You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.
~Federico Garcia Lorca
Gagging on sumptuous virgins and chamomile,
the penultimate grasping of hidden arms,
birdsong sustenance, and the humanoid spark,
you call on the old light that stays on the brow--
a reflection of distant burning-- enough
for that moon, the edges of cave mouths, quarries
and the glaring necks of gust-mining gulls,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man
who assumes poses for inner artisans:
crossing pylon groves for imagined ransom,
sudden god-mounting yearn, all disrupted by
a light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus,
dry quencher of all improbable furrows
loud cincher of tragedy's mask elastic,
backer of fate, gnarler, warper of man,
and the chaotic force of curving water.
Author notes
Ever been to the Dali museum? It's a kick in the shins.
First stanza belongs to Federico Garcia Lorca, the rest is my sad attempt to gloss him. I think it's more a lamination.
A contest entry
- Come Glosa (using Federico Garcia Lorca's Ode to Salvador Dali) by ea.
400 points, ended September 9, 12 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
...
Comments
-
No, can't say that I have, not that I need a kick in the shins. Great entry though, thanks.
-
I know, it's very hard to choose once you start getting engrossed in them - they are all separate little worlds just waiting to be explored... I will allow you to write more than one, if you want me to... the palette with the bullet hole in the wing just kills me.
Adding your comment:
