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Every Flake - a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon
Art: ‘Ikegami Honmonji Temple’ by Kawase Hasui (1931) found on tumblr “Who made the snow waits where love is” Kenneth Patchen Every FlakeEvery flakenever to be repeated ,blossom like no othercrisp whitenessadorns the cherry trees,fleetingdriftingsilent,such lightness of beingdissolves to returncomplete surrenderutterly detached,the eternal paradoxevery flakeoblivious to the great strugglein the…
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Why so much life? I don’t know what to do with less I have given up all I have.
—Ilya Kaminsky, A Walking Man
From a new poem in partnership with the National Gallery of Art: A Walking Man by Ilya Kaminsky
“Giacometti is not working for his contemporaries, nor for the future generations: he is creating statues to delight the dead.” –Jean Genet
My Eyes
Based on Maggie Taylor’s Admirer’s Gift
My eyes began to blur first that day at the circus I shudder to remember how much was spent On those tickets whose only memory given Is that of formless blue speaking in tongues I think it had a tail, Unless it was the light elongated By my failing lenses
If they were ever to fade completely I’m not sure I’d want to keep them. Eyes are windows and mirrors even when blurred I fear forgetting the warmth of color Or the motion coming from my screen Carrying pinks and reds and stories That I know I may forget
If push comes to shove Maybe I’ll bury them in a box Or sink them in the ocean Though I know I’ll keep them by my bedside Until the circus comes again
From today’s (4/21) NaPoWriMo prompt. Text ID under cut.
NOW ... REiMAGINE, Ekphrastic Poetry At The Foundry Studio & Gallery
NOW … REiMAGINE, Ekphrastic Poetry At The Foundry Studio & Gallery
The Geelong Writers Inc produced this excellent Chapbook from the Ekphrastic workshop that I attended only Three weeks ago, and a big thank you goes to our President, Guenter Sahr, and our hard working Editor, Victoria Spicer … And below are my two poems that were published in the Chapbook Ivor Steven (c) June 2022
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Amber hues of the sunlit windows
encase the hero’s bravery,
but destiny
transcends what he thinks he knows.
Burbling comes from overhead
where a giant spider sack lays.
Heavenly chanting convinces he’s on his deathbed,
so he stares and prays.
Slimy gurgling emits.
The egg sack spits
and down it fell
ripping open and emitting a pungent smell.
The walls and floor tear
and they both fall down the well.
The hero’s thread is as thin as hair
Falling fast down into hell.
The secondary floor embraces him tightly
His breath heavy and head feeling lightly
The voice of a princess calls out softly
and reminds the hero who he is to be.
What once won over prophecy
challenges the hero journey’s efficacy,
but a century of slumber
has reawakened fate’s prodigy.
Without memory and voice,
the hero had the choice
to be free and wild.
However with a call to his name,
a revelation of his purpose came.
After the September Accident in ’08, My mother sold her sister’s Little porcelain bathtub In a garage sale for $35. She never bought a new one. I saw that same Little porcelain bathtub At Frida Kahlo’s blue house Six years later. It was a gritty replica of Her original painting. It was a Little porcelain bathtub That held cinnamon legs and Gray water. Upon her Darkened shins were her Life’s memories – A skyscraper aflame in a Brewing volcano, a cracked toe Bleeding into the murk, a Drowned dress of yellow and Red (unable to be Revived), a skeleton sitting On a mound of dirt, dead Bird laid to rest atop the Gentle arms of an oak Tree, web of lemongrass plant Roots snaking across heavy Thighs, pubic-haired women Making love on a rugged Mattress. My, what a woman – To find refuge in a Little porcelain bathtub, To bleed the beauty and woes Of life onto gray water, To linger on past Memories until the skin Became a shriveled Raisin under the sun. Frida’s Little porcelain bathtub Held cinnamon legs and Gray water. I wish my aunt Josie’s Little porcelain bathtub Held the same Back in 2008. But, all we found it Held was ribboned legs And rose-colored water.
Melanie Romero, writer behind “Magdalena,” the ekphrastic poem inspired by Frida Kahlo’s “What the Water Gave Me” (“Lo Que El Agua Me Dio”)
Ekphrastic poem, 9.
based on Hieronymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights.
There are too many people on this earth, why do we ever have to give birth? To more pain and more strife, this world is already balancing on a knife. People's pleasure can't always outweigh their pain, for a moment's measure is it worth it, or is it in vain? For a lifetime of not getting what we desire, then passing that on forevermore, have we not been here before? Let's just stop, take in these delights, and stop anticipating more nights.
