Saturday, January 16, 2016

SHE




SHE





Her tangled tongue tides infinitely, a stuttering sea
pounding the sense of sand to nonsense.

Her hand is a foot, her pale beak-hook
tears liver from a red-cursed god on a rock.

She sneaks her wings off the mariposa
to discuss the death of a crawling worm

all for a bloody flutter and fall, to pound in our ears
her liver-flecked lie as sweet sufferer's sense,

her mirror eye all on the wrong side, broken
but bright, reflecting the shine of her fracture-knives

cutting deep as she can into watching clay
but clay won't bleed and SHE can't see

that no more will we
ever have what SHE needs.


~January 2016










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 mariposa: Spanish for butterfly




Sculptures by Pablo Picasso, photos by Karin Gustafson
All rights reserved to whoever owns them.

19 comments:

  1. What a Picasso nightmare! Something false that consumes but never gains any substance. Apply bitchslap as needed indeed! Some disorder is art, while other disorder is just unproductive chaos getting in the way of better things.

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    1. Exactly. thanks for getting it, as always, Shay.

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  2. Yikes--hey Joy--knives out here! You know, Picasso has a lot of mother child imagery, which definitely may include this one--as it looks like some images lurking there inside--your poem does not need to be a mommy dearest--it is much broader than that--the SHE can be all kinds of forces, and in fact when I read, I didn't think of it as human. (My maternity/actual female remarks come a bit from your tags.) But you have so many vivid and very real images here, and such wonderful artifice--honestly, it would be a great poem regardless of its response to the prompt--but the tongue tides is such a marvelously almost cubist opening, and somehow that whole hand/foot beak-hook really exemplifies the trampling quality of the SHE--the prometheus--is he the guy? image--is so strong-- I may be going really far afield here, but the poem even seems to reference our current political discourse, if one thinks of prometheus and (I've looked it up now) that eagle--certainly, there are a lot of people that would like to make any kind of metamorphosis impossible and then complain about what worms we are for trying-- anyway, thanks for participating and for the cool poem. k.

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    1. Thanks for letting me get this out--its been brewing a long time, k. An excellent challenge.

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  3. This is a perfect text to Pablo's sculpture... I really love the sound of the words..

    a stuttering sea
    pounding the sense of sand to nonsense.

    pulled me into that image where a hand is a foot.. Worth reading and re-reading

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  4. I can only imagine the curse of the raptor consigned to tear out Prometheus' guts each day: "liver, again?"

    SHE seems to suffer the same fate: our sameness, the clay in our veins un-sustainable, as it were... ~

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    1. I *hate* liver! Thanks, M--very cool read, which also nailed it.

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  5. Phew! Such an exciting ekphrasis style poem. Your phrasing and pace is excellent.

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    1. Thanks Kerry--some of them just happen.

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  6. What an stunning write and explanation of Picasso's work! I wish my comment could do it more justice but you used all the cool words! Lol!

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  7. Damn! This is so cool, Hedge; it just comes at you and backs you into a corner.

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  8. No wonder Rilke sd. we doan need no analysis! Deliver me of my devils, you harrow my angels. So does the muse die with the god? Are they paired in Prometheus' revenge, his freedom their demise? With the god's infinitely empty sea, so the singer of tides, "pounding the sense of sand to nonsense." And her vatic complaint, just a "liver-flecked lie as sweet sufferer's sense"? Talk the paw, pal. This poem isn't buying it -- "clay won't bleed and SHE can't see" -- what? That we've moved on, done with her complaint? And of the Rider Haggard novel, how it influenced Jung's anima, Graves' White Witch, She Who Must Be Obeyed -- in a modernist time a job for Picasso, it seems, but now as modern gods have died, so too her imperative? Lots to swirl around with this barbed swizzle stick.

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    1. Some people have the power of the tongue, the runes of language, yet they seem happy only to be instruments of a petty god within them who wants to stand crowing on what is created by others, to aggrandise their seeming wit and worth. I'm sure the revenge is there, for something, somewhere, as well, and every bite of the liver is sweet to them. Fine read, B, and much appreciated.

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  9. Absolute favorite lines:
    "She sneaks her wings off the mariposa
    to discuss the death of a crawling worm"

    STUNNING.

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  10. It's hard to look away from that image, and your poem fascinates equally. I'm reading a book now about how French deconstruction took off in American universities in the 80's and 90's. Deconstructive theory and strategies, gone to extremes, are much like this monstrous SHE. Great response to a great prompt.

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    1. Thanks, Mark. The SHE in question has pretty much had a shot at deconstructing me, more than once.

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  11. Such menace in these words! You've really developed a wonderfully dark personality. I love the mythic feel it has - like some evil cancer that's been there since the beginning and only coming out to satisfy its appetites.

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  12. She's a mess. Not art that's is so chaotic or ugly that it's cute, but just a wonderfully scary mess. It seems she has no place to go and no way to get there. Goodness, I wish someone painted this... or sculpted it... She would be something to behold.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg