All posts filed under: Art

‘Blackbird’ and other poems by Imogen Forster

Testudo   A bone-hard carapace, a shell cast on a hot shore, emptied by the labour of leaving the nurturing sea, scraping broad ribbons up the sand’s glassy slope .   Gasping, digging a damp hole, she lays round, sticky eggs, a hundred leathery balls. Then spent, noon-dried, she dies, picked clean by quick scavengers.   Her hatchlings flail and scuttle towards the sea, led by the gazing moon, their plates small patterned purses, hardened in the rich sea-soup into a vaulted chamber built to the blueprints of this old architecture.   Published in Visual Verse   Blackbird   The blackbird sits, a smudge in the prickly hedge, stooped, wings and tail all downward.   I want to touch him, to feel the quick, warm shape in a cage of bare branches.   What does a bird fluffed against the cold see in his crouched stillness?   If I could grasp him by his ashy back, hold his whole breathing body in my hand   what would the soft bones tell me, the barbed primaries …

‘L’Heure Bleu’ poems by Aad de Gids and C. Murray

L’Heure Bleu a dwell in the night a, sigh. a dervish dislodged a textile, sigh it is the night it is a night on earth the hedges prematurely in bloom with almost lightning, flowers so, white and optic so,opioid a scent as some people sit on a bench and conspicuous leaves on the forestrial floor. oak moss and waterlily release pungent smells as pungent as sexual. it is the blue hour between love and war, dark mosses vessels almost for some astral war, the trail of laurel and pittosporum the navigational mappology by which we float as in, an unseen jar a headspace placed on the venezolan roraima to catch this petite star orchids’ unbelievable strong pineapplescent. as the classic perfumes however stay true to a private royaume along forgotten paths in venezuela, brazil, malaysia and italy, guerlain’s famous perfume l’heure bleue stays true to its 1912 formula….. L’Heure Bleue is © Aad de Gids . *L’Heure Bleue or ‘the bluish hour’ was created by Jacques Guerlain in 1912. The fragrance is velvety soft and romantic, …

Sequences — (After Francis Bacon) by Michael McAloran

Sequences — (After Francis Bacon)   2…meat unto collapse/ stead lapse/ the lung’s abort in headless barrage the head is/ traces the/ meat’s sarcophagus is the light surrounding/ the forms that bind the subject-object/being in this from onset’s claim/ the stripping down of/ in gradual of irreversible/ meat does not climb it cannot/ it/ blind limit of/ in/ in conflict there its sense fed to the/ nausea all in the face of/ the sunken eye divulged of meat/ the meat that is the figure’s construct/ gallowing from bone/ opulent the sickness-pity for/from unsung/ carved out of/movement through nothing the flesh/ clamouring/ cascading yet inward and then yet none/ the laughter of the meat is silent/ the its’ cajole/ meat’s blood spills out of vacuum presence/ meat is not void the head is void in conflict there the meat devoid of/ un-sound…   3…the piss/ cum/ shit of celebratory nothing/ the ruptured meat weeps from the skin’s bind/ bound upon as if it/ or/ in that/ celebratory excavations before the foot of none/ meat’s saving graces …

‘The House of Altogether Nothing’ & Other poems by Jan Sand

The House of Altogether Nothing The countryside in which it stands Is broken with large jagged rocks. Its trees are dark, from northern lands, Whose branches scratch the sky; boney bough knocks One against the other. Cold winds finger through Odd strands of captured human hair, Torn newspaper strips look as if they grew Amongst the leaves to bleakly declare Of violence and despair. Black groves smell Of damp decay. They display white fungoid growth Through which black insects grope, explore a shell Deserted by a snail that caps its glowing trail. One is loathe To venture near this place of threats But winding through dead leaves, broken rubble Is the path where stumble those, full of regrets, Replete with fears, burdened with trouble, Pass to reach the house. Its peaks and walls Assault the sky like a cataclysmic scream, Intertwined grotesqueries that captures and enthralls Those destined to drop into its dream. The weary travelers approach in single file, one by one, Trudge to the door which swings open wide. They know their journey’s …

Poetry : Cut Neck by Zarina Zabrisky

CUT NECK   HE (standing with a razor in one hand, a photograph in the other)   This neck connects Her head to her body. Her true self To the garden of her delight I should have married A real woman A woman Who acts like a wife Whose head belongs to me Just like her body A woman Made of my rib A woman Out of whose rib I was made A mother My mother   Not a phantom of a woman With curves as lovely As love itself But with the eyes Of a statue Looking inside Not outside Not at me.   Fragmented reality. Snatches of dreams. Swimming in light Silvery outlines shimmer Close yet elusive To catch them I slash on her neck With my razor Dividing her head from her body Photographic blood Bursts Burns my fingers. I kill her To make her mine   SHE (enters, he doesn’t see her)   You slashed at my neck With your razor You wanted my body dead, obedient, Only yours, Still desired …