no. i didn’ lose my mind in scotland// it’s a spring poem actually

view on edinburgh from carlton hill

view on edinburgh from carlton hill

.
es-ce que grant ‘em
e-top tattooe into my hand
where? reduce it Gaudi – a
pure pure atom

floor & pi returns

so L. (for lovely)serene atom nei’tha
a/miam’ d’cendant tree steal yah
ESTA ‘s? read it!
none– c? re’ar, seed it
hi. i miss// sea wee tires


& that’s the original: 
extracts from ecce gratum from the carmina burana

Ecce gratum
et optatum
Ver reducit gaudia.
purpuratum
floret pratum.
Sol serenat omnia.
iamiam cedant tristia!
Aestas redit,
nunc recedit
Hiemis saevitia.

.

smiles… marina challenges us at dVerse today to take a poem in a language we don’t understand, listen closely and “translate” it the way we hear it by focusing on how the words sound…

back from scotland – loved it!! &will be catching up with you now…

of COURse she’s choosing ARCHEry

from my sketchbook

from my sketchbook

.

my lines are SOFter
and the ROOster on the cupBoard croWS
no more,
INStead a mix of VAses
balANce their WOMbs
to either THIS or that siDE
noNE FAlls

LAst night i fought bATTLes
on a THOUsand hilltops
in my Best paJAMAs, SOAking wet,
lava buRNing strEAMS aCROSS my forehead
where the feVER
HIT

she SITs benT over the kitchen table
focused on her laptop, browSINg// eyeBROWs WRINkled,
wiNGs–

“they’re grOWing– SEE? moM–?”

“Yes” i smile// &ansWER
with a Sco-tiSH acCent//
words are TRails in highland haZE
wrapPINg shaky limBS–
“How ya DOing with your Bow?”
“HaHA–see–// SEE?!”

She HitS the TARget in no time
with EASe, in breAKneck spEED
gallOPPIng over diZZYing heights
that deTERMIned gaZE in her brown eyes//
soFT velVet

“they’re BEARs out there–“
“i knoW”
“&frEEdom for the braVE”

there’s also MAGic in this landscape, STill,
as sCARRed and ruGGED as it is

“you’re gonna FINd it”

&i hUM an old CLan meLOdy,
that spreads WIDe&wiLD&BOld into the sKY
as i clean aWAy the dishes

 

.
for mtb at dVerse today Gay has us point out our very own beat & i highlighted it with capital letters
my daughter will be moving out this summer as she’s going to university & yeah i played a bit off the movie “brave” cause really, there ARE similarities…smiles… and thanks for all your well-wishes – the fever has left and i’m feeling a bit better already

The road// still in your face//

my all time fav bag...smiles

my all time fav bag…smiles

.

There were wheels once

Exhaust fumes
&rain hitting your womb
As you bent

covering,
dirty//smooth
nestled up against

Me//
Spine to spine
Now

Sweat runs down my back
You sigh&i//bike the breeze
carrying your history

.

40 words or less are your entry ticket to MTB at dVerse today where Bri has us write short poems…doors open at 3pm EST
few words to the bag – it’s made from old truck tarpaulins by the brothers Freitag in Zürich…so each bag is unique and has traveled many thousand miles already on the roads of the world before being sewed into a bag…. i love this…

beyond Wagner//& a game of skat, played wireless

photo 1-29

.

chrrrzhhhk–

with my swiss army knife
i cut small slices from a bamboo stick//pen-sized,
drill a little hole and split the tip
so a craze runs through its tongue
dipped deep in sepia ink

“the castle bears its secrets” she says
as my lines grow towers on the page,
ravens crosshatched in the wind,
a mountain biker downhill on a needle trail
“don’t we all” i mumble,

capturing his flight
“the door is locked–
how did you manage to get up there?”
her grey hair a veil over her back,

-no answer-

“the Song of the Nibelungs was found here”
i hum Sigfried the brave dragon-slayer,
add a bumble bee and ants
that make their way across the burnt hills of my legs
moving// towards somewhere

we eat cheese and peaches as the rain sets in
“i have no wifi” i say
“so i can’t go anywhere”
“you didn’t see them, right?”
“i did– but there was no connection”
brushing bread crumbs from my pants
i draw a bat, the moon, an old man,

skat cards in their hands,
a wooden table

“what about a saxophone man?”
“if you hear him?”

“she can’t win– look at her cards”
“it doesn’t matter”

“so the truth is that they never played?” i ask
“i told you, i–“
the old man’s hands, rough from plowing fields–
“they never talk much”
he puts down the cards,
eyes shimmering in the lamplight,

“i don’t understand the game” i say
“would he win?”
“he would//but never plays it out”

a hiker gasps for air,
i put him in the picture&the dragon stares at me
with blood-rimmed eyes
“be glad that Siegfried isn’t here” i say
“&i won’t harm you”

check my phone//no net//still
&the light above the wooden table seems switched off
“they left”
“just for the day” she says,
her voice–
a glimmering dragonfly

.

over at dVerse we’re storytelling in our poems today… choose a character (a dragon, a crocodile, an old tractor, a bat, a spaceship, Neptune, Superman, a greek god or godess, a chicken, a black swan, a nutcracker, a cup with orange flowers painted on it, an old liquor bottle, a wheelbarrow, a raven, a blue car, a metronome… to name a few examples) and build them into your poem… see you at 3pm EST…

bridge of sighs//and my knees are sunburnt //still

photo 2-29.

