiday.
The Fourth Epitaph She bathes beneath the forever sun, cold of dust and vanish boned. Her sad-washed hands
rented and ruined
the furious flowerheads of her widest birthday.
Under the Searing Sun Under the searing sun, where the dead crowd nurses its crushed lung and the snake sail bites on the long wind, there is a bit that breathed and loved while its flesh drugged and whirred, its bones in songs and flames toasting the wise green grave.
Gillian Prew lives in Scotland and is the author of two recent chapbooks, DISCONNECTIONS (erbacce-press) and In the Broken Things (Virgogray Press). A previous self-published book, the idea of wings, is also available via Amazon. Her poems have been published widely online and in print, including Danse Macabre du Jour, Up the Staircase Quarterly, The Glasgow Review, Red Fez and Fragile Arts Quarterly. She has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. She likes cats, crows and Dylan Thomas. Check out her website.
Mystic Lady Art Summer poetry 2012~New poems MYSTIC LADY POETRY
The house that time forgot ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The house that time forgot descended into a slow rot, Time came to a stop, The fences blew down, Fell to the ground, Debris scattered all around, The gardens became unkempt and overgrown Moss and weeds made it their home In the flower beds Nettles and thorns raise their ugly heads The tiles flew of the roof in storms and torrential rains Now pigeons fly amongst the rafters building nests again, Rats run amock in the gloomy dreary attic Putting the next door neighbours into shame and panic The window frames have crumbled away,
Lost their paint and faded to grey The glass in the panes is in a shattered state, The front door hinges have gone to rust, broken door handles and and covered in dust The floors have sunken, its foundations have dropped, The house that time forgot is descending into a steady rot, Time came to a stop things went to pot The wallpapers peeling, Damp and dry rot has reached the ceilings The taps are dripping and the bath leaks Under floorboard rot, damp seeps, and mice shriek! The owners gave up trying, soon they ceased to care The home of their dreams fell into disrepair Now please give its some attention Some colour some affection Open up the windows; bring in some fresh air, The house that time forgot needs your tender loving care. Mystic lady poetry 08/06/12.
Other people’s songs ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Watching from the corner Outer edge of a jigsaw Piece falls Stumbles on Multi colored painted faces Masks worn Magnets for the walking wounded To imitate Find a place create a fake face Gravitate to a state Others may appreciate Running from sorrows Brazen ambition on exhibition Now years on Other people’s words Other people’s songs Show you how you lived your life Remind of things gone wrong Other folk’s photos
Vintage treasured snapshots Dictate your fate A Collective consciousness Now frayed no longer can you relate. Other people’s snapshots Other people’s songs Helped you to belong Lost in the decades Became vintage tales on air waves Something quaint dated now changed In many ways Time to move on from Other people’s photos Other people’s songs. Mysticlady 23/06/ 2012
Dark soul reclusive ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dark soul reclusive Turning from black into gray
Altered ego twisted states Lips parched and sealed Nothing left for him to say Went away to a dark place Now he won’t sway In stubbornness Incarnate he stays Dark soul reclusive Carved out of childhood tears, mockery Emotions moulded scolded from cut out steel Chained hands chained feet Sharp teeth Hear the screams Dark soul reclusive Blurred away all life’s boundaries Of modern moral decency An ugly and vicious beast Looking back at me A dirty filthy mask is what I see An apparition of all fear He wears his power like a broken mirror
Deluded and rotten is his core Here dwells something horrific and sinister Dark soul reclusive Hurts everything he touches Melting it into bleeding polymers and furious altered states Making excuses for his abuses Ruining all things That come into his way Dark soul reclusive Made from the purest evil He will drag you down into his hell Turning you from black to gray Into polymer bleeding states. Mysticlady 28.06.2012.
