All posts filed under: Images

“Trompe L’Oeil” and other poems by Patricia Walsh

Trompe L’Oeil Tidied away, fast disappeared, what’s lost in the house isn’t lost. In a mid-sentence, blasting myths and fairytales I avoid the radiance of your eye. Hidden phallic symbols litter the test crunchy fallen leaves subdue the table reference books stand-offish, yet useful the clock, used to stares, reigns supreme. What escaped thought becomes you? What line unwritten begs attention? The trompe l’oeil of art crumbles a piece of fiction no longer necessary. It would do well to save ink and rest, watch Love/Hate till my eyeballs dissolve, or the TV licence man catches me. Anyway smartphones, smart bombs pave the way. Eyeball to eyeball, keeping in check a double decker bus is crashing into me, foolproof suicide, if you stand next to me, always having money to keep me sweet. Stuck in the village. You’re lost, after all. Winding through people, an avoidance strategy, cold calling my fantasies, standing aloof no eye contact can remedy this. Citrus Refresh Bruised flesh, eaten by spinsters’ cries calling for regional order. Sated for now, tomorrow might …

“The Infinite Body of Sensation”; Visual poetry by Salma Caller

Sound is a shell Sound is a shell An ear Curves of sound Vibrating and condensing air Echoes in a curved space An ocean in the shell of sound Pearls Things that stand in for other things The Witches Pouches Bags of velvet black Nets entangling objects Bones of birds The insides of shells Spells Pearls Things that stand in for other things Nets entangling objects Bones of birds The insides of shells Black Lace Turn this talk into a tale A small dark textured cloth Shadows with shades of velvet Borders and edges tactile Spaces glittering and ornate An elaborate intertwining language Of touching A complex dance of bodies Claustrophobic close Obscure ornate organs Lying in a dark net of black stuffs Needles like obsidian beaks Braiding sound into A florid calligraphy of sensations Rose Point Point de Neige Gros Point Punto in aria Lying in a dark net of black stuffs Needles like obsidian beaks Braiding sound into A florid calligraphy of sensations Rose Rose coloured lips swirling around a dark spot Tasting …

“The Surrealist ” by Csilla Toldy

The Surrealist – honouring Leonora Carrington –   A young lady, treated as merchandise.   Society made no sense for Leonora, and her best friend the hyena.   She fell in love with a surrealist painting and sought out its creator to take him, too, on a free fall.   Life was real in France, married to their work of art, (and his wife) till the Gestapo took over the city and Max was arrested –   Leonora broke down, now fully. She fled to Spain, But not from family and pain. (After being sanctioned to electroshock therapy for three years), She ran   from the care of an Irish nun to the Mexican embassy in Lisbon, where united with Max and their entourage: his wife, his new lover and saviour, her own saviour ambassador, stand-in-husband – they held wake – over the corpse of Love.   Travelling together on the same boat, towards New York, in two distinctly different directions, she found herself in a weird future, alive and sane, in the company of …

“Woman’s Song” and other poems by Gülten Akın

Poems from What Have You Carried Over?: Poems of 42 Days and Other Works by Gülten Akın, translated by Saliha Paker and Mel Kenne   Spring Oh, no one’s got the time to stop’n think about fine things With broad brush-strokes they move along Sketching homes kids graves onto the world Some are obviously lost when a rhyme starts up With one look they shut it all out And the rhyme enters the night, as fine things do Some pus in your breasts, some fish, some tears Sea sea sea you turn into a giant Evenings your fog creeps up the river-mouths Raids our hazel-nuts What to do with their blackening buds We beg our children: go hungry for a while We beg the tycoons Please, one less “Hotel,” one secret marriage less to sketch Please one less bank, a plea From us to you and from you to those abroad We send our wives out to get a manicure, to say —sir, if you please— We send our children out to beg We’re off …

Dowsing/ RABDOMANTICA – by Daniela Raimondi

Dowsing/ RABDOMANTICA & other poems is © Daniela Raimondi, the english translations are © Anamaría Crowe Serrano DOWSING   Mother pregnant with rain. Mother of virgin sounds, with music in your marrow and the chirping of a bird in your mouth. Mother sewing and unsewing the waters and the tides holding between your teeth the source of all rivers, the alphabet that gushes on the tongues of poets and leaves damp traces, the imprint of a lamb wet from birth. Mother of the dark-dark Mother of the black-black night. Moved by a primitive thirst, the same need to flee from light that pushes the hare deep into the scrub. Touch me with your clear fingers oil my lips with your blind love. Like a heavenly valley where only light falls. Your blue within another blue, the intense azure breath of your sky.   RABDOMANTICA   Madre pregna di pioggia. Madre di suoni vergini, con un midollo di musica e sulla bocca il gorgheggio di un uccello. Madre che cuci e scuci le acque e le …