drmorbius12

[drmorbius12]

Man Ray

Observatory Time - The Lovers, 1936.

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tributary

roll along the bottom, little stone.

the fall and foam of water

dropping all departed,

picked apart, in stricken harmony.

the streams between the slaughter

calling all the fault of fathers rolling home.

the edges caught in blood and bone,

beneath the water.

[drmorbius12]

My Name

by Mark Strand

One night when the lawn was a golden green and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered what I would become -- and where I would find myself -- and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard my name as if for the first time, heard it the way one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off as though it belonged not to me but to the silence from which it had come and to which it would go.

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Desire

Outside, day turns to gentle dusk, birds hide away where only they can go, perched in sleep

Tiny animals awake, another night to burrow deep in search of deeper secrets

Inside, I write of anything but love for that has passed my by like a wild train barreling along a trackless waste

Yet, still there might perchance in kind, I might find a secret known only to those others upon whom I may touch

Another heart touching mine in sorrow and in light we each attuned, to the other, listening for the faintest call of desire

#poetry on tumblr #writerscreed #diary of a fool #fly by night philosopher

[drmorbius12]

My teakettle

doesn't whistle

anymore

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Traces

March 2022

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Crop

The Gardener of Death lives south of the Moon we know so very soon we shall seek that path

Find a bed of cool Earth whereupon we lay down among face'd flowers undulating buds aligned within time out of mind

We dig deep our roots until such time as comes the Gardener to tend our wildness and judge if one or another be ripe

Hands so cold yet in promise speak of a transfixiation an exquisite penetration deep within the bounds of a life lost too soon

In subtle Voce singing we now rise ever higher in offer of our Yield deemed ready for the golden wing'd ones to lift us out evermore

Our shells drifting down left behind and turned back to Earth renewed so the Gardener might reap yet another crop

#poetry on tumblr #writerscreed #diary of a fool

[drmorbius12]

by Riccardo Guasco

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Dawn

I thought I saw a glimmer the setting sun in green flash

For an instant your eyes like hellfire and grim stone

Heaven and earth did roll from under my altar'd feet

The shaking and the billowing of feathered fantastic swords

Sharper than a sparrow's wing turning the day into night

Leaving me adrift between this world and/or somewhere

So bright the light cast down brimming with concatenation

You alight in the delight of delicate footsteps across my brow

To settle like mist just before dawn

#poetry on tumblr #writerscreed #diary of a fool #fly by night philosopher

[drmorbius12]

by Stefano Brunesci

[drmorbius12]

Ohio Total Solar Eclipse

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Tears

I thought these legs long gone, over the hill, stolen away on the wings of ages,

Covered deep in sheets of gold passing to purples, suffused within gray eyes.

I lay curled, hands and knees blooded blue, in a stony cell without windows,

Doors missing handles, walls etched with the symbols of failure and regret.

Till one day I picked and pecked at those cobwebbed corners until a shaft of light stabbed its way

Into my silent chamber, a sword of revelation, I peeked out to behold a lucent, rose colored dawn.

Golden gates festooned with flowers, endless green beyond, birds on a hill, bees abuzz in the warm balm of the sun,

I kept poking and prodding, until an opening appeared, large enough to pass a cold shriveled body.

Now emboldened to see beyond the dark walls, beyond the doubt and fear,

Carried on a warm wind I sailed, into a cloudless sky without care, I cried fresh tears.

[drmorbius12]

Eurydice

by Carol Ann Duffy

Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard -- Ye Gods -- a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.

In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life -- Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife -- to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.

Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this -- I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.

It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke -- Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…

He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.

What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.

The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.

[drmorbius12]

[drmorbius12]

brief

take off your long coat let that dark dress hang like a concupiscent dream

a moment born on the drift of desire

a shaft of light slips across the wooden floor to meet your calf

halfway up while pigeons swirl outside the window

reflected in your eyes like two way mirrors as the clocks tick

a thousand tocks gears mesh in a stream

of rotation counting out photons of radiance in your face onto my hand

when you look away the light seeps off on

thistledown wings finished slipping up your thigh moving on beyond

passion passing with it to recede like falling ash

[drmorbius12]

Basílica de la Sagrada Família

Barcelona

ISO 400 | 250mm | f/6.3 | 1/320 sec

Photo © 2020 Brian R. Fitzgerald (brfphoto.tumblr.com)