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Archive for the ‘Transformation’ Category

Spider

September 11, 2008 6 comments

Now that you have gone
I have no doubt
I am what the others think:
a mad spider
weaving dreams and visions
day and night,
dancing with her ugly feet
in her solitude
in the corner of this sober-minded ceiling.

Only God claims
that I was a bird
singing in my cage
before you come
to free me with your kisses.

by Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi

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Paradise of Sadness

September 10, 2008 1 comment

Condemned forever to be forgotten/ to not be chosen/ to be worn down with rejection and suspicions and because the devil kissed me beneath the overcast heavens, I wanted his love and followed him to the Paradise of Sadness where we mourned an endless repetition of our sorrowful stories, like truly confessional poets and I said, friendship is bent on a word; we need marriage vows to make it last — but he was a rapid animal without a human memory to hinder him, a demon with no feet. He did not answer me but flew away.

I could see myself in the grip of vertigo again, friendless in the hospital bed with all the human potions and lotions and remedies which chafe the skin, chafe the heart, force new symptoms to start appearing like bruising angers burning with the flame of derision and the hidden unwanted visions, turning fragmented friendships into enmities for who can deny how we cling to the smallest thing, how hate waits to erupt and explode… our acidity is a pungency and one can choke in a hostel as well as a brothel or a five star hotel. Each black hole which seeks to suck us in we must edit and each memo we make is a partial mistake.

by Bobbi Lurie

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Cameo Appearance: Here Carved

September 9, 2008 1 comment

Medusa’s hair snakes, split ends
Wriggling, writhing. Imagine
It all as dissonance, that face
Uncovered in stone. Imagine
Medusa, her striking grace
Notes, these striking
Strokes on ivory. Imagine all these
Keys, all lost, that don’t fit,
Any locks but hers; imagine all this
Silence hanging heavy
As lava, before chisel eventually
Comes down, cleaving
Like a sword. Imagine it all as past:
No face, no glare, no splitting
Ends; imagine only her smooth back
Before she’s been transformed:
Hair falling, wrinkling into waves.
Imagine her only as stone.

by Pamela Johnson Parker

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Berlin Wall

September 6, 2008 1 comment
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Frida Kahlo

September 5, 2008 Comments off

Parrot with flames of hair    wings end in hands
His hands are clean in the clear moonlight of the islands

I am not a demon he declares with bloody teeth
Trees behind bleed sap and green smells like death

There were many thousands trolling the graves
Only he survived the night the earth heaved

Whoever can look at him directly will turn
Into me    but i will have grown thorns

by Dax Bayard-Murray

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Pressed for Light Her Thinking Eye Decides

September 4, 2008 1 comment

I’m in my element when the house goes up in flames.
—Amelie Parayres Matisse

Said to have the eyes of an odalisque
wherein an insect blunders and is forced to swim
in the reddened corners to a death no more
consequential than the stemsway of a sunflower
blue pigment in the cells takes in all the timelight
the bending known by seeing triggered that
summer when each week a brace of wood pigeons
was mailed and arrived the world matchless

yet burning Now! Opening her eyes is not the same
as being in the moment hearing the command
she begins the lengthy bandaging what a layer
she is one who winds up tangled

by K. Alma Peterson

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Smoke

September 3, 2008 5 comments

Form is illusion.
Ask any monk. Ask any moth.

Ask anybody who’s lost
what they thought defined them.

Form is built
from the outside in.

Lose your legs.
You are not your legs.

Lose your job.
You are not your job.

Lose your love.

Take fire,
for instance.

Take all that carbon
and snap those bonds.

Freed of form,
it turns pure energy. Heat.

Turns an oak into a torch,
into a column of smoke;

after all that wood, all those leaves,
all that living, you’d be hard-pressed

to tell its ashes
from the squirrel’s.

by Caitlin Gildrien

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Sevenling: Life is a Drying

September 2, 2008 3 comments

(after the Merina of Madagascar)

Life is a drying, a journey
from water to dust. The skin hangs,
the blood slows, flesh hardens and turns

to wire and stone. And death is a drying.
The grave leaches life’s liquids.
Flesh lets out its water, skin crisps to ashes.

We humans are nothing but gravedust and bone.

by Nicolette Bethel

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Virgin Appears on Highway Viaduct

August 31, 2008 1 comment

The geese have no idea
they are performing a miracle

but the weekend joggers
stop, transfixed:

Can they really walk on water?

My father didn’t
rise from the dead, either—

it just seemed that way,
between the garbled message

(no one said the EKG was flat,
that’s just what I heard) and the fear

that attends on eighty years.
And like the geese

who feel the solidity of ice
beneath the skim of water,

he took his resurrection
for granted, grumbling that he wanted

to go home, there was nothing
wrong. Nothing on the cement of the viaduct

except a water stain, nothing to celebrate
when the geese make it safely to shore, when my father

calls to complain that the power’s out again;
nothing but the daily turn of the skies

above us, and the moment each year
when the lagoon is covered in ice,

before the moment each year when the ice
melts into water and the geese can swim again.

by Susanna Lang

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Sandbar

August 30, 2008 2 comments

Run here stumbling
on inconstancies The surf
slapping on rock
drags salted waste back and forth
Seaweed straw
mixed with ochre soap foam
forces the stagger of your trailmark
ball of the foot deeper than heel.

The sea labors to eat away
the sandbar which separates
successions of moon-driven breakers
from a still cove
where waterbirds dip beaks, trap
fingerlings worms infant crabs.
The hinged baton legs of a solitary crane
lift and plunge in abstract semaphore:
hold breath keep distance

Curve to the sunrisen line of mauve
half water half sky
A figure in white seamless garment
sways on the horizon
torso at one with knees bent in slow
revolving half-turns
shaven head’s gaze toward sea as sleeves
fill with wind’s exhale:

Man-egret
absorbed by motion, limbs
friction carving signet on sands
suspended in air
by the wind

Step forward
arms lifted
your toes like prongs
around oval stones

ankles slender
in deepening
circles of water

by Charlotte Mandel

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