A Dance in Silent Violins

SEEDS of ILLUSION

Susurrus Concepts of the Better Half*
AUTHOR: Telula Eyre
"Scamp Bits of Poetry. An easy art; to write on crumpled blue napkins in a bathroom stall, a ball point pen, blue ink, shaking hands. Nothing to fill a book with- just a bit of thought on thin cloth, ink bleeding through to the skin."

A Parade of Falling Rain
AUTHOR: If Only

"Warm tears? Or cold? Ancient heartfelt touches lasting more than mere moments? Or something new, something that thrills and pulses with a beat you can't quite keep in time? Inclined to grab for both? Perhaps they're the same. Touch of the air, smell of the grass, overcast sky above. A new perception to contrast this one. Enjoy your stay. Soft lullabies"

arcane matter out of place - invisible ticket punch
AUTHOR: Wm. Rike

"Draining myself, I was inverted alchemy, transforming precious into base:
when first blast hit,
my flesh fell from my bones,

tenderly,
tenderly."

Tea With The Birds
AUTHOR: Tea With The Birds

"The desert lies in front of him like a puzzle he can't solve. He recalls a picture pinned to a fridge in a kitchen in a big town. A picture drawn by a child with crayons. A picture of sand and sky and sun. Yellows and blues. The picture stays for years and the child gets bigger. He doesn't draw with crayons anymore. The picture starts to fade from the rays of the real yellow sun in the real blue sky of the big town. And then the child comes to the desert and finds that the sand isn't yellow."

Unlabeled
AUTHOR: Anna Piutti

"I ran my fingers over dry skin and
heavy lids;
my stare caressed a clock obsessing
over sunsets.

I swallowed dreams, and vivid hopes,
cursing,
beforetime,
their lingering aftertaste."

a longing for the impossible
AUTHOR: JEM

"It sounds like an oath - a dedication to cruelty or revenge. It sounds like the late night whisper of a young girl with evil eyes and sharp fingers. A girl who will tear a gap in the night sky - an everpresent white reminder that will burn until you are old."

Eco_de_lluvia

Echoes_of_Rain
AUTHOR: Saore

"If memory flies
on the tip of the tongue
during the last days of winter,
why wait for funerals to caress forgiveness?

If moths labial movement
hum innocence or irreverence,
why does memory begin to freeze
radical roots in autumn?"

Flash Fiction
AUTHOR: Rebecca Jane

"One June evening, at the Maxwell Street market, Evaâs dark eyes seduced a local ward politician. He would make her his wife after she attended lots of funerals with him where she used those eyes. Those eyes! Eyes that spoke rhymes"

The Chaotic One
AUTHOR: Sly Boots

"I killed myself to be born again
needles cover my middle hand
and all the worms eating my eyes
I will fall down from the skies"

The Muslin Opaque

Pocket Full of Mumbles
AUTHOR: ELAshley

I watch you as you lay sleeping, listen to the sound of your dreaming. Do you dream of me? As I, when I dream of the sea, hear it speak with your voice? My lover is calling even now; I can hear her thundering beyond this room. If you awoke now, would you recognize your own voice calling me? Would you walk with me to greet her, feel her pull at us both, and under the burning stars make love?"

Le Doppelganger
AUTHOR: Le Doppelganger

"Resting with my eyes closed is the only thing I can think, or want to do. If I look out of the cell, the light makes me see images. Spots dance before my vision. Even with my eyes closed, I still see the light. It permeates everything. I tried pulling my shirt over my head, but it was no use, the light still filters through. Even the back of the cell offers no escape any more. My retinas retain the never waivering light, no matter what I do."

Without a Title
AUTHOR: Ela

"Sometimes I even thought that someone is painting thru me, sometimes only to make a mess of my painting, and smile with a weird mischevious sense of humour. "what a joke", I hear the silent voice in my head "and she let me do it""

Entropy
AUTHOR: Jadecham

"It may be out there still
for all I know.
Drifting toward it's destiny.
An unsubstantial ball of soapy film.
It contains nothing
and is contained by nothing.

