The shades of my name

Paul Gauguin:  Two Tahitian Women (1899)

I learn my name in a dream-wheel

       Two women walk, unconscious of eyes
       that follow their hips & breasts swaying

Beneath my skin & layers of failures, a meaning 

       One woman carries a tray of berries 
       red & flowering, undisguised
       she is unstoppable, the fruit of the season                        

Stirring guts-deep, a faint primitive impulse  

       The other woman is tender, draped of blooms
       blue & evasive, a penumbra under a tree 
       she is on threshold of tasting a seed

Part-sun, part-shadow,  I know her-  

                                                                 Eve                        

                                    

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Word Challenge by Hedgewitch - Mind & Symbol
"'We are to use at least five of the words from this list drawn from Chapter One of Carl Jung's Man & His Symbols, in your choice of either a poem utilizing a form, in a prose-poem,  or in free verse. " 

Thanks for the visit ~

Beneath the skin

one day, i opened my eyes
      and saw veins & muscles & cells  

of nameless people, unwrapped tissues
      pulsing with blood & fats & dirty water- 

i cast my eyes down from this sight,
      for i was not ready to see beneath the skin

colored of ink & stories, i hid from everyone
      as if i was a freak, too sensitive, too pained to see the aches-     

i harmed myself until you knocked at my door 
     & suddenly i see you - bare of clothes & words - the pupils

of your eyes dilated with concern,
      heartbeat ticking madly along your neck like rushing waves

gathered close, i blush to see your passion 
     growing and the sweat dripping on the floor 

your bones are softer than i thought,
     your pelvic on mine,  an exquisite canvas   

as you kiss me close, all my pores and glands,
     open & beat to your overture,  your tongue  

maps a trail on my palm, speaking in a language I know  -   
     inviting as a morning dawn    

i finally see my arm, wrist and hand now,
     a tree stem, carpal bones and phalanges 

reaching for you, iridescent as a butterfly, 
     the core of you, even more beautiful than before 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Beauty is everywhere  - Hosted by Fred R.  ~  Thanks for the visit ~

picture credit:  Adam Martinakis

Gemini

at night, the two women 
         are at war with each other-

one is steeped in shadows, the moon's lover 
         the other is paled yellow, the sun's bride-

the first loves with a hungry stomach:  
          coarse grain pollen, wild honey & forest rain - 
         
she inserts herself into every page,
          spilling words on her lover's lips, darkest of plum-  

the second walks, a rooted maple tree 
          sturdy of fisted rope, pulling to the safe harbor -

she is fazed by gravity, carved bronze as earth,  
          a train travelling on well-worn tracks, she hushes, hushes--

the flame, growing like a peacock from her head,
          cascading electric shocks, agitated, she calls, calls-- 

the other, face to face in the mirror,
          freckled like seeds of the same fruit-

one tugs at the navel-
          the other is urging the wind to cut her 
                                                                      free-   

Photo by Gabriel Moreno

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - The prompt is about duality (Gemini, twins, entwined Selves) hosted by Karin G. ~  Have a good weekend ~

The call for the wild woman

"Inspire Howl Wing"

copyright ~ Ella of Ella's Edge

Your nostrils have forgotten the chase.  And the feast 
that awaits in the forest. Like distant drums, beating of another march, 
when the land was lush, green & & unmarked.  Now, your skin
is the color of the streets, silt with oil & cement, breathing stale 
& dry- 

You have bent yourself, rounded smooth. And dyed
your hair, ordinary as a mouse. Except your eyes, they tell a tumult, 
quiet plea.  To be swept away like burning log in a river.  To sink   
in the deepest part of the sea.  To fly.  To die a thousand times 
& live-      

At night, the wind croons your songs.  It hurts    
like dirty needles, cracking a wound.  The howling echoes, 
like a primal dance with a lover.  There is a volcano that is sleeping
in your belly.   It is fiery, bold, coarse salt, wild storm. Listen 
& tear away-    




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sherry's Sunday's Challenge - Release Your Inner Wild Woman  & Fireblossom Friday-The Crack in Everything ~   Thanks for the visit ~
Shared with Poetry Pantry  

Of black and white

Painting by M.C. Escher (1920)

the room plunges into shadows
as your silver tongue licks my face,
slowly stripping my colors & exotic scent
in your haste to drink deeply from me- 

you have turned limbs into fishes
that swayed & followed your swagger & steps 
i grew blind eyes & numbed hunger to what
existed outside these walls, painted in milky gray- 


rainbow colors in a palette,   
shades in varying degrees, now 
roots me like winter trees, searching 
for my clothes,  my fruits, my words- 

our daughter, now grown up     

asked only one thing from you --

look at us- 
violet leaves, scarlet blooms, dark olive eyes-   

not a canvas of black and white -

Posted for OpenLinkNight of Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Monday) - Free-verse and Ekphrasis poem