Before the dream ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Before the dream: lucidity tranquility
laughter curiosity wanting waiting needing scent skin wanderings flesh blood the soul whispering: Save me . After the dream: transparency disparagement fragility weakness anger despair reality: Save yourself. 29/06/12
THE STOLEN POEM & BEASLEY BARRENTON PRESENTS ABOUT DOG ON A CHAIN PRESS A conversation Marian Webb: Beasley Barrenton? I want to know more! Who am I? Do I think artists can live from their work? I think it is difficult for artists to live from their work. I think artists who have popular appeal can sell their work to numbers of people. I was an actress a number of years ago. But am not, was not thick-skinned. I like to be very independent. I have always had terrible problems with people wanting me to do it THEIR way and wanting me to go to THEM creatively. When I was in my final year of school I got terrible writer's block because of that conundrum ... putting my opinions before someone who judged them with a score. I can't do it. I have to have authority as an artist. That is why I self-publish. I admire Gillian Prew and Hollace M
Metzger. I am inspired by their approach. I don’t like presenting my work to some unknown editor to pronounce on. I like to be the judge. I am the hardest critic I know. I try to be softer. I have to be, or nothing gets out. I try to write true. Stanislavsky
the great acting teacher wrote (paraphrasing): It doesn't matter if you're a a good actor or a bad actor, so long as you're a TRUE actor. I find that truth cannot easily serve a business model. But
one may be a prolific artist. In these days of internet and e-books, the cost of printing is no longer an impediment to a poet's publication of her work. As I
see it, you can publish as little or as much as you want. No
one gets to stop you. If people want to buy your work, as Nancy Sinatra sang... ‘Let ‘em come to you!'
Yolanda: i think art is a gift. God, i´ve given so many paintings as presents to my friends. I am a hunter for new talents,,, i´ve seen art in galleries... but the best works are hidden on the internet. Who are You, Beasley Barrenton Presents? (as the caterpillar asked to Alice)? What are you? What do you want? Poets come to you or you follow them (as you followed my paintings for that cover for Mike Meraz´s book of poems?) why do need your work on paper if e-books are the future? So they say... tell us, tell us....
Beasley/dog: Beasley Barrenton is the whole entire empire sending out the brigade to raise the flag for ballyhoo. I don't know if it is to change the current "scene" of poetry and how it is published but perhaps to rescue it and bring it back to the wolves den, fatten it up a bit so that it can be sent back out into this damaged yet new thriving wilderness so that it may once again fend for itself, look any beast in the teeth and sharpen its bite with their tongue. Meaning...I am editor in chief/bomb shelter maintenance/head of promotions/ all that is at Dog On A Chain Press here in the heavily layered mountains of Western North Carilna, U.S of A....and by small press I do mean similar to the farthest star seems to be small but do we really know how big that is?
there has been a bit of a groundswell as to who I am otherwise, so lets let that continue. Some say an enigma, some say a surly bastard, some say a head hunter, some say "he's got that crooked eye for what we like", and others know me jes as they know me and think it all to be a grand grand parade.
what do I want? that is both general and absurd and yet promising. To be vague I simply want to publish what I am publishing and I want to see it being read, spread out in the hands to be fingered, kissed, and licked. I also want to
collaborate with as many artists as I can all over the world. And thus far we have had a good run at it.
As for poets coming to me or vice versa...yes. Some I have followed so to say and others are begging for bones at the front door but we keep most of the bones for ourselves as you might imagine. Never know when that is gonna be as good as. It seems a direction is working out its own way for us as to what we like to put in print, which is a great deal of why I do this as well...I get to go through all of this work/material and really see what is out there and I get to at times say...yes, this...I want this. And obviously with this super information highway it is easy to get connected, be in touch, get us out there, get others to us...but I still seek that overwhelming human in my face this is the truth strangle-hold that I must have, so to say I am certainly looking to keep it as person to person as possible, a good honest grip.
E-books? The future? Nah, I refuse. They are frail and accesible to dirge. I consider them to be where poetry is certain to go and die willingly. There are just to many other options. A book is to be printed. E-books are a landfill. I'm sorry,..did you ask for my opinion? Ok. Can you take an e-book to the sea, can you put one in your pocket for anywhere along the way? bah, I don't care to talk about them anymore, if anyone else is into them...well, so be it and such but it will take me in the guillotine and even then, no. that being said I believe that "The Fire Is Breathing On Me" by Mat Gould was turned into or is available as an E-book and I am uncertain how that came to be...something to do with the print company and thats fine...Books are to be printed...on the page. So why do I need them on the page...the answer is because that is where they fucking belong.
