:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The way the light gets in or out
The Doubt We Hold Dear
We’re always moving and nothing stays still. A woman you may see for the very last time stands at the curb, turns, and walks off with a teary smile into her absence from the rest of your life.
The stories that break our hearts are written this way. Movies, books, songs, a solo dancer alone onstage. Nothing stays still long enough. If it did, we might realize how dizzy we are in our lives, how everything
spins at an angle to whatever we pass for being calm, settled. So we queue the heart to hurt in a thousand different ways, lie to ourselves that this is the only way the light gets in or out, but we don’t ever really
believe it works this way, that what we feel we feel forever and merely learn to live with it every day. So she turns and smiles, again and again, almost the same way every time, as if it never happened at all.
Propeller Nebula by Géza Kurczveil, June 2011 (For original unedited photo, please click on Star-Géza photostream link under Vision in right margin below).
The Small Hands We Leave
Imagine pointing a small box at the night sky, sitting with it a while, charming the black snakes out, tending to it as if a million bright eggs were slowly boiling inside, pulling deep light from the dark places between the worlds, a frothy quasma leaking milk across an inky terrain, the fireflush of membranic ridges laced at the edge of a great swan breaking laval against unwitnessable shores through drowsy veins of starwaves, one after another.
These are the places there are and were, as we are and were among them. Observe this and know that little of what we do here ever matters beyond the time in which we do it. Eating, drinking, making, being—runaltogether in unweavable materials made of nothing more than mere remembrance. Thus, we do so anyway for to tend to the great structures of the stars yet impends before us only when we are done with this world, the small hands we leave to a sandbox.
Joseph Gallo June 19, 2011
Special thanks to Géza Kurczveil for use of his photograph & video and whose stellar astrography inspired the poem above. (Added music by the late great composer, John Barry from Dances With Wolves).
You step into my studio, turn point and swan your head low. “Oh, no!” you say. I look down as you slip off open-toed shoes, short-heeled black with leopard print failing to camouflage graceless arches.
Smeared tar stain your toes and topfeet. Here the miracles of water might play out: the leper you changed to wine, a thousand eyes drowned with light, the trilobites you caused to sing cantatas in your holy name.
I set a kettle, daub olive oil onto terrycloth, and begin erasing coastlines and beaches, the relentless gnaw of a famished tide that leaves black blood the world over to track its wander deep into the unfathomed lands.
It is testing, divining what might be there when it comes to take all, the few moments we lavish here on this washing of feet, the living waters we enslave to do our bidding for no other reason than we can, we can.
Your sighs as the hot wrap lifts away all trace, the blushed rose stemming from the bloom of your returning spring, our eyes resting past stinger and thorn as a pollination of trust resets the sole and we step across the first sea.
December 14, 2010
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.