Lunch

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman

the taste of it  
sticks under the roof in my mouth 

rough as unleavened bread
salty as the sea salmon

your big soulful eyes pepper the heat, 
falling into exhilaration of the hunting season    

and no amount of spooning nor post-loving kisses
can sweeten the fear and madness beating in your heart

loving me is a beast sweetheart 

give me the fork,
it's time for my lunch 



Written for The Mag - 137  ~ Happy Sunday ~ goodness, I don't where my muse took me ~
This work is from the same US photographer who committed suicide at the age of 22.

Shared with Poets United ~

Forbidden

my joys are simple:  sun on my face and writing by the window. 
      after 50 beatings, i change them to goat's milk and sweet pumpkin.         

~0~0~

forbidden from my eyes and henna dyed hands,  
      i dream of your lips, dripping with words sweeter than honey. 
    
~0~0~

your scent clings to my face, soft as rain,
     why can't i choose my love ? 
      
~0~0~


i hide the pressed blooms and stained book under my pillow - 
      your last gifts to me.  
      

~0~0~

night wind carries your voice above the sad fields,  
     my fingers pluck the sheep-boned strings - as softly as i could -    

~0~0~   

under my burqa, world is small as my hand.
     but with my pen, hidden under the folds, i dream of the sky.  
     

Note:  I had originally posted my landai poems in my other blog.  Because of the positive comments, I added more to share with my friends in OpenLinkNight - Real Toads (Monday) and D'verse Poets Pub (Tuesday).

Landai poems are mostly voices of Afghan women.  They are two-line folk poems that can often be humorous, sexy, raging, tragic and  also deal with love, grief,  war, exile and Afghan independence. The success of the poetry form is attributed to it being easy to memorize, which is really important in a culture where women are poorly schooled and forbidden to write or read (including to sing) poetry.  

An interesting Article:  Why Afghan Women Risk Death to Write Poetry

Picture credit: here

A model daughter

he smelled her even from afar, 
perfect blend of sweetness and
unbloomed rebellion in her blood,  
a model daughter, pale and meek

until he danced with her:  bubbling wine 
on glass, belly laughter deep as sea,
crumbling his polite facade until
all he could think of was just her scent

rich spice,  unlike the bland lineage of 
her wealthy family, who nosed down on his
humble roots, brown as mother earth 
but his words were gifted, pulsing her chest   

until wrists trembled to be freed
from family's expecatations and promises,
penning a letter, she left her home on the day
of his birthday, riding a plane out of town

she bore the costs of her elopement:
lost inheritance, empty mailboxes,
rough hands from daily chores and grind,  
silencing wild streak:   an outcast until

the birth of her daughter, bleeding 
and near death, she calmly accepted her fate as 
a wayward daughter, now a frail slip of a woman,
unlike her mother, strong as a rock, holding her hands 

forgiving and welcoming her back into the fold: 

a model daughter, pale and meek 

                                           

Posted for:  D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics: The art of rebellion

I thought a real life story would be a good example for this prompt hosted by Stu McPherson.  Thanks for the visit ~  

Picture credit:   here  

Paper doll

                                                                    
                                                                          image by Francesca Woodman


my hands mock  
images brimming in my head 
raw and bare earth 


my breasts betray 
passion surging in my limbs
consuming, black blur  


my eyes flicker  
like paper doll, stripped empty
unworthy of you


i hurl the shell of me,
fragile as glass, but cold as stone  
to sky window 


please, 
remember my face 

Posted for The Mag 130 :   Francesca Woodman was a young American photographer whose work was produced between 1972 and 1981. Despite the fact that she was working for only a short period, Woodman has, over the past 30 years, gained a reputation as one of the most important names in photography.  She committed suicide at age 22. 