Like human souls.
On the point of bursting
though not yet bursting.
Unsure what shape to take
but finally taking the only shape their natures will allow. "

Twin Things
AUTHOR: Janice

"It was her wish to be cremated and scattered to the wind. The scattering part hasn't happened yet. My brother, one of the people who found her when she died, promised to carry her ashes out to sea on one of his fishing trips. She would like that."

Wordsmith Extraordinaire
AUTHOR: Jill Terry

"Following his lead, in the hope of arriving at a plateau of understanding that will satisfy the yearning that lingers and torments her soul; she has distanced herself, just as he. For as many times as her heart lay unveiled before him, his remains locked away, hidden from her desperate grasp, as he would have it be. And still she knows for naught; why he will not let her see."

Writing Down the Words
AUTHOR: Pauline Clarke

"On the northwest wall of my little cottage hangs a large gilt-framed mirror. It is round and slightly convex, so that if you peer into it, your face appears distorted. It used to hang above the fireplace in the house where I grew up, reflecting our daily comings and goings. I could stand in the kitchen doorway and see in duplicate my father in his green chair, my mother at the kitchen sink, and myself, dishtowel in hand, watching us all in the mirror."

The Synchronicity of Indeterminacy
The Indeterminacies of Synchronicity
AUTHOR: Indeterminacy

"Ruby had just seduced a rock. It was a sight to see, the way she'd sauntered up to it, placed hands on the creviced gray surface, and dug her fingernails into the stony flesh. The rock couldn't take it. Cracks began to show. Pebble dust shot into the air. But after a few token tremors it settled into a tame state. Now Ruby could do anything she wanted with the mineral formation: mount it, or mold it like clay into esoteric shapes."

Meaningless
AUTHOR: Michael U

"This seashore offered nothing but solitude. Eleanor saw the ocean as a frustrated entity, making insubstantial attempts to overtake solid ground, weeping shell fragments and kelp. Her empathy with its dilemma ran deep, for she was filled with the same need, both motivated and defined by desire and failure. When Eleanor came to the seashore, she had intended to surrender herself into its waves."

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Saturday, May 05, 2007
Metaphor

And yes, she went down dancing
To the tunes of a fall. Enchanted.
Upon the fingers of the lesser known kids
Where her shadow glowed until the glory.
Upon the fingers of the lesser known kids
Still too drenched within her tears. [whisper]
And yes, “I never cry” she says.

Children stare inside my window.
Children stare outside my heart.
Children stare, some mornings,
At each other.
They do.
Stare.

Stair
The place she sat with ‘em
Telling them stories. The unfinished folklore
The moral not quite in place; the smile always.
She rushed down as I came and I said “don’t”. Always.
And yes, she went down dancing
To the tunes of a fall. Enchanted, as ever.
No one tells the kids their unfinished folklore
No one tells me why kids were drawn to her
Like children to their mothers.
And yes, “we don’t cry” they said.
“We never cry.”

And yes, she goes down dancing
Dancing to the silence of my violin
She goes down, every time, these days
And I pick her in my arms
And I pick her in my heart. In our hearts
We go down dancing.
And yes, “we don’t cry” we say
“We can’t cry”

Labels: children, dance, death, life, love, metaphor, poem, poetry, surreal, verse

posted @ 12:35 AM

2 comments
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Surrender

The pain surged from his sleep
As he fell out of it
Breaking his night. A crack
On the center of his back
A third hand grew.

The third hand grew
As he spread his original hands
To pick his bloodstains
From the dusts and floors.
The third hand grew
Picking up invisible times
Sprinkled onto the places
He’d placed his back to.

Sweat. As his fingers darkened,
Moistened the flute holes. Loop-holes.
He created the music of sweats.
Sweats that dripped upon claustrophobic spaces
From his first ten fingers
And on a passed-away time
From his other five.

Time
Like curtains on his windows
Danced with the winding notes.
Revolutions. Creeping on it
His third hand grew into his past
It brought back a broken wing,
The second pillow, colorful lights and him.

One night, once again,
He found his second him
Sleeping on the second pillow
Not letting go, for once, of his third hand
Secured in his nightmares
Filtered of the future he had found.

And as his hand stretched
Further and further
Into the times left behind
He trembled
Thinking, just how many hands
He’d lost till he found the third;
Fearing, just how many hands
Must his third arm retrieve
To give an arm to their third arms
On everyone’s back
Where their wings should have been.

One day, he dropped his arms.

Labels: death, life, love, poem, poetry, religion, surrealism, time, war

posted @ 10:44 AM

1 comments
Monday, September 25, 2006
Love Hymns - 2

He Who Fell

His fall was complete
The day he tumbled down the cocoon
And found himself running
For the door. He imagined
Inside. Outside. Crossings.
The possibilities of a door.
He covered.

He was led to a world
Of tangled bodies. Criss-crossed.
Clinging onto the unknown other
Like abandoned copulations.
Like the corpse of the child
Left somewhere in the womb
Left somewhere, in their heart, too
Criss-crossed.

He was led into the world
Of a thousand children
Lying in all their tangled wombs.
As cocoons.

He, too, was a dead child
Lying in the comfort of the tangled wombs
Playing with his dead brethrens
Making balls of their dead flesh,
Throwing at each other
And on being hit, they turned red
In blood and shame, alike.

Then, on a very special night
Destiny wished
He tumbled down the cocoon
And was led into the world
Of tangled bodies. Criss-crossed.
And as his angst grew
He decided to take a stand
Against the rotting of his dead brethrens;
Against the world of tangled bodies;
Against the order of the world;
Against the fire engraved on their skins.

On a very special night
When destiny wished
And he tumbled down the cocoon,
On the other side of the tangled world
In a dusty barn, full of hay
A divine light was sprinkled
And a child was reaped out of no seeds.
Its mother took him in her arms and said –
"Babe, you're so bright
My eyes might just burn staring at you."

Labels: abstract, death, fallen, life, love, poem, poetry, politics, religion, surreal, surrealism, transgressive

posted @ 4:50 PM

4 comments
Monday, July 31, 2006
She Had Left A Bubble Inside Me

She whispered her evanescence into me.
She claimed
In her days of effervescence
She had left a bubble inside me. Floating
Through the vessels of my blood
It passed through many mountains and lakes;
Through many a cities above.
When it stopped over the valley
It was lost in time
It was lost in eternity, too
And she had become evanescent.

She whispered her evanescence into me.
She claimed
That the bubble would burst one day
Taking the lives of valley dwellers
Breaking their huts and dreams and pains
Making a realm of anesthesia
Where they'd sleep through their killings
Feeling yet not realizing their pain.
And they shall become evanescent.

She whispered her evanescence into me.
She claimed
She'd meet me in the valley, too
When she would be passing by
On the day of the bursting bubble
She'd sleep upon my heart
Sing songs of melancholia to me
Taking me to a dance in silent violins.
And when all of it would end
She'd whisper her evanescence into me
She'd claim
In her days of effervescence
She had left a bubble inside me.

posted @ 6:03 PM

6 comments
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Lullaby

I picked her down the river bed
Where she lay among flowers
Among dewdrops, amongst bloodstains
Of her own.
Her soul laid asleep
In the white comfort of a swarm of wasps, butterflies
And the forgettings of 'had-beens'.
The forgettings of time, eternity and screams.
Dreams
Marched across her foreheads along with ants.
She was living on sounds.
Sounds outside her body
Sounds inside
Sounds in the distant no-where
She was sleeping on sounds
When I picked her from the muds.
I gave her my only moist room
Where I lived alone.
Unsleeping.