So, it seems, this ideal or principle is where we begin with who or what interests me/Dog On A Chain Press and who comes our way perhaps feels the
same or at least wants to know what it takes to put a book in print now a days and we ask that if we print you that you join in, grab a sword, and help us out with promoting it. I mean, I put our books in a briefcase, put them in the trunk, and head on out into the world with them to do what I will, to do what I can with them. Its a bit street vendor, vagabond, troubadourish and the like...but thats my kick man.
Yolanda...you have read some of our work, even been involved with us...whatchya think of any of it? How did it go down with you?
Yolanda: ohhh i so love your answer, i am shivering and nod and nod. yes, i think a book NEEDS TO BE PRINTED!! i love books, i need to touch them, smell them... i love the books you so kindly sent me! you are doing ... a "kamikaze" work, i mean, i can see i-pads, e-books, cell phones,,,pffff.... of course,,, and my computer. yes we are here, 21st century. maybe we belong to 19th century?? ironic ha! i have your books on my shelf, i leaf through them from time to time... after rereading them... i just admire your courage! you know? i hated facebook, was such an ignorant about "the future" that is the present now. then i started with the mag. i am hunter, i think what i read now published in Spain is shit. same for art galleries! i find the best works hidden on the net.... i need facebook and keep posting images just for people like you, i mean: someone is listening out there... i have Marian´s book of poems "Moon haiku"--- i mentioned about how i felt so moved by it one day and she sent it to me.yes, printed pages with drawings! all i need to say is that you, your press make me so happy!! i cherish your books. glad there´s people like you in the world!!
It’s a bit street vendor, vagabond, troubadourish ---- YES!!! and one more thing: my motto is: Art saves lives! what do you both think? i know this because i had anorexia when i was 17. i was kind of bedridden, read
Katherine Mansfiel, german ladies diaries about the 40s, during and after the war... i remember that i thought: I MUST BE AS STRONG AS THEM!! so i fought hard and WON! art saved my life....
Beasley: if it doesn't save lives it can certainly pursue life, create life, become life, at the least suggest life because to mimic life is to, well, be here and living. "I applaud the erratic dedication of all things persistent" thats a line from Mat Goulds latest release "A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter" and its a grand image if not an allegory. Dog On A Chain Press certainly has a preference and that preference is work that is in some form a celebration, poetry as an event, even if that event is a funeral...I don't need explanations and falsehood and I am not particulary big on -surrealism- unless of course it fits the paradigm of what I think I am looking for...I can forgive content and I can forgive form as long as I believe what I am reading. I am not so into defying reason just for the sake of defiance. We are glad you like our books and we are glad you found a purpose to them and we appreciate that you still pull them out and look through them once and again. That is precisely why I take the stance that I do, why I take the approach that I feel is the appropriate forum for our work...I want these books in the right hands...meaning I want them to be where they are to be read, cheered on, and professed as worth the effort. I want them to be shared as "no really fucking read this". Otherwise...this work ends up in the hands of conquerors, buried on book shelves at some book store that just adds them to there tepid mass. And by the way and matter of factly your painting was/is exactley what we were looking for when I started looking for a cover to "Watching It Burn" by Mike Meraz and it certainly seemed to present itself accordingly. That is a great cover.
Yolanda: i love my books, only hundreds of them!you know? sometimes i sleep with one book that is IMPORTANT to me for some reason, i read it along the
day and at night i need its presence again, the blood of the author, his spirit...maybe it´s an art book, i need to feed my soul, E.L.Kirchner´s book,,, a huge book, thick... a sensuous presence.... yes LIFE!
"I applaud the erratic dedication of all things persistent" , great line!! i need to write it down NOW, and sleep with it! i am honored you liked my painting for Mike Meraz´s book, and i watched the video on your site on the internet... i love fire, fireplaces,,, i remember, oh, what i´ve read about those times, our Middle-ages, when our religion CATHOLICISM, and psychosis and fear, and ignorance, LA SANTA INQUISICION, saw books written in secret as really DANGEROUS for Humanity, for the souls... there were autos de fe, in big squares, the same square here in Madrid, La Plaza Mayor, where people drink coffee, there are musical events... well, i still can smell the fire, hear the yelling of people (witches) being burned alive... and their books...so.long.time.ago... that nobody remembers.... yes, Watching It Burn... nothing to do with all this story but my painting was about Death... and my mind tries to paste this "collage" of visions, Mike´s vision and mine. and the video, the smoke ....