“i really like that sketch” he says,
seas of sunrays with me in the gravel on the floor,
burning my arms and legs

“one thing–“

and in a whirl of tiny windows he points out a few
“you didn’t do those with love–“

i stare at him
“i– heck, how do you know–?”
he smiles
“i see it”

&i can’t–
the way a dragon lifts its wings to find
the real thing

later
in the pub

we all draw something
tiny parts of what we are
or think we’ve been or will
at some point somewhere–

talking poetry
&love
&lust
in every vowel like velvet on the lips,
in lines that wrap
trustful round the sketcher’s chest
because they know

you’ll kiss them back
mouth to mouth//slides open
fumbling//buttercups&wire in your eyes//
finding the perfect line along the neck, spine–

“see– you’re off a bit here
but that’s fine–“

down// down//a bit more to the right
“dang–“
i run hands across the stone’s cracked open surface
slowly//thoughtful
til it sighs

there’s no wrong or right//right now
it’s just the line
&i
a moment’s slice
the dragon’s wide-spread wings,
gravel on my sunburnt knees//
a pen

&in the falling–

i will catch me.

.

 

tonite is OpenLinkNight at dVerse //doors open at 3pm EST… //i would love but cannot join as my internet is terribly slow here…
in italy where i just arrived for another sketching workshop (ha yes i know…smiles) and thought i’d share the last post from my Oxford workshop before it’s growing long, grey beard hair…smiles
will comment back on those that found me – it may just take me a bit longer than usually

 

perspective is an owl with tiny wrinkles round her eyes and spanish accent

Portobello Road/London

Portobello Road/London

.
“how’s it going?”
he steps close behind me
&i’m lost between a millipede’s long legs
with thousand shoes, bound in the wrong direction
“ugh, i’m struggling–“

“what is that up here?”
“it’s the people down the road”
he pulls out a pencil, balancing
its long grey feathery neck between the roof of Oxford covered market
&the flower booth

“see?– they’re almost on one level”
“hmmm”
he grabs my brush,
adjusts–

“i didn’t see that”

&my lines are grizzly-wild- bears with dark eyes
in a black&spinning forest

he takes out a clamp,
fixes my watercolor box on the sketchbook’s cover
“makes it easier”

“oh thanks–“
the dragon near the coffee shop stretches his wings
his mighty head a ship
against a sea of fruits

“you have to learn to see what’s really there”
he smiles
“&not what you imagine”

lightning strikes the clock,
he whiPs his glistening tail towards the street lamps
“Noooo– be careful–“

dipping my brush deep
in phtalogreen//(to balance things) i ask

“that shop-sign would be over here?”
“right”

&i am
a book of thousand chapters with only one tale
of spires that stretch open mouths towards the clouds,
of dove song on a glassroof’s chest,

&hold a pen into the aisle to check the angle

as the dragon rolls up at my feet,
warm and peaceful,
“psssshhh, i’m just imagined– -don’t you trust me”
&he jawns with yellow teeth,

blowing whiffs of smoke
into my sandals

.

today at dVerse we’re using “unfiltered” images – ha  – avoiding the words “like” and “as” to describe things… doors open at 3pm EST

sketching on Portobello Road//the clock// is body-less

i, sketching on portobello road

i, sketching on portobello road

.
time’s measured in a thin line on a cat’s back
we sit on the floor//sketching on location

“what’s the difference?” she asks
“you could take a photo, draw at home–“

“it is not the same” he says
“on the street you’re in the middle of emotions, touch
temperature/the energy& tiredness,
& you will sense it later in the sketch–“

grapes of people in the midday heat
hunting between market stalls
fresh cooked food
from different nations, fruit and vegetables
we put ink to paper
spilling color washes from a box placed
on the lap/floor,

time stands still

tick //TocK//tiCk

some curious little kids check on our sketchbooks
“can i take a photo?” asks a chinese guy
we’re chasing lines//laughing//joking
with traders

later we will cross
tower bridge into the night
searching for cracks on boardwalks
leading//somewhere

toward midnight i walk up a plushy stairway
in an old house in the very heart of things
and cannot find my door
the cat grins
“choose”

“i can’t remember” i say
&she purrs, a friendly smile upon her face
i try the first //psssshhh
second // a blond, russian girl appears
“sorry” i say “i can’t find my room”
“oh, it’s this one– round the corner”
she points sleepily

&that is where i lie
half-awake all night,
listening to the music//voices on the streets
the city’s scent
the waitress’ smile with meth-foul teeth,
my bridge

tick //TocK//tick
&time stands still
a stranger in the corner
with a piece of minty chocolate
on her lips

.

Mary has us writing “time” at dVerse today…
& i take it as a chance to share a bit of my trip to oxford and london last week as well…smiles

by the way – Sherry interviewed me for Poets United over HERE –  so in case you wanna get to know me a bit better…