Louise Beckinsale - Artist

The Moon by Louise Beckinsale

I've often wondered, "do you see me?"  I don't think so.

Tiny Dancer

You move

 from petal to petal.

I am a quiet lyric in your arms,

a ballon in flight

 gently floating down

 through the whisper of your breath,

would you move to embrace

 that charm of unexpectedness?

Does your heart open to the affection of the sun,

a tender release from the brutality

 and viciousness

 of a winters day of the pale sex?

If only you would give my flower a name.

 The columbines cling to my gown and my thighs

 like a child clutching protection

claiming her love.

I am but a fish diving

a less exact poisson

 to a fetal arrangement,

 then new again at the thought of you

 till I awaken

to an adagio

 of alyssa, dahlia and iris of blue.

Written for Vesna's Inspiration project on Migue's Blog.  Thank you for the invitation.

A Quiet Skin

"Thinking has a quiet skin. But I feel the break and fled of things inside it.

    Blue hills most gentle in calm light, then stretches of assail

And ransack. Such tangles of charred wreckage, shrapnel-bits

    Singling and singeing where they fall. I feel the stumbling gait of what I am,

The quiet uproar of undone, how to be hidden is a tempting, violent thing—

    Each thought breaking always in another.

All the unlawful elsewheres rushing in."

by Laurie Sheck

Photography by, Masao Yamamoto.

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Carnival

You Know What People Say

by James Galvin

"Sulky what-ifs.

Sulky what-ifs.

They bumblefuck the metastuff.

Diffidence their stock in trade.

Cozy hell — cozy, hell.

They make a mockery of irony.

They hold Special Olympics in wit.

What was Shakespeare’s blood pressure?

Vertical river, cloister of thunder,

Bleeds the ship’s fell sail.

God comes in for a landing. He lowers God’s landing gear.

He raises holy spoilers, lowers the sacred ailerons. He imagines

Reality.

Tried everything in life?

Sulky what-ifs are dumbstruck. Drumsticks.

Their spiritual actuality is empirical.

What if uppity angels?

What if there really were rules?

What if those angels melted in the rain?

If reality is an illusion, wouldn’t it stand to reason

That illusions are real?

A lot of dumb questions.

Impingement of external objects or conditions upon the body

Palpitate apostasy.

The oppressed must free the oppressors to free themselves, see?

The soul is euphemism for the body.

What does willing mean? Do you sense my sense?

Am I fashionable?

Objective as an angel in the rain?

Screaming from a safe place?

Nine smocked doctors, three unmasked.

One has left his face sewn to the pillow.

One holds a lace fan like a hand of cards she studies,

Considering the risks.

She is the loveliest doctor.

Her doctor-father scolds her right there in front of all the other doctors.

They are aghast.

They kneel and don carnival hats with feathers.

I don’t think they are really doctors.

The trees are real. They are green kachinas.

Dark rooms of wind are installed in the house of barbarism.

The norm is always incorrect. If what?"

Photography by LiliROSE Photography.

they call each other animal or angel before words fail them

"They go heads bowed on their agreement             they exchange gestures             press each other's feet in secret             and sleep for each other from the height of their tears to their forgiveness                      they enchant each other each Tuesday with a path of ivy and slowness                        barely touching                        then madly mouth to mouth pressing her lips he tightens her scarf              black as sex and blood red    He already awaits her tomorrow in the shadows    each morning suits their face    changing from alarm to whispering    when she enters his hope                         She wipes his tears                         or sings to him at night           then they call each other animal or angel           before words fail them                          long eyelids           they seek each other beyond the body           in cries and silences of ecstasy He           stiffens his soul long in her                          all hair spilled"

© Jude Stéfan From: Elégiades Publisher: Gallimard, 1993

From: Elégiades Publisher: Gallimard, 1993

"in each of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain,
choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice.
we’re each of us our own chiaroscuro, our own bit of illusion
fighting to emerge into something solid, something real.
we’ve got to forgive ourselves that.
i must remember to forgive myself.
because there is a lot of grey to work with.
no one can live in the light all the time."

.

libba bray,
gemma doyle trilogy

via honeypieLiving

but the heart...

it's stubborn.

by sam_samantha via Flickr