April 1, 2016

(#NaPoWriMo2016) forse fiori temporanei, sempre lasciano il loro profumo dietro

                                                                               
                   
                                                                    perhaps temporary flowers, always leave their scent behind

Jean Seberg c 1960's


the Goddess smiled at me and said 
poet, remember how this elixir sits 
and that my body is always going to be 
moving sands and the cycles of rain 

for she is Jean Seberg and Hypatia 
and every time I see her on the screen 
I fall in love all over again
and every time I read about 
Jean Seberg's life, I cry 
because we have always 
killed souls like hers 
souls that dare steal the light 
and run into where the shadows 
are a-muck and making tomes 
into an ink that stains us 
with dogma, doctrine 
and the rules of the road(s) 
humanity has been traveling on 
since we decided being civilized 
allows us to unleash our inner barbarism 


EJR ©

5 comments:

  1. A vry interesting poem...hummmmm.....I fear the poet may be right?

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  2. I feel like you really get me. This is a perfect poem. Thank you for writing it.

    "poet, remember how this elixir sits
    and that my body is always going to be" ... This touches me, deeply; I feel her sadness and the bashing, all her goodness, lost ... and for what? We're never good enough, are we? Those who can hold the light. We must be destroyed ... if not by them, then, by we.

    I was Hypatia today. You're right; I have to learn "wisdom" (i.e., silence) when I me. Only in the deep deep (pr)im/n-side(s)-seize should sand-sisters car(v)e-errant-leaf breathe. (I'm // talking about self-encrypted scripted un/lifted voodoo-doll/[o{o}p]s.) I did it once (times a hundred [thousand]). My calliopes can always do it again, in all ways, do it again, until // the timing belt(s) come loose and we're all permitted to unsleeve.

    I // would like to be // the cycles of rain ... literally (light, her ally; light-tear really; light her all-eye, awl-I); I'm not talking about my moods, which already are. Rain.

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    Replies
    1. How is it
      I am compost
      and you the composite sketch artist extreme
      the beam balance blanch glass menagerie
      I may be willy loman but for a few sips
      or seconds near i can swear to the gods
      and wear waxed feathers too...

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    2. I love Willy. That is the most heartbreaking play. Seriously. Destroys me.

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