My home was in the center of the river
Where I stayed watching
The strange life of waters
And weaving blankets out of dreams.
I covered her with one of them
I tried to sing a lullaby
So that, she never wakes up.
She never did.

Our worlds never met
Mine insomnia, her sleep
Our worlds never changed
Mine insomnia, her sleep
But we told each other our stories
Mine insomnia, her sleep
And we each owned the others world
Her insomnia, mine sleep.
Gradually, I found that she melted in the water
The river was taking her home
I took her hands in mine for the last time.
She slept.

I took her hands now
Just as I had taken her life once
Down the river-bed.
I set her free from the constant world of our insomnias
After which ants took her over
They went in through her earlobes
They came out through her nostril
They played with her body
Made love to her.

After her body melted away into the river
I lived on the sounds
Of her silent orgasms.

The forgettings of time, eternity and screams.

posted @ 5:40 PM

8 comments
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Facades of The Carnival - 5

Skin

"Have you seen the Christ made of animal skin at Burgos? There's a very curious book, Monsieur, about those statues made of animal skin and even human skin."

-Jean Paul Sartre

The shepherds returned in dusts,
On dunes of Prophet, a forgotten town.
A premonition of past, their present
A recurrence of future, their reflection.
Dreaming, they smiled to disappearance.
And into their fading skins
Dissolved their bones, hearts and bloodstains.

Once again, we remembered
Our gods of skin, our skinless deities,
Our colorful gods and transparent.
We saw religion, chameleon, Satan,
Sin - tearing away our skin,
Cutting them to pieces, scattering
Where plants were born.

We created Cactus, gave life.
We learnt to make branches into leaves;
We made thirst our eternal nourishment
And we slept on the dunes of Prophet
Breaking into the dream of gods:
Colorful and transparent. Their united dream
- The Carnival Cannibalistique.

Its been raining needles on children,
Petals have been covering their parents,
Distance has left lovers, uncovered.
Yet poets live in poets' dreams,
Awakened, awaiting Judgment Day.
One of us to be The Chosen One.

The gods bestow him
In their carnival town, untamed;
In their innocent dream of Noah:
Never realized, not completed.
The deluge - never quite over,
We all yet to meet our chances in dying
Save the Chosen One who shall not die:
One Poet as a specimen of midwives,
Watching with glad, glittering eyes --
Dreaming, baby Jesus giggle in our sleep.

posted @ 7:05 PM

0 comments
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Facades of The Carnival - 4

Lovers

Three Paces

One day, in passing
I invaded the valley of her dreams,
And found
Her absence in the realm,
And found
Her lost in her absence,
And found
Her searching all that's lost.
I found all three of her
Sitting separately
Three paces away from each other.

I found all three of her
Sitting separately
In the corpse garden of her dreams.
Amidst her collection of confused corpses, unsleeping
Three paces away from each other.

One day, in passing
I invaded her dream of three paces.
Fresh spaces were being made for
a new-born corpse in refurbished petals
Of grey - A baby Jesus.
For him we shifted our only bench
Three paces away from us.
We sacrificed our sacred space,
Our point-of-view. I heard
A lullaby. She was putting him to sleep.

Later, when his eyelids found rest,
From opposite corners of the bench
We tried to mend the distance
But for each step we took,
Every pace betwixt, receded
Three paces away from each other.

Dreaming, baby Jesus giggled in his sleep.
Dreaming, baby Jesus giggled in her sleep.
Dreaming, baby Jesus giggled.

posted @ 5:46 PM

0 comments
Monday, June 26, 2006
Facades of The Carnival - 3

Poet

Euthanasia

"You
Glimpsed soldier of fortune
Sweeping their footprints
With branches of mistletoe.
You showed them the corpse garden
-------------------------------------
Madness, you brought it home."
- Yusef Komunyakaa

The dusk stood leaning by my balcony,
About to fall, onto the streets,
Shattereing into a sleep on a soft, cosy bed
Of rotten petals. Leftovers. Age-old.

