eatartdaily

creative writing & photography

Gull-ible

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No less radiant.
More or less dutiful.
You take all lies
and you make them
beautiful.

Even if, luminescence.
Especially wherefore, and bright.
You collect all cries
and you redeem them
deep, in the night.

Emphasis to subtle emphasis.
An outline to the light.
You take all that’s
invisible and reveal it nakedly
in plain sight.

Not too close, proximity.
Not too astronomical nor distant.
However I am not certain if you
are a misses
or a mister.

Goldshot, goldspent,
goldstashed, goldful.
You take all that’s dreary
and you make it
wonderful.

Who are you?
Presences uphold.
I think I see –
I can almost see –
anything? – I’m sold.

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Aphrodite

20171013_163719 (1)Aphrodite,
the goddess
of beauty, was born

from the foam
that washed ashore
the beaches

of the island
of Cyprus. Having found
the island

matches
her beauty, she decided
to stay,

saying,
Just don’t call me
Venus.
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Doubles

20171013_163420The resemblance is uncanny.
I’m putting my money.
On the sun.

Cyprus sun blaze my plate
of a face,
blacksmith to blacksmith.

We are very similar, you and I.
Our coping mechanisms and the realities
that spawned them are at odds with each other.

My Twindom for a soulmate.
How long does one have to wait?
Meanwhile everyone has paired off like in a production

of Noah.
We might be doppelgangers.
How was life in Germany?

In America they are banning
To Kill A Mockingbird in Biloxi
to give perpetuity to the word censorship.

My peanut shell, my pint of lager, my weird love for coconut rice,
you are merely a rose of a sugar rush. I blush
no more when I no longer

think of you. Turn back time?
I’m returning you your feather boa,
and the roller skates,

and the boa constrictor.
I don’t know,
I felt it truly contrasts with my pure white couch.

Notes on Amnesiac Birds / St. Freedom

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The opening line is line 125 of A Game Of Chess part II of The Waste Lands (1922) by T.S. Eliot which originally runs: Those are pearls that were his eyes. I always found it fascinating how he used pretty words in unusual although not foreign structures to create a chilling or post-modern effect. This short poem was generated from a reading of the said poem, which always baffles me, just as I am on the verge of understanding, demonstrating to me that poetry need not be a thing logical, merely a thing meaningful, and that how we play with words is everything. It is Saturday night so I will spare everyone especially myself my old school theatre of cruelty, and find myself in a holier more golden and more illuminated space within myself, as such as are created in churches, for transcendence of the mundane which should only anchor us, not weigh us down. Gravity free creatures that we are my loves, life ought never lose its appeal. For to see is to see with the assistance of light. Not too much light that it is blinding but not too little so we can’t see anything. The Aristotelian Golden mean, which, when extended to most paradoxical obstacles in life, seems to provide a uniform solution to our most pressing and exacerbated existential concerns and desires of spiritual undue duress. T.S. Eliot dedicated The Waste Lands to his friend (and part time lover?) Ezra Pound whom he calls Il miglior fabbro, which, if Google Translate is at all reliable, is Italian for The Best Blacksmith. To compare the writing of poetry to the forging of wrought metal typically by hammer is a profound metaphor for the writing of poetry, which does feel like one is forging through steel, on the best days.

The Best Blacksmith (1922)

20171012_173854Opening line.
The Waste Lands.
Pretty words.

Unusual not foreign.
Post-modern effect.
Said poem.

A thing logical.
Old school theatre of cruelty.
Transcendence of the mundane.

Gravity free creatures.
The Aristotelian Golden mean.
Exacerbated existential concerns.

Desires of spiritual undue duress.
To compare the writing of poetry.
The best of days.

Amnesiac Birds

20171013_15271620171013_15283320171013_164236Those are fishbowls that were his eyes the day the sky turned to glass and shattered into an uncountable amount of shards that shot to the sea which had also turned to glass the sea shattering into an uncountable amount of shards to sink to the seabed where the dead collect the ones who have to go to hell the number of which isn’t as high as we think because we are forgiven even if we do not ask to be forgiven I believe no we have to ask to be forgiven and we will be forgiven because we are loved and heaven never sells out Heaven isn’t a Radiohead concert The dead who go to hell because they do not love the Heavenly father are spirits covered in tiny pieces of glass like reptilian mosaics of vitreousness And in the burning furnaces of hell the souls of the damned are remoulded into amnesiac birds.

 

St. Lydia

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I found a bougainvillea
I will call it Lydia
In my dreams I will call for it
When I am free to be complemented, while I am sleeping I will ask for it
And I will ask for it in the following way:

Lydia
Wherefore art thou Lydia?
Wherefore art thou art thou Lydia?
Wherefore art thou art thou art thou Lydia?
Lydia:

No longer Lydia a bougainvillea in chains.

If you see my full stop, you can keep it, I won’t be needing it anymore

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I sat in the salon of my home
looking at a photograph of bougainvillea
I took this afternoon
wondering how on earth
how long would it take
how would it be possible
to paint one

to paint each butterfly
Meanwhile I look at pieces
of paper
and I get to it
and five to six hours later

I have a finished picture
I have a finished picture

What is worry? It is
obliterating
A lifetime’s
worth of experience
shattered by doubt
Could we live without worry?
Can we live without full stops?

Is it not part of our survival instinct?
A necessary pause to proceed and to complete?

In this case
Will the image of the bougainvillea
survive?
Will I be able
to complete it?
Unless I try I cannot know
Unless I try I cannot know.

St. Olga

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Saint Olga the Princess of Russia, in Holy Baptism Called Helen. A Byzantine icon I found this afternoon in a church in Plati, Nicosia, and photographed.
Sometimes certain icons speak to me. Not literally but with light. Light that has a sound. A sound heard with the eyes.
Yes I know that makes no sense, but it is far from meaningless.
I suppose this is where I am at right now.
Somewhere closer, To the Light.

William Blake

IMG_20171010_135726I am drawing pictures,
William Blake.
They are of saints.
The one above reads / Sacred is the reason / the word /
The reason / the word is sacred.

Meanwhile the one below reads / Love
but the verb not the noun, so in Greek it is a request
and the request is / Love.
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