Rambling woman Yolanda: ok, it´s night here, very late... i always hated going out to dance and get drunk, i always loved to type silly things... BLESSED internet now! Ha! I´ve been thinking about poet Ted Hughes, who said in an interview that there are poets who dig in the pain and bleed, trying to find something. Maybe their cure and then abandon writing. Or maybe they feel more alive feeling so deeply.... Others just kind of avoid that “torture” (some might think of psychoanalytic poetry... beyond confessional poetry), and just “fly”, celebrate life, happiness or whatever... i used to “torture” myself ignoring it, i just wanted to heal a broken heart... and wrote more than 400 poems...sometimes i just fly and keep writing what inspires me, i am looking for Beauty this time. But it´s a slow process, there´s still some painful nuances... or i imagine that. Marian, what are you doing now? Beasley, what kind of poets- if there are Only two kinds of poets- do you find most
frequently? Writer Thomas Bernard comes to my mind. It´s a tight, thick, and almost unbearable prose what he wrote, he died before killing himself, he died of a heart-attack.... And what about Rimbaud? He was a genius, he bloomed so early and then stopped! There are also late-bloomers, they find their voice when they are old.... In Art every path is the right path... if you´re talented, of course, and work HARD!!
Beasley: well, I don't know anything about there being two types of poets...if that is true I would say there are those that are and those that have no idea otherwise, but I do think that there are those that are poets and then there are those who write what they want to call poetry...like as a hobby as if it is macrame and thus they get out the guide book and begin to color by the numbers...I would say I come across these types more often and so I tend to look for the not these type. I am not generally interested in someone handing me a manuscript that is a personal therapy journal...but I am aware that poetry as an art form can be just that, but I still look for something that is genuinely written by some one whom I can tell struggles/tolerates/accepts/celebrates themselves as a writer/poet and is prepared for the onslaught that comes with that. Yes...I believe we/I can tell when someone is working on it, strong arming
woke up and the first thing that comes to mind is an insistence within themselves that if nothing else a poem must be written today!!!
the craft...
Yolanda: yes! i agree, this poem must be written right now!! ted hughes was speaking about sylvia plath. she was trying to heal herself, and at the same time she felt that emergency! I MUST WRITE NOW!! i hate hobbies, i am not bored.
and color by the numbers, haha, yes, i know that very well! what do you think about sylvia plath as a poet? would you publish her work if she were a young girl again trying to decipher something that is inside, struggling and suffering and feeling that insistence at the same time? hmmm....what about the Diary of Kafka? it´s "confessional", he struggles and creates a masterpiece of universal literature. he was a true writer, even a poet. no. a poet with words, images... i guess you despise Anne Sexton... yet they both felt that "insistence" in their minds. some call it Inspiration. i believe in Inspiration, colors, forms in my mind, words that need to be SAID NOW!! Kafka was a genius... Sexton is... the crazy woman in the attic? Marilyn Monroe needed too that insistence.... i guess is a matter of having a high i.q., talent, persistence...magic... ...and some studious people think that Picasso painted so compulsively, repeating the same theme (painter and model and canvas, for example), slight and profound variations on the same composition,,, wow... i was lucky of having that job in the museum; i watched and studied and sucked every line, color... i mean some say Picasso "controlled" his psychosis through painting. and painting soooo many works, full-time, non-stop, and he was so GOOD at it!! then i saw paintings of psychotic, crazy people, poetry, collages....they are interesting only for doctors and curious people. art helps to feel better, to decipher what is inside the mind....but we are talking about sanity! and true talents... despite the same insistence....
Beasley: a short answer for this: I don't know that I specifically despise any poet out of respect for poetry itself but there are certainly a few "modern" day contemporaries that I certainly don't care much for.
the painting was the right fit for the cover...there seemed to be an affair between the two works. well...Sylvia would of been great for Dog On A Chain Press we would of course been fools not to do so...however I am not so into the depression thing. I get it, yeah yeah but i like to see the celebration of overcoming, the march into the public square, as I have said...ballyhoo and I like to see the everyday, ya know pet the cat it purs and I had sex with my wife and she bit me on the neck, poems of pure involvement.. At that time I would have been looking to print Bob Kaufman (perhaps a bit cranial if not struggling with some pyscological issues), Corso, and O'Hara...if we want to go there and bring known names to the table.
