Elegance in Circles

Salvador Dalí, Portrait of Picasso, 1947

tell me the entire face is mine, 
even the subtle interior, like a 
	self-tied knot 
or the crutch of a 
malformed pearl that 
rests a weakened 
fleece on its forehead

and tell me the riddle 
at the end of the nose is 
	also mine
sunny cranial jukebox
	sly rhythm
		edible noise

the entrails of the intellect 
are an elixir like a hardened 
of clouds and madeleines 
and the kind of prickly nostalgia 
	that sings

accuse the eyes (as
someone dropped the tongue)
like two muddy pinballs rusting beneath 
the covenant of a crying sun
—but it didn’t have to begin that way—
	with an arc of revolution
a pinch in the atmosphere the
size of a sleeping whale, a gap between 
legs that straddle time and space 
like a vagabond mouth or 
	two soiled roots giving birth to a seed

it is our duty to liberate ourselves from our own 
	stillborn perspectives

our eyes rotate on a narrow axis of order 
but our ears mistake 
	the prisms of sound 
for a rain of tweets like a house of 
or the toll of a bell on a broken glass
an analogue for chaos and a 
	weeping reprieve

the depth of our experience is devoured 
	by a lifelong assault on the senses
(and only the indigestible stays silent)

with two knives and a fork
we abandon ourselves to sleep

(only a fool 
	or an unbelieving genius 
	would forget the knife)

12 responses to “Elegance in Circles”

  1. The messengers of poetry are also of the unknown and the beloved: when we are assaulted, our astonishment and our useless questions cease because of the anticipated answer –the prolepsis of rhetoric — that languish in the epithelium.

    Liked by 1 person

    • As I was scrolling through my WordPress feed this morning, I came across a Lawrence Ferlinghetti quote that made me think of your comment instantly: “Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.” Poetry that leaves us speechless, contemplative, arrested is often the harbinger of universal truth, that which we recognize only by the light of intuition and imagination. A temporary suspension and reconfiguration of perceptible reality in which we are challenged to find new grounding.

      Interesting: I’m still reading a bit about sensory processing sensitivity and creativity. Some psychologists view creativity as akin to a kind of processing, like a channel or an outlet for “extra” sensory input, those environmental stimuli (and even extra-powerful or lingering emotional reactions) that exceptionally sensitive people are unable to filter out or process quickly. Indeed, one thing I like about this explanation is that it accounts for a deeper kind of cognitive processing (It takes highly sensitive people longer to think.), which allows them to make all kinds of new and previously invisible connections. Uncover deeper meanings. Just like poets and other artists do.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Sorry chérie, but I’m working right now and I can’t respond to your comment as you deserve. Everything you say in it is absolutely brilliant.

        A propos de la citation de Ferlinghetti: When the poet speaks of himself, he not only performs an act of love, but also of poetry, albeit under an inescapable condition: that when he speaks, he blindly believes in what he says.

        A propos de votre ‘Intéressante’ réflexion: My grandma would be very happy to meet you.

        Bon week-end! 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

      • One day, Monsieur Xyz, your grandmother will speak vicariously through you when you finally decide to complete your responses to my comments and questions. 🙂

        Also, real poetry always comes from a place beyond certainty. Creativity is an act of faith.

        Bon week-end!

        Liked by 1 person

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