Friday, April 7, 2017

Carnival Night


Carnival Night



You come for me
always on carnival night
after the bark of the midway stills.
We're not meant for the light.
Our act is all torches
juggled in shadows fooling
to the foolish, invisible by day.

Day is for hunting
working the marks
big guns and high flyers
after the tigers, the drilling of oil
the milling of coin, the candy-coated crowds
 mice in the grain to be
 poisoned again.

We bring the doves 
we bring the flutter
and sigh of their unexpected
wings, dazzling soft rockets
that burst from our hands,
born for last grace escapes
from an unseen cage.

We are announced
when evening turns dark,
when all that's left of the sun
is a dead tiger in the sand,
and a high-wire hawk
tricking the sky
in a blind noon. 

~April 2017







posted for Kerry's Picture Painting









Optional Musical Accompaniment 






"In history, we've painted pictures grim
the devil knows we may feel that way again
the big wind blows, so the tall grass bends
but as for you, don't push too hard my friend.."








Images: Carnival Evening, 1885, and The Tiger Hunt, 1895, by Henri Rousseau
Public Domain via wikiart.org




14 comments:

  1. after the tigers, the drilling of oil
    the milling of coin, the candy-coated crowds
    mice in the grain to be
    poisoned again.

    This part is so cleverly played, Joy. I love the way you told a story which enhanced the magic of the paintings.

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  2. Those closing lines are especially wonderful. I can see it all. Sigh.

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  3. " when all that's left of the sun
    is a dead tiger in the sand"

    Such a sad image. Not just the thought of the sun being gun, but the fact that the tiger is not a real thing. As if everything is lost.

    This one digs particularly deep today...

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  4. This is wonderfully pointed in our historical context. Love the effective use of imagery.

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  5. The veiled American animus which looks like money by day comes a-callin' after midnight in the roar of Tomahawks across the jihad sky: We called them doves, peacemakers, at least to our stillborn children. But the hawk sleight of hand, its slaughter, is balefully obvious in the late moonlight. Sorry if I misread in a dozen directions, all the cordite in the air is making me ... suspicious.

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    Replies
    1. Thanks B--this just came and I feel Sandbergian about it, (in that 'sometimes even I don't know what I mean,') but yes, there is that in it--I meant the doves at first to be more hopeful--then I heard the morning news...

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  6. Unsettling truths which add to a growing sense of the surreal here on planet crazy.

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  7. This is just gorgeous:
    "we bring the flutter
    and sigh of their unexpected
    wings, dazzling soft rockets
    that burst from our hands"

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  8. This warning gets crazier if we step back.

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  9. We need a lot more doves, a lot more magic. And it's a haunting, disturbing and beautiful poem ... a Yeatsian 'terrible beauty '.

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  10. We are in Barnum's world, it turns out. And Lincoln was wrong. ~

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  11. I wish we could leave the circus of war. Yes, we are in Barnum's world. Your poem is so visual, so powerful, sadly so true. Great writing!

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  12. I was particularly caught by
    "dazzling soft rockets
    that burst from our hands,
    born for last grace escapes
    from an unseen cage."

    Don't know how many escape tricks we have left, methinks perhaps grace is running on borrowed time.

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