Upon such slopes flowers riot,
toward such sleep as might be managed
fo fum
daisies dying;
as might be managed
love me not, they say
as shy as marigolds are not
chasing madness from dream to dream
knot faces to unplaces [of a morning]
reason laughs without mirth
her fingers wet
the window a chalkboard
Is it winter yet?
Seahorses see sores underneath the eyelids;
::that waits upon the light to be bereaved
cocksure of the emptied out, hollowed
underneath domed flowers
filtered and mellow
"part of this is that,"
they say scowling at the brazen marigolds
that, [where was] were half gingerly
after gulping the sun colorfully.
through the day
the sucked window is stained
strained by gray shapes
chasing dreams into sleep.
Author notes
Oh
princess of the mad sleep
listen to my horn
and my pack of hounds
I deliver you
from the forest
where we came upon the spell
Jean Cocteau
In a list
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From The Flight of the Dragon
It is a far different spirit which animates the Asian landscapes. In these paintings we do not feel that the artist is portraying something external to himself; that he is caressing the happiness and soothing joy offered him in the pleasant places of the earth, or even studying with wonder and delight the miraculous works of nature. But the winds of the air have become his desires, and the clouds his wandering thoughts; the mountain peaks are his lonely aspirations, and the torrents his liberated energies. Flowers, opening their secret hearts to the light and trembling to the breeze's touch, seem to be unfolding the mystery of his own human heart, the mystery of those intuitions and emotions which are to deep or too shy for speech.
I know this isn't Asian Art but the "message" struck me as I was just reading it in the little book after several readings of your poem.
This line is difficult:
that where was half gingerly
and nearly distracts me from the gulping of the sun which I sure don't want to miss.
And the window and wet finger and the seahorses (which speak to me of innocence -- lost with the sores)
and "part of this is that"
Child-like wonder with such a sense of, of, of, what is it? but mystery.
MNFLP (even if there isn't any Lisa here)
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How many daisy petals lost ...
(fe) fo (fi) fum ... fefi I fo fum a poem: (he loves me) he loves me not (he loves me) he loves me not not not ...
Forget-me-not.
Chasing dreams into sleep is good after such a tiresome day.
Myra
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Wow!!!
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The day eventually says goodnite.
The heart gets sleepy.
Should Sleep.
Inside the creases.
'tis best.
It's winter after all....
and it has a peaceful embrace
Warmth misses
and confronts
what we want to ignore
but like a bullet
it makes things
shut up
you stop itching
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Seems to me the start of each day holds much promise but usually ends up at the end so mundanely the same as the day before and the day before that. I think I would like to be Rumplestiltskin, stay asleep and just dream my life away, not productive but so much more pleasant. C
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