Yesterday's dreams

                                                          artwork by Jack Vettriano


you gifted me with palette of colors
every brushstroke,  rushing wave  
every curved line,  weeping music 
words quivered from my lips,  
seeping deeply your wine-cupped hands,
eager to stain the white sky


now as i gaze outside the window,
every traffic light changing, falling rain  
every hour passing, wilting red poppy 
words hang precariously on slopes and edges 
of me, sharply descending into white oblivion    
   
     
reluctantly, i wait 



  
Posted for:   The Mag : Yesterday's Dreams by Jack Vettriano
and Poets United ~

Of green apples and old bike

sun creeps like a trickster's clock on wall



to get up now or fold under white sheets
to break the eggs with a fork or boil them in water   
to cut the blooming roses or let them fall like rosary beads 


it besets her that simple things 
seem like shaking the trees for just a leaf  
(knocking heads is probably more apt) 

to push or pull the doors
to walk to the park or skiphotch to wheat field,         
she jogs her memory of what happened last night 




torrential rain lashing her skin,
fear snapping on heels like demented dogs    
while running headlong into the city smog   



she is lost in the river tide, 
adrift in choices that roots her feet while others fly
(her son buys a second hand bicycle 
because it's dirt cheap than paying for a car)  


until a hand settles firmly on her arm



scent of pine cones and green apples
warm as honeysuckle in springbed,   
kisses cheek in gentle whisper 


it is going to be alright

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  A word with Laurie:   Dementia/Insanity
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   It's a matter of Choice

Picture credit:   here 

Working for a price

at the studio


i switch the stage lights to
capture the sun falling on the model,
$ 8000 Birkin handbag on her feet   


she awaits patiently for my time,
unlike the files on my desk with a 
RUSH stamped,  


i search for numerical beauty of her back, 
consistency and safety pins on hair,
and hint of summer underneath her corset,


but it is the eyes I am aiming for,
deep, full of emotional connections,
i strip away the clothes and make up


to figure out the shape of the face, bare beauty,
a year from now, maybe another wrinkle or line,
but nothing like depression drugs or cancer 
(the file will be DECLINED) 


my fingers frame the picture i want,
the angle to capture the light behind, 
like a buyer checking an auction find, carefully


subtract the claims from the payments
check the trends, set minimum threshold, LOWest price, 
before sales negotiations begin, because there is NUMBer 


to be negotiated, nothing, not even love
is fixed and constant, forever is an ILLUSION, 
(it exists only in my poetic head) 


like my polariod camera, catching fluid moments
into fixed frames for sale, for artistic expression, 
but always a showcase to the HIGHest bidder   


because there is a price 
to pay for something that you want 


or not  


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Workin' For It - I should have posted this in my other blog but I want to write without fearing a backlash from my (real world) friends and workmates.  Thanks for the visit ~ 


Picture post and inspiration from Photographer Paolo Roversi

His music

icy wind blows
urban noise, termed as pop music,
from the car radio into the grey freeway
when
out of nowhere
his voice,    
husky pelt from lost valleys, 
croons 
slicing cement pavements into
pools of rain and deep ravines
i fall, into his arms, 
sucking   
slice of lime, salt and tequila 
my belly caving as his words hit the 
gravel peaks of love and tragedy,
my thigh pivoting to his beat, 
i exhale slowly 
the car, greased with his music,
races through the streets   




Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:   Our music 
picture credit:   here

Though he is already dead, Elvis Presley is the first male artist I became very familiar with, through my mother who played all of his songs after his death.   Thanks to old movie clips and links, I remember him as a young and soulful crooner.                

The road

why is it sometimes we don't see the road

paved with bad intentions, empty of nodes

  we stumble like drunk bitches in white heels

eager to  show off  how  fast  we can  steal

why is  it  sometimes we  lose our course

even with a map, we seek mad discourse

taunting the sky and  burning  our bridges, 

until we see death's eyes through the ridges

why is it  we  need to  leave and  go  far

to know  who we are,  so far from a star 

falling to depths, like used cigarette stick  

we robbed ourselves, hollowed soul, so tragic

to seek again the road we thought so small  

  but  holds  our peace,  we find, it  was all     

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:    FormForAll:   Clarian Sonnets:   composed of seven sequentially rhymed couplets – aa bb cc dd ee ff gg – in pentameter, or ten syllables per line.

and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:    Challenge on the Roads 


Picture credit:   here

Inside me

Inside me lives a working class woman *
Tinder soot on cheeks, hands of a layman 
Daily I wash plates and throw away bones    
Daisy feet I'm not,  but wide as a cone


Inside me lives a reckless brown filly 
Gin and wine I take when I feel silly  
Dreams for my children, bright as the sun 
Dread thoughts I keep, serene like a nun


Inside me lives my sisters, harlots all
Sins, curled in cigarette smoke, they call         
Pleading for money, clothes and gossip 
Pleasantries I care not, but a firm grip 


Inside me lives my mother, my grandma, 
Indefatigable, bold charisma 
Wrongs, missteps, I shrink to a fraction, 
Wrought iron I’m not, jar full of passion



Inspiration:   Brazilian poet , Ana Lins dos Guimarães Peixoto, Cora Coralina:   All lives
Ana published her first book when she was 75 years old.