A plot of preoccupied dreams
Claimed this empty garden.
The flowers, perhaps, have been stolen
Or maybe they have run away
From the breeze, and from themselves.
I had once run away from myself ...
I don't remember clearly,
Perhaps, I was too, Stolen with the flowers.

Forgetting. A chant for the unforgiven.
An eternity of fireless smoke
Where I disolved, uncomplicated.
People came searching for my corpse.
They found none but claimed my heartbeat.
Later they realized - I was their first dream;
That I had rented their fantasy;
That they have inherited me, created me.
So, they returned home one night, realizing
That threy have become gods;
That Jesus too, lived in their fantasy.

I forgot how long I slept on the petals,
But woke up last dusk
Hearing heavy breathing of tiring souls.
I recognized my poems in their depths:
As if all my infinite characters;
All my innumerable faces
And even, my faceless masks have converged
For an oath we shall share in common -

"Reality is the hurting light. Untamed.
Death shall end reality, rendering us imaginary.
And then we live on a soft, cosy bed
Of other's memory of ourselves. Liberated.
For its not our heartbeat that keeps us alive
But our memories. We breathe as history does.
So, let's take an oath, for paranoia of pains,
And fashion euthanasia before we slay."

posted @ 7:18 PM

1 comments
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Facades of The Carnival - 2

Parents

The Return

It rained petals last night
On these streets, dew-worn.
It rained petals in the dark
Of flowers all yet unknown.
And they covered the pain of a lonesome lane,
And they heaped by the broken window panes,
And they exuded the fragrance of a new-born world:
Jubilating; beautified; giggling; silent,
All in the dark, last night.

Then, the morning they had all waited for, came
When the light and smell over-brimmed their waking senses.
Some long closed doors were opened,
They screeched in music, they sang
The song of homecoming, of distant dreams
When they saw petals lying on their street-bed:
Red, yellow, white, blue.

Slowly, timidly, they stepped out in naked feet
And they met their neighbours
Whom they had long believed to be dead.
They felt each others heartbeat. They sang.
Once, taking different palms they danced;
They danced with the petals beneath their feet.
They danced 'cause them that they loved
Shall never return.

It had been long, very long
Since they built their house
Behind the closed doors. Hinged.
They had spent their nights in darkness,
They had spent their mornings in darkness,
They had spent their chunk of sunshine, in darkness.
The chunk of sunshine that poured in
Through their broken window panes:
Dead; moist; untempered; blue.

Then, it rained petals last night
In the out, on the streets
And the fragrance has brought them out
From their dreams; also, in their dreams.
The longest dream. An eternal sleep. Nightmares.

So, they mourned for them they loved
Then, picked a handful of fallen petals
And flung them in the sky above
They flung them in the sky beneath
And they faded into surging petals
Like a dream of a poet.

posted @ 7:03 PM

0 comments
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Facades of The Carnival - 1

Children

This Christmas Ends

I came loitering into the town
Of lingering children, untamed.
I found Christmas sans candles.
I found smile-illumined cherry-trees
And I heard playing feet, unreasoning
Into their life-ending night.

Children -
Unknown to invention of fire,
With darkness dazzling on their palms
Were fading into their shadows, slowly;
Until traces of a difference - fully removed
Like their dresses had once been by their parents,
In a different night.

This was a night, different
From those different nights. Untamed
Like the children. Thier life-ending night.
Parents have secured their own busy heartbeats
To keep living after their children.
Their parents, no more, a part of them -
Left them. Left to themselves
They sprinkled Christmas in the air
And hailed the child stranger - greeted me.

Then, it rained needles, that night
On these streets dew-worn.
It rained burning needles in the dark
Where fire was yet unknown.
And they burned the palms of a dazzling dark
And they shattered some window panes
And extinguished the smile-illumined cherry-trees.

