The Lion Cometh – 3 – (Redux)

rapgenius.com

In the wide savannah of my dreaming,

across the tangled jungles of my years,

I yawn through ancient hungry teeth

shaking the sultry sky with my voice,

filling the scorched air with bloody breath.

 

I stretch and scratch and roll

in fractured mud and satisfying dust,

my rippled spine crushing a thousand flies,

my knotted mane sweeping hot earth

like the ragged fingers of a god.

 

My needs are as simple as the moon;

I eat, sleep, mate and mate some more,

I leave the killing to the women,

they are so fast and sure, while I sleep on,

silhouetted by another setting sun.

This series of posts are a repeat celebration of my astrological sun sign, Leo, in  words, images and music…Please see #1 for more detail.

Poem by clinock / Lion photo with thanks to rapgenius.com / The Lion Sleeps Tonight sung by Lebo M.

 

As a Horse Enters the Room

clinock:

I was left speechless by this exquisite work of text / image / poetry by Steven and am honoured to share it here. Everything Steven performs is worthy of your time and attention so I encourage you to visit him at http://poemimage.wordpress.com

Originally posted on poemimage:

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William Blake lifting and parting silken rays of translucent ecstasy, without a thought to his own gain, rambling upon the aftermath of a village, the merciless beast of empire pressing her breastplate to the ground, and the spewing of milk, unseen, in the clover-scented breeze.

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 William’s words rising upon the feet of a woman, in a tintype portrait, as he drapes her shoulders with blue silk curtains emblazoned with golden script. I would do this all again she thinks, folding the air around his eyes into the mouth of a small, and infinitely glowing, sea creature:

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 The eye of the sun blinking, penetrating her fingertips, rays drifting, a glimmer sinking into the pasture, the sun dipping into a hollow made by sounds, half rolling, half floating to the chants and whispered songs of mothers, the sun warming milk, rolling like a wheel of honey igniting fire in the body…

View original 421 more words

Sagacious Serendipity – Red

 

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A working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.

The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.

Click on images for more detail.

Sagacious Serendipity – shed skins

shed skinsshedskinsA working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.

The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.

Click on images for more detail.

Sagacious Serendipity – folded message

 

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A working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.

The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.

map of my heart

map

In case I disappear here is a map of my heart,

a patched up job, repeatedly reassembled.

With a little patience it can still be understood

and if gently handled it won’t fall apart,

but please do not fold, spindle or mutilate.

 

Its paths and crossroads are still echoing

with songs of travelers passing through,

tears too are heard, of the wandering lost,

for though the roads are straight they are also worn

and collapsed with confusions and misdirections.

 

Notice how the blue of fallen sky becomes an ocean

where angels and mermaids dance in arcs of light.

I rest on these beaches when I lose myself,

cool my feet in the waves and sleep for awhile,

then I remember, this is the way back home.

 

And here are the greens of meadows where I lay

deep in new growth, my thrusting blossoms

seeding the verdant winds and high forests of isolation

with pollinations of laughter, longing and desire.

I smudge the map with unseen words against forgetting.

 

And there the golden glow of a thousand votive flames

illuminates the holy dark, recalls the first January sun,

places lamps in all the windows, engorges summer heat,

reflects itself in conjured forms of island fantasies

and shapes of full moon dreams in fields of wheat.

 

The signatures of red I will not hide beneath the surface,

they are its surging life and are crying for acceptance.

These bleeds of love seep through the gauze of landscape

however many bandages of colour I apply.

No compass needed here. This is a map of my heart.

torn and reassembled acrylic painting and poem by clinock

Icarus

new days new ways

torn skies rip pathways into fire,

curves are acknowledged and abandoned,

edges are released from symmetry,

passages of burning hunger

hover in anticipation,

mystery is penetrated.

dropping, I unfold in fragments,

incinerated shapes of melted wings

ignite the cold airs of descent

and darken the beckoning landscape

with gestures of ash and flame,

as my shadow grows.

intimate luminosity is lost

consumed by the scorching of the fall.

this is the cruelest language of the sun

this blue impenetrable codex,

this stained banner of belief

flying a farewell.

Torn and reassembled acrylic painting and poem by clinock