Pleiades, Max Ernst
Some words
are not written, but rinsed,
by the ink of earth and eternity,
gathering the daylight and parsing the night.
Observe their movement
across the ether,
Their phosphorescence
as they trespass the armor of fear,
Their sexuality, coiled—and
breathless—as they remain unspoken.
Observe how they pull the light
inside their chambers.
Observe how they paint themselves
out of the shadows.
Observe how their silence cuts me.
10 comments:
In a way like the blogger whose works are read by another across ether. I somehow see this poem as a metaphor for words and their effect which cuts, nurses, paints and pains.
Hope you are well, dear Nevine.
Joy always,
Susan
xox
I observe their denial cutting me.
Susan, it's always so refreshing to see you here. Thank you for your always profound insights, and your very kind presence. Joy back to you, as always.
Dear Adriana, may nothing ever cut or harm you. Not words, nor their denial. And may you always find what you seek. A warm hug from me to you. :-)
hi nevine,
i really liked the first verse...it completely sums up the meaning of the poem. i am stunned. you're a master of words!
xoxo
Thank you, Betty. I enjoyed lingering inside the hushed silence of this poem. Kisses to you. :-)
another wonderful piece. observe, observe, observe... the repetition of that word not only cause me to soak in each line, each pregnant imagining... but creates an anticipation that precious change is about to happen...watch now...watch carefully.
whew.
Kim, thank you. You really get to the heart of what I mean to say, and I truly appreciate that.
Je reviendrai lire plus tard!
Hubby vient d'arriver;o)
***
Rebisous;o)
;-)
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