As usual, the 55 will be open from Friday through Sunday morning. To share your bit of word art, please leave a link in the comments below.
One could slice
the moon in two
with the knife of a tongue,
the other rubble-up the Grand Canyon
with landslides of voice.
probes scarlet-tender wounds,
incises proud initials.
So wonder here in silence:
is it rain plashing past the glass
that kills the paper
or a sudden
rush of pure heart's blood?
Image: Alchemy, or the Useless Science, 1958, ©Remedios Varo Fair Use.
Good question. What is it about talking that incises--going round the truth until there's just a teetering mesa left -- which is so different than cutting to the quick, into to the flooding heart of things? The third stanza enlists poetry for an answer, I think, saying all that can't be said. Enough to suffice to the next 55, iI hope. Kick ass owlry Hedge, tissue for my postmoon sniffles.ReplyDelete
I doff a 55 that way too, sort of ... https://blueoran.wordpress.com/2018/02/02/white-hearse/
Thanks, B--and that mesa image is very apt. Your bony hearse will perhaps carry away the corpse after all that arterial rush is done. Thanks for playing despite the evil flu.Delete
Thank you, Hedgewitch. Love your 55. Here is mine: https://othermary.wordpress.com/2018/02/02/early-riser/ReplyDelete
Thanks, Mary--yours really resonated for me. So glad you could play.Delete
I am going with the unbridled torrent of unchecked emotion as the killer. The adrenalin rush is the land of fools and pack wolves who destroy all they encounter. Good one Joy! Back again thisReplyDelete
Thanks, Mark--good to see you back, and with a very potent and timely 55. The stories of deportation you link should chill any feeling, thinking human beng's blood.Delete
Blood, it is always blood these days... or, perhaps, the mind can't think that it can be water while the land screams of her own dying. The sharp images in this poem, the fact that every weapon is made by man, out of man bits, or used by man makes this poem so powerful, real, and painful. And that blood in the end... it coats the eyes and trickles into the heart. It burns.ReplyDelete
Here is my bit... which after reading this, feels like a very thin band-aid over a wound the size of a whole body:
Yes, I can feel that echo--thanks dear Magaly--but nothing you write could ever be thin. I hope your torture is more manageable of late. I am still grateful to you btw for reminding me to get my amaryllis going again for spring--they have sat in the dark, frigid realms of the garage for too long.Delete
Hi Hedgewitch, I followed my friend Mary's poem trail to your site. I'd shared with the G-man in the past, but it's been a long time since I've done a '55.' Hope you don't mind me stopping over here to share this one.ReplyDelete
Reflections on being a "survivor" of life. shttps://insideoutpoetry.blogspot.com/2018/02/survivor.html
Always glad to see an old 55-er here, Ginny. Thanks for playing, and come by any time.Delete
incises, incisors, teeth grinding... but have a kick ass weekend anyways.ReplyDelete
from the left coast
I could use that whetstone for my scalpel, I think...it needs to be sharper, the deeper you go...thanks for plumbing the depths for us in your 55.Delete
Words, the tongue can cut or heal. Lately it is doing a lot of slice and dice. I love your opening. I hover the line between snarky and wonder seeking. I've got words piling up on my tongue. It's hard to choose which battle I'm going to drop them on.ReplyDelete
Here is my 55. https://blackinkhowl.blogspot.com/2018/02/aspect.html
I'd say your words are sharp and spot-on lately, Susie, and falling off your pen strong and clear. So glad you gave 55 of them to us today.Delete
By our inaction, I think we all have blood on our hands (or tongues), whether we like it or not.ReplyDelete
That said, we might utter the words (to affect change), but don't possess the necessary power to cause those much needed landslides - we just don't and that is as cutting as any blade.
And so we bleed...
Please find my offering here: http://hypercryptical.blogspot.co.uk/2018/02/kill-me.html (I really did need 56.)
Thanks Anna. I agree on the conflict between desire and power. The blood splashes everywhere, and it's hard to dodge it. No problem on the extra word--I sometimes am forced to do that myself. ;)Delete
I feel the words and their power... but even more that silence and the connection into the blood... feels very much like contrasts to me, and how words are being more and more misused.ReplyDelete
Here is mine.
Thanks, Bjorn. Words are becoming the tools of power, I agree, and it's amazing what evil and soulless speakers can do with them. Appreciate you playing today.Delete
I love the way you turn Varo's paintings into poetry - it is one of my favourite things.ReplyDelete
Mine is a little bit of a posthumus portrait.. Just a quick scribble.
Sometimes the quick ones turn out perfectly, oddly enough, and the ones we sweat blood over never have the same intrinsic unity of voice--this was true to the bone, Kerry. Thanks so much for playing.Delete
Owls never waste words, another example of owl magnificence. But that's not to say that they are silent; wisdom requires expression, even if at night, even if in ciphers. As if I have the slightest clue. To wit:ReplyDelete
Indeed, owls are always asking that one question, aren't they--Who, who??? Thanks for the kind words, dear Shay, and even more for playing.Delete
The 55 is closed till next Friday. Thanks to all who participated, and hope everyone had a kickass weekend. See you next week.ReplyDelete