* Inside me lives 

The working-class woman. 

Pretty proletarian. 

Pretty gossipy, 

Imprudent, unprejudiced, 

Rude, 

With little slippers, 

And many children. 


Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   OpenLinkNight - Monday 
and D'verse Poets Pub :   OpenLinkNight - Tuesday   


Poetry form:   Framed couplet - Thanks to Gay of D'verse Poets Pub
Based on Kenia's Challenge:   Celebrate Feminine   


Picture credit:  here

Native heart

                                                                                                

       There are words that

    Bloom from your lips

      Follows not the arc of the sun

          But the curve of your hips

             There are verses needing no sub-titles

                Strung with passion stained fingers        

                  They roll from the tongue 

               

                   In heavy guttural sounds,

                    Primal echoes to your ears

                You close your eyes

             Imagining the stormy sea

          The raindrops drenching your skin

       You are swept in the tide  

   In fragments, in pieces

   You don’t put together

      In one coherent stanza     

         But leave it to seed

           Nourishing native heart

Posted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads- OpenLinkNight - Monday 
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday at 3 pm


I am participating in the National Poetry Writing Month in my other blog.   Thanks for the visit.


picture credit:  http://gildam.tumblr.com/

How far to walk

gazing stoically,
eyes tired, hands wrinkled
from daily toil
she carries on slim shoulders


he grips phone like lifeline
Sunday’s conversation routine
about their daughter, his struggling
business, needs of her own family 
 

folding creased $20 dollar,
she slips into black sturdy boots
wondering how far she has to walk
before she can go home.

Posted for:   Poetry Jam - Internal and External Limits
and Flash Fiction Friday - Tell a story in 55 words.   For the G-man.     

Today, March 8,  is the 101st anniversary of International Women's Day. "It is a day to honour how women's stories are woven into the fabric of the world.  So let us mark this day by finding ways to ensure women and girls’ access to education, healthcare, jobs, and credit, and to protect their right to live free from violence."

picture credit:    Adde Adesokan

Asleep

color of morning is white
and cold


freezing rain falls on her face unheeded
eyes closed,     


she hears crashing
waves of sea,  sun-drenched words 


leaping, reaching her core in 
unending refrain


she moves closer, marveling
connection 


the string, she cannot cut 
not even in death.


so she sleeps
bubble-wrapped in marble,  


waiting for his rebirth.

Posted for Poets United:   Think Tank:   Rebirth - I read some of the posts and thought I will take another route to the theme.        
And Flash Fiction Friday 55:   Tell a story in 55 words - For the G-Man.   Thanks for the visit.

"In 1987 I was asked by his Widow Christina to carve a figure called "Asleep" in Carrara marble as his gravestone. " 

Artist: Peter Schipperheyn, born Melbourne Australia 1955-  Title:  "Asleep"  carved 1987 Dimensions: 460 mm in height by 2020 mm in length by 800 mm in depth [life-size figure].  Medium:Carrara Statuario Marble. Present location: Mt Macedon Cemetery, Mt Macedon. Victoria.

Story and view of the sculpture in another angle:

http://www.peterschipperheyn.com/asleep.htm   


picture source:   http://imgur.com/gallery/BeefO    

Walking around

It so happens I’m tired of my feet and toenails,
my hair and my shadow.*

It so happens I’m tired of being a woman.

I pass by dressing shops in my faded jacket of goose feathers.

I don’t want to see shoe stores of animal hide nor make-up counters

of hundred choices to look like someone else.   

I want to chip away my breasts and curve of my hips,

I want to pluck away my eyelashes, shave my hair with a razor blade.

It so happens I’m tired of being a woman.

I don’t want to be just a limb or apple of Adam

Nor the sunflower seeds borrowed under the snow.

I want to carve the rough wood in my hand.      

I want to level the stone steps in my rock garden.

I want to hammer the roof of the cathedral in the city.

That is why on Monday, I will walk to the river edge

Cover my body with breadcrumbs

And allow the seagulls and pelicans to peck my neck,

my lips, my eyes, until I am bare dust.   

Maybe then I can hear the sea shells, broken white, on my feet.

  

* Lines and Inspiration from Pablo Neruda’s  Walking Around

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  Mary Mixed Bag  - Borrowing lines to write this poem.  
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics - Sculpting a Poem  - hosted by Victoria Slotto  


I had originally used this picture in my Lightning post.  I think its a cool picture to use for this post.