Yolanda: haha... well done for her!! i love too biting on the neck!! yeah!!
i love life, my boyfriend, my swimming-pool,,, hmmm, the sea is too salty for me,,, and i always swallow water, ha! bad swimmer i am! i want you to know i really enjoyed this crazy, fun fun fun conversation, i think people will know your work better with your words....
if you want to add anything it will always be welcome! add your site, words, whatever....
i just came back from a few days of vacation, i needed nature like mad!
storm last night. lucky i had my laptop closed. i waited for some days to open it, i feared i had lost all my work saved here! LUCKY everything is fine!!!!
For Marilyn Monroe born 1st June 1926 died 5th August 1962
Marilyn Monroe by AndrĂŠ de Dienes from Marilyn Mon Amour
After the Zenith How sweet your wide-eyed smile, your blonde cascade, your bright flesh bathed in the sea! How much beauty stuffed in your little finger, how elegant your warm scent wrapped in a white, silk sheet! There's no one like you. None as soft, none as simple as your sweet laughter. Your dark twin took you at night among monster to her world. (Everything yields to its opposite.) They made you suffer for your comedy, the astronomical stakes of your perfected play. The city singed your deracinated nerves at 5am unsoothed. After the zenith you fell in the cooling summer into the desolate earth leaving your smile in the tender celluloid of the night glistening in the hour before dawn.
Variations poems inspired by the writings of Marilyn Monroe collected in Fragments (Buchthal & Comment)
1 I hang between twilight and searchlight. My head heads toward earth, my feet twinkle in the stars. I cling as gossamer clings to the winter tree, too fine for the naked eye. The wind blows, I go on clinging. My rays reach in every direction, each is a mirror of its twin that the frost spangles, prisms of ice break the daylight into a million colours. They shake my fine lines, they offer clues along the way between tomorrow and yesterday.
2 A fine line tests the air between me and you. It touches the places you leave bare of the fabric of your suit. Can you see the shape that changes when you look away? We change direction and we part. Do you remember words mouthed? I say them over to myself to gather their meaning. Didn't I see you guess my secret fear? I was listening to the breezes trouble the summer leaves.
3 Stones in the path show their colours to the sun. My feet are afraid of the hard nub. The air between us, friend, the space, it widens. The atmosphere thins. The stones are shaped like eyes. I watch them watch a face I've never seen.
Marilyn Monroe dreams of Lee Strasberg What can it mean to be filled with sawdust? Like an antiquated shop-dummy from Jean Rhys's Paris – satin skin, silk hair and a sawdust heart. Does it come of anxiety, like being naked in public (having forgotten one's lines) to be naked on the inside, brainless like the straw-man, heartless, soulless, wooden as Pinocchio though clothed in fabulous skin? Sawdust falls from the circular saw slicing a forest to dice. Sawdust heaped on the butcher's floor soaks up a mess of blood. The optimistic surgeon wields his knife. 'Be healed!' he cries, seeking a human organ. Spectators enter the theatre. He murmurs, ‘Hush!’ O don't disappoint him. Yield him the very nerve-knot that triggers your beating heart.
In the emptying sky
your diamond fire dissolves like a sugar crystal into luminous morning.
Dream of pink wool Have I neglected you, in your pink woollen dress, a pink woollen rose in your hair? Should I rescue you? Your big eyes plead. I do not see your blue bouquet. What can I give you, bride in your improvized wedding wear? A knitted furbelow trims your knee, a knitted rose pinned in your hair. Why have you wandered empty-handed from the chapel wringing your gold-ringed finger? Younger than I you married in a wink, no time to hem a wedding veil. Yes, you said, and your tears brimmed splashing your short-vamped shoes. What can I tell you, pink woollen bride? Your rose unravels in your hair. I'll knit it in a minute.
There. A flame. Like love it outburns the world.
Marian Webb
the stolen poem
pavement in Chapel street
Edited by Marian Webb and Yolanda Mora thestolenpoem@planetmail.net jackiemorvic@yahoo.es