Poem written early this morning. Later, in Blue and blue and blue the Oracle picked up the same images and gave them a slightly different interpretation. And again, a painting by Odilon Redon illustrates it.
These long, languid days of relentless blue,
slow moving as the sluggish stream,
that flow one into another seamlessly
stitched with the hot breath of invisible night,
hurtle into oblivion,
a morass of dead moments,
molten and merging into gold,
slipping like quicksilver from the tightest grasp.
Time pours silently over the edge
with the places we never visited,
the unknown cloaked in the mists of intrigue,
the pebble dropped into the bottomless pool,
comet-rushing, the slow days that seem to drag,
dead march, strike sparks from our flying heels.
I wrote a poem this morning, something that came to me shortly after I woke, and visited the Oracle a few hours later. What she gave me was the same decor, different interpretation. This is the Oracle’s poem.
Languid nights of no moon
no wind among the peach trees
just dreams of
blue and blue and blue.
No red and purple sunsets,
across a tranquil landscape
of hilly waves,
but whispered music
from the roses,
rising in salt spray,
pearl pale, dull silver,
that hails the ship of sleep
to sail a sky
shot through with stars,
to carry us where diamonds grow.
The dark is singing and whirring
and whining with insect legs
and the dry crunch of footsteps on the grass.
No cool breeze
a hot wind blows
from a distant furnace place
dark drifts in the waving tree fronds
where birds sleep
dreaming of cool water running.
One of my poems, The Poverty of the Affluent, was selected in the bi-weekly challenge at the Ekphrastic Review. The painting was this, Still Life, by Giorgio Morandi (Italy) 1956, which I like very much.
You can read all the selected poems here
The poem of mine in the review is the second one I wrote to the prompt. Below is the first one, which I think I prefer, though it doesn’t have the social commentary dimension of The Poverty of the Affluent.
Pane e vino
Pane e vino
and a round of cheese
in the end there’s not much more you need
chalk white and linen
the hush of a clean sparse interior
dark green glint of bottle glass
hot air billows over the sill
cool shadows where a cat watches
unblinking and voices murmur low
beneath the beat of the cicadas
and the milky-soft breathing
of a sleeping infant.
such a feeling of completion
when the meadow returns
in a froth of white lace
above yellows and purple pinks
blues and tender greens
scars of haymaking washed away
in the flowing tide of vegetation
hay bales slump
rooted by climbing tendrils
of more growth
spring is not yet done
with the furious pumping of the life force
slower but still potent
the meadow rises
to meet the sunfall
heat pulses and bakes
dries the coaxed grasses
an oriole refuses to sing
but squawks in complaint
and summer twilight fading
the imperceptible transformation
of the distant whooping of children
to the fluttering hooting
of the first owls
A haiku (hopefully) sequence for the dverse prompt
bold as brass echoes
swallows at sunset
flicker in elegant flight
winged evening dress
woodpecker-laughs while we bake
with tree envy
still hushed air
grasped in an iron fist
hot as a cat’s breath
too hot to sing
sparrowhawk ever ready
to pick a fight
Many fingered like the sea
a heaving mass beneath the coping of the sky
sopping up the clarity with spongy paws
it wrings sweat from the veiled air
puddled in vague yellow unclear green
dripping dry and crisp beneath the tread
this heat slows the workings of the world
like syrup in the wheels and cogs
silencing even the irritable crows.
Here come the swallows
as light is swallowed by night
in the half-light dusk light between
a conversation of the mad
then the bats
the whoosh of displaced air as they rush
as the light
is swallowed by the night
beneath soft grey clouds
gentle as pigeons.
Morning oriole whistles
she squawks back
Cool morning bustles before sky-gong sounds brazen-hot.
The camera is not a pair of eyes
one eye perhaps and selective
it sees a single plane not the depth
I see a froth of white lace on a green sea
pools of sunlight in the troughs between waves
reflections of sky through broken cloud
becalmed in a child’s caught breath of wonderment.
Distant chaffinches converse,
a buzzard wails, ignored,
wood pigeons flutter-call among the leaves,
all soft and low,
a murmur, flowing background, like streamwater,
a moving hush, all listening—
a warbler is singing.
Bluer than blue eyes
scraps of sky perhaps
morning chicory before the sun
Waiting for the heat
watching the sky
but then the blue will fade and close
Time flows a river each moment perfect.
Peaceful morning, half sun half shadow;
in the cool calm an oriole sings,
a rich flute-voice beneath the warblers’ light piccolo.
Lamb bleats at indifferent ewes,
and a thin trickle of stream water,
the intense blues of damselfly flutter—
withheld breath, the hush before the beaten bronze of the sun.