The morning brought a moist sunlight
And illumined the Christmas ends.
Leftovers. A heap of expired piglets.
Pyramid. A perfect misnomer of Christian pyre.
And found under the needle-stricken, burnt heap
A baby Jesus, unburnt, saved from the rain;
Dead, under the burden of infinite deaths.

posted @ 5:36 PM

0 comments
Monday, June 19, 2006
Love Hymns - 1

Death, Return Me

Have you heard the frozen seas
On the dark, unpainted night?
Splashing on the rocks
Dying into smaller droplets, unmoving.
Have you heard the frozen waves?

People, they used to call me a painter
But it was a wrong name
I couldn't paint you in the dark
I needed light to paint you
I needed sight to recognize you
Painting, perhaps, is not of sights
As much as it is of sounds –
There’s music in the darkness
And I was deaf
I couldn't paint your voice.
I’m a sinner. A dreadful sinner.
I couldn't paint your screams.

I couldn't paint your tears
So, you became the droplets
In some lonely painter's sea.
And it was not me
Jesus, it was not me.
So, I don't look at paintings anymore
Neither do I listen to them.
I’ve taken my refuge in sands
In which I dream of melting
"Sands, scatter me in your being
Becoming the common, and the drab
So that no one shall ever recognize me
Neither call me a painter."

Freeze my heartbeat, then. I'm old
You do not scream any more
The pain has become your home
A standstill has been your life
Death is the window to outside
Tell me, don't you stare outside?
Say me, don't you search me there?

Just permit me of dreaming, one night
Of a maddening sandstorm
That would carry me in her heart
And leave me on the shore
Of the frozen sea, in one corner of your home
Where you've become a droplet, unmoving
Let us sleep in each other's arms
A droplet in the sand
"Death, return me to my lover's arms"

posted @ 5:42 PM

0 comments
Saturday, June 17, 2006
The Shepherd of Heartbeats

It began
When his floor-tiles cracked
Assuming shapes of broken dreams
And shades of a spider's web.
The first shoot was seen - peeping in,
Creeping into his room.
An opening in the center of this crack.
The beginnings of a baby.

He, who lived inside the room
Or, perhaps,
He, over and above whom the room spread
Jubilated, celebrated, witnessed
A breakthrough called life
In his solemn room
Of claustrophobic shadows.

The plant grew up along with his fingernails.
It bore hearts 'stead of leaves
Each of which would beat day-long.
Night-long.
Like hairs on the child's head
They grew in size and numbers.
He, who lived in its music
Learnt to dance with the heartbeats.

He counted in the mornings
He counted in the nights
The hearts in the plant.
He was the shepherd of heartbeats.

He counted, one night
Ninety-nine hearts in the grown-up tree
An anticipation of morning disturbed his sleep
Night-long.
The hundredth heart but, never grew.
He lost many a sleeps
He lost many a dreams
He lost many an insomnias
The hundredth heart but, never grew.
The tree of ninety-nine hearts kept beating
Whispering, singing, screaming.

As he learnt to cry
The teardrops rolled down his cheek
The teardrops rolled down to its root
Then,
Tentacles came out of each heart
Tentacles came out of every.
Tentacles made way on his ceilings
Tentacles made way on the walls
Tentacles dripped head in his cold soup
Tentacles dripped head in his pillow
Tentacles ran right though his torn skin
Tentacles ran right into his blood.
Tentacles went and touched his nerve cells
Tentacles went and touched his heart.

The shepherd of heartbeats counted
And the hundredth heart was found
On the plant. Beating.

posted @ 2:17 AM

6 comments

"She whispered her evanescence into me.
She claimed
She would meet me in the valley, too
When she would be passing by
On the day of the bursting bubble
She would sleep upon my heart
Sing songs of melancholia to me
Taking me to...."