la nostalgie de l’écaille
la mémoire du reptile
en moi
seule, sous mon étoile -
et toi…
you wore your beetle armor
you, golden brown and bronze
... love
rests on the surface:
dead brilliance
stolen metal, steel fantasy
frozen statue to that loss of mine
sap stealer -
stained clothed
you stood there unknowing
your head full with yourself
and speculating on ten other dimensions
ignoring the one that trapped you
a ghost-sheet in a washing machine
/
innocence a card you played
like a joker in a pocket
like a cockroach in a jar
marred lives around you
and you have nothing to do with them
flawless, washed and de-sinned
disinfected, forehead airbrushed -
free jazz kept me in free verse
Corelli’s compositions kept me
in the air -
still you
on soiled soil were
dissected to the last parcel
dried up carapace
nothing but recollection
a section, a fragment
the illusion of a sparkle
in the middle of dust
/
damp granular grey
clay cracks under my feet
the sound
lingers after your death:
born to the corner of a stone
in search of a protective shade
you have now faded -
the convolutions of my brain
catch the traveling light:
I am initiated
not to your cult seule, sous mon étoile.
Axilea, this metaphorical excursion fills my senses with pleasure. Your verses tease my imagination. There is grasp in the dimensional intersection of your analogies that wears a proud and understanding veil of knowledge. This rendering is lush with delights for every reader. I bid you love and peace my friend. Jon Michael
An "insect" is way more discriptive, more vile, more intrusive, more annoying and bothersome than a "bug". The title alone gives us that "ooo, ooo, icky-poo" feeling that carries on throughout your poem here.
I used to play with "rolly-polly" bugs when I was little; I've since learned that they are grubs, and a "rolly-polly grub" isn't nearly as fun to play with as his virtual bug relation. But for all the "grubbiness" of your sap-stealing, self-worshiping insect, he still has not managed to steal the butterflies from these lines.
Love the title, Axilea, as i love
many of your titles..the wordplay is terribly
serious, even frightening, certainly provocative;
i've always thought of sect as separation, a form of elitism
and your shell motif bears it out as does the 'white' throughout,
a fake purity, a sanctimonious disposition. you told me
in 'iceman' i was merciless..now i return the compliment.
Selected poems from previous & forthcoming collections together with Q&R apps on each page to enable audio rendition simultaneously with the written text
A Collection of Voices from Around the World is more than just a poetry compilation. It is a partnership of poets from around the globe brought together by an internet poetry forum. That forum, poetrypages.com, has been the home of many a fine poet s
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as always.
Deborah
Sheila
Chip Bergeron
Christine
I second all the accolades below, and the many that are sure to follow.
Excellent. . .excellent. . .
What unforgettable imagery:
the illusion of a sparkle
in the middle of dust
=gene.
I used to play with "rolly-polly" bugs when I was little; I've since learned that they are grubs, and a "rolly-polly grub" isn't nearly as fun to play with as his virtual bug relation. But for all the "grubbiness" of your sap-stealing, self-worshiping insect, he still has not managed to steal the butterflies from these lines.
--Charlie
fee
many of your titles..the wordplay is terribly
serious, even frightening, certainly provocative;
i've always thought of sect as separation, a form of elitism
and your shell motif bears it out as does the 'white' throughout,
a fake purity, a sanctimonious disposition. you told me
in 'iceman' i was merciless..now i return the compliment.
John