[x]

Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of

The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

all of the things

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.

We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this

Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.

BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

Dry Spell I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
fleeting,
evaporating
through the cracks of
my fingers and high

above my head.
I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
words,
silences,
or actions
could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
or stretched
so far
that it dissolves into non-being.
I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo

untitledGold abundant at your feet,
Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,
And eternal admiration;
To say happiness has evaded you
Would be asylum-esque lunacy
For you have nothing to lose,
Fate is on your side,
The odds are in your favor infinitely
Do not waste the gift you’ve received

You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.

clicheTo those who hold bird bones
on the edge of their limbs,
there are dissipated lungs
filled with skies
longing for pillars of fire
rather than bottled souls
kept in the brink of captivity
too big for sparrows.

To those with the cancer
of building and rebuilding
their minute sentences
into salt-shaken metaphors,
sometimes a whisper
trying to be a rhapsody
will never be the same as
a declaration,
an aubade on it's own.

To those who empty
their ash trays
like cremated dust onto
salivating pores and
two cents of syllables weeping
by your windowsill,
there's sand in your mouth.
sand so red that oxygen
will mistake it for blood
so your words wi

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More from ~Leurindal

SageI’ve learnt the motion of the stars
And studied the patterns of the tide;
I’ve discovered manuscripts of old
And know where all the secrets hide.

I’ve turned ash into ambergris
And cheap rock into gold ore;
I’ve seduced the king’s sweet princess –
She couldn’t help but ask for more.

I’ve seen wonders and the stuff of myth,
Travelled to China and beyond;
But what I never ever grasped
Is what makes a heart grow fond.

On PoetryHow do I write when
Scribbled words fade away
With the pattering droplets
Of a grey rainy day?

How do I write when
My pale hands are numb
And the frost-laden air
Gnaws at finger and thumb?

A poet’s words – precious indeed,
They weave, cleave, console;
But does soul dictate the need
Or does need devour soul?

Dissection Room: A SonnetIn the yellow eeriness of the dissection room,
I think of withered roses and crops unsown;
A question blossoms from forth the buds of gloom:
Where art thou, Beauty? Whither hast thou flown?
For you can’t lie hid in sarcophagi of death,
In pain-contorted face and shrivelled nerve;
You cannot thrive where Death holds breath –
Whither the warm pink cheeks? Whither the verve?
At a loss I stare at arteries of men I can’t name –
Once conduits of life, now effigies of death;
He might have been a bard, whose words set hearts aflame –
“Man with mangled liver” is now his soubriquet.
I left and went outside

A ReflectionA haijin seeking
Shelter from the tai-fun
Beneath a bashō tree.

Unafraid of dark
Summer’s tears, he floats on
The Art that sets him free.

ReminescenceWithered rose petals
On her tomb. Faint echo
Of Buson’s wife’s comb.

An Apprentice to DarwinismI try to study.
But they are much more clever.
Mental selection.

I try to look nice.
But they’re much better looking.
Sexual selection.

I try to live on.
They’re better adapted.
Natural selection.

Oh dear! If this goes on,
I’ll soon end up extinct!

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van Gogh, the Orient: A Lament

by ~Leurindal, Nov 1, 2009, 5:05:10 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

When van Gogh lost his soul
to Japonisme,
'twas no bushy-eyed barbarian
babbling about bushido
that enthralled him, but
a docile geisha's pallid wrist,
pouring barbiturates
in his whisky –
a dominatrix
of cherry blossom
in his soul.

No wonder –

when van Gogh lost his mind
to a gunshot,
'twas no starry-eyed samurai
supplicating for seppuku
that pulled the trigger, but
a dying puppy's whimper,
storms of samsara hanging
by a whisker –
a decussation
of dead sunflowers
in his mind.

van Gogh, the Orient: A Lamentby ~Leurindal

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

full title: van Gogh and the Orient: A Lament

preview: The Blooming Plum Tree, van Gogh

his last words say it all, I think:
"La tristesse durera toujours" (the sadness will last forever)

I understand that this is not the most accessible of poems. I hadn't quite meant for it to turn out this way, but so it has, I suppose.

decussation: crossing over of nerve cells in the brain/spinal cord

A tribute to Vincent and all the Expressionists

I'm considering entering this in =bekkia's contest 'Down with Clichés': [link]

Thoughts/comments, please?

*edit* Thanks to

for her line-break suggestions!

*msklystron Apr 20, 2010 Professional Digital Artist

Well done. I'm impressed. I love this poem for it's pregnant brevity and imagery.

You go into the artist's life after his love affair with Japanese prints: Van Gogh's paranoia about being poisoned, and his suicide. His madness. His images could be bold, tumultuous, even shocking (artistically, compared to the work of other artists at the time), but it was never bloody, violent, macho. I doubt I could describe the sublte point you make in the poem without writing and essay referencing many of his pieces. It's the lurking, twisted side of his insanity that comes through in his later work and gets him in the end.

I thought of Eliot too, because the similarity to the 'not with a bang but a whimper' ending. But I think your poem is also trying to convey the tenuousness of Van Gogh's hold on life in this line, "storms of samsara hanging
by a whisker –" Something very fragile was strong enough to make him pull the trigger, get up and go back to his rooms with a mortal wound.

~Leurindal Apr 20, 2010

my, my - the kind of comment every writer dreams of!

thank you very much for the insightful comment. I'm very pleased that the poem moved you and that you detected a number of its subtleties, including the Eliot phrase (I'm not sure as to whether I first encountered those repeated lines before or after I wrote this poem, but I do know that they'd really struck me).

And yes, I agree with your interpretation and am (please allow me to emphasize) very grateful to you for the attentive read

*msklystron Apr 20, 2010 Professional Digital Artist

I'm glad I came close, but really, it's all there in the words you wrote.

I think Eliot was covered in high school for me... but then that was in the 70s.

!indigo-thorn Apr 10, 2010 Writer

The last three lines are stunning- I like the final tone in general. It seems to communicate some of the defeat, a quiet hopelessness of bending to a weaker, softer will instead of a stronger one. I suppose that could be linked to expressionism, as well...

~Leurindal Apr 11, 2010

indeed, beautifully-said! Thank you very much for your comment - this poem is one of my personal favourites, so I'm extra glad that you like it

~Vex0r Dec 19, 2009

This is awesome, Len. The images are fresh and each word expertly placed. The shift in stanzas is, I think, beautifully assisted by the two seemingly matter-of-fact words "No wonder." Lovely piece.

~Vex0r Jan 24, 2010

[link]

Here's a feature for you. Glad to see you haven't left.

~peridot-magelette Dec 1, 2009

i like this. i can't quite pinpoint why. but i really do.

~Leurindal Dec 3, 2009

thank you!

~mindlessmaze Nov 16, 2009

I'm in lack of proper comment now... but wanted to say that I like this

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van Gogh, the Orient: A Lament

van Gogh, the Orient: A Lamentby ~Leurindal

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