The rain has stopped and the sudden pale light through leaves and feathers reminds me of music that reaches the senses, the movement of invisible fingers on catgut strings.
With each breath, each wink, rays, zebras, stripes, rhythms, density, void: motifs appear through all that we avoid, colorful patterns. The past goes over the lines and I remember visiting a sacred space with you: vivid hues on votive tablets, and in the distance between the shrine and my questioning eyes, the indispensable vacuity that stills the anxious mind.
How voluptuous and meaningful reality becomes as I hold its emptiness!
But I can feel that the immaterial, endless sunny day drives you crazy. Strange, all I have to do is hold out my arms and, in the middle of your vain efforts, I sense the texture that fulfills me. The bright yellow oil paint of life, in my cupped hands.
All the lines in your magnificent piece hold value to me but I especially loved this line..."How voluptuous and meaningful reality becomes as I hold its emptiness!"
Always beautiful work from you Axilea
Amor
Texture - what a structure!
Of rain that comes and sings a lament
One drop or a million billion could be sent.
A drought or a deluge - who knows what is meant
Still bringing it
Still singing it
Till your soiled hands are washed clean
Till you look in the beholder's eyes of green
Emptiness - what does it mean?
I too see it - every night in my dream.
motifs appear through all that we avoid and we can be (ful)filled by the sands that trickle through our fingers. Like here, Axilea, it's life's yellows that stick and adhere with me - sometimes the more so by their absence. Virginia Woolf would love this. xx
Inspiring little thing. I could dip my life-toast into that golden yolk of light and be filled. I like how you cup it in your hands and hold the whole (hole?) of life painted in your hands-- a great visual of mellowed light. But my favorite line was: "How voluptuous and meaningful reality becomes as I hold its emptiness!" That, for me, is precisely what I used to call "poetic depression"--a "waxing wane".
In this reverie, there is musicality in the sounds as well as the impressions of color you give-- harmony. I love the juxtaposition of different textures throughout: rain, sun rays; leaves and feathers; music and movement, fingers and catgut strings; breaths, winks; zebras striped with light (finches?) as well as black; density and void
That last pair (density and void) are repetitive textures throughout: invisible fingers and catgut strings; vacuity and voluptuousness; reality and emptiness; immaterial and endless abundance; vain efforts and fulfillment; intangible life cupped in tangible hands.
You handle these textures with a light hand, understating, which makes the mood all the more penetrating-- reverie, reverent and beautiful, infused with truth and light. --Charlie
The true poet can see the essence of a poem in almost anything.
Ron
Reviewed by RWE SAYS BYE (Reader)
Reviewed on April 13, 2012
...the elixir of redolent flow permeates this exquisite piece... leaving me with the tingly feeling of being rubbed raw and radiant for more motive under the maw of a malleable massage...
Bountiful enlightenment language in this writing for me. "The past goes over the lines..." brings to me the vision of a reverse dot-to-dot, a fresh way to depict revisiting past. It is right close understanding I have of "But I can feel that the immaterial, endless sunny day drives you crazy." I savor the truth of that sentence; The Magic Toll Booth's Digitopolis vs. Dictionopolis . . . . 'do-ers' vs. 'be-ers.' You write with a "be-er's" hand. ~~ Diana
leafing through the tomes of personal emotive experiences catalogued in the fringes of our existence until we locate just the texture that enraptures us in the moment - there is a wonderful stream of mind and sensuality that blends throughout this beautiful rendering Axilea - it brings this reader much enjoyment - I wish you love and peace my dear friend -- Jon Michael
This is such a wonderful bit of exquisite wordplay, but I have to admit, it would have sounded better to me if written in free verse instead of the prose. That's just me and my prejudice against most prose.
A way to use your mind for silent communication. Speaking about the methods in the book I have used since a young age.
21st Century learning. I also have a GoFundMe page to ask for funds so I can research with other people and add their experiences
The captivating music of birds and the enchanting beauty of roses have, each in their own right, inspired people around the world for as long as anyone can remember. How the two combine with the challenges faced by a struggling writer in Georgia to c
A way to use your mind for silent communication. Speaking about the methods in the book I have used since a young age.
21st Century learning. I also have a GoFundMe page to ask for funds so I can research with other people and add their experiences
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Always beautiful work from you Axilea
Amor
Of rain that comes and sings a lament
One drop or a million billion could be sent.
A drought or a deluge - who knows what is meant
Still bringing it
Still singing it
Till your soiled hands are washed clean
Till you look in the beholder's eyes of green
Emptiness - what does it mean?
I too see it - every night in my dream.
In this reverie, there is musicality in the sounds as well as the impressions of color you give-- harmony. I love the juxtaposition of different textures throughout: rain, sun rays; leaves and feathers; music and movement, fingers and catgut strings; breaths, winks; zebras striped with light (finches?) as well as black; density and void
That last pair (density and void) are repetitive textures throughout: invisible fingers and catgut strings; vacuity and voluptuousness; reality and emptiness; immaterial and endless abundance; vain efforts and fulfillment; intangible life cupped in tangible hands.
You handle these textures with a light hand, understating, which makes the mood all the more penetrating-- reverie, reverent and beautiful, infused with truth and light. --Charlie
Lady Mary Ann
Ron
ET
in the senses this poem enshrines;
your vision of the world, Axilea,
is special and unique. Beautiful.
john