poemimage

Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary. All text copyright authors. Images copyright Steven McCabe. Your visit is appreciated.

A Golden Compass by Hafiz

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Forget every idea of right and wrong
any classroom ever taught you

thoughtcavernous

Because
an empty heart, a tormented mind,
Unkindness, jealousy and fear are always the testimony
you have been completely fooled!

mountedbecause 2a face

Turn your back on those
who would imprison your wondrous spirit
with deceit and lies.

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Come, join the honest company
of the King’s beggars –
those gamblers, scoundrels and divine clowns
and those astonishing fair courtesans
who need Divine Love every night.

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Come, join the courageous
who have no choice
but to bet their entire world
that indeed,
indeed, God is Real.

discsa windowin contemplation

I will lead you into the circle
of the Beloved’s cunning thieves,
those playful royal rogues–
the ones you can trust for true guidance–
who can aid you
In this blessed calamity of life.

blue montagetwin sketcha face

Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

xbecause 2double facedouble facedouble faceside view 2

Elevator

a

I read a quote by art critic Robert Hughes comparing painters: There is more death in a Gustave Courbet portrait of a trout than Rubens could get in a whole Crucifixion…

detail d

Then I heard a song by an artist we saw in concert. Who spun magic, jewelled webs we fell into after chasing each other through twilight circumstance. Twilight and traffic.

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 The labyrinth ruled by Janus one level below.

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The shadows jousting on the street didn’t remind me of your fingertips, or your January dancing, or your honeyed cake.

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I didn’t make that joke in the elevator.

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Carried, like some tragic Pieta, into the stream. The playing of a wooden flute sounding in the reeds. My hands flat against your skin. The temperature slipping.

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Forbidden music within your temple as quiet and still as polished stones. Awash in the fragrance of whispered moments. As shiny as a silver bracelet, a tunnel, a hook.

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I’m not even sure I heard anything.

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Did such music ever exist.

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I’ve never wondered how my fine shoes, sewn of ancient parchment & soft as a silk purse, got so wet.

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Nor have I contemplated Gustave Courbet’s

detail d

Trout.

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Or the absence of all that is not

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Trout.

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While gazing into the eye of the fish,

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A future sun.

future detail threejanus fish

Credits for original images: The Trout by Gustave Courbet, 1873. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, 1958, based on the play by Tennessee Williams starring Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor. Skyscraper and Tunnels by Italian Futurist painter Fortunato Depero, 1930. Pieta by Michelangelo.

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I do not own the original images or claim copyright. I have created new images for non-commercial purposes of commentary under Fair Use provisions of copyright law.

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I Thought the Name of the Movie was ‘American Piper.’

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I thought the name of the movie was ‘American Piper.’

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Standing beside me in line was Enheduanna, Daughter of King Sargon:

night

A Princess, Poet, and Priestess from 4400 years ago.

writhing green

With a serpent coiled around her arm and holding a clay tablet

disc at nightgreen brown

Inscribed & encoded with cuneiform script.

disc detaillook

As tall as me and bathed in moonlight.

compositionxdisc at night

I said ‘What are you doing here?’

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She said, ‘I’m not here for the entertainment.’

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We were suddenly engulfed in a sandstorm.

disc overdisc overdisc over

Vast, rolling hill-clouds of sand, engorged with heat, arose enclosing muffled sounds.

gravel floorgradient edge

A harsh wind blew into my eyes.

snake songxdisc at night

I tried to grip her hand as she vanished and knew instinctively this was a mistake.

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My finger grazed her palm and the cut I received refuses to heal.

lamp

I wake to find it encompassed within rings of moonlight. I wish I could say it was only a haze.

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I never did see the movie and from what I hear the screen was half-buried.

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Like a drive-in theatre in a snowstorm that stops all life from moving.

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Snow falling as white as moonlight.

garden

Melting and rushing water in the spring overflowing the oceans.

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Banishment from Ur

You asked me to enter the holy cloister,
The giparu,
and I went inside, I the high priestess
Enheduanna!
I carried the ritual basket and sang
Your praise.
Now I am banished among the lepers.
Even I cannot live with you.
Shadows approach the light of day, the light
Is darkened around me,
Shadows approach the daylight,
Covering the day with sandstorm.
My soft mouth of honey is suddenly confused.
My beautiful face is dust.

disc final design

Information and images concerning Enheduanna: http://www.transoxiana.org/0108/roberts-enheduanna.html

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Pied Piper (Public Domain) image source: Ginn and Company The Common School Catalogue (Boston, MA: Ginn & Company Publishers, 1906)

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Russian Orthodox Icon painted on wood: Artist unattributed (found on internet). The idea of using this image was inspired by the long history of Eastern Rites Churches in lands comprising modern day Iraq. A protective mother with her sacred child.

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 I do not claim ownership or copyright of the original images used as source material to digitally create new works of my own design for non-commercial purposes of commentary under Fair Use provisions of the copyright law.

snake song

Like the satire in ancient, Irish poetry this ‘whimsy’ I have concocted may express a darker indictment.

sprig and coindisc final designsprig and coingradient edge

 

& Walk

fish oils copy

Walk into this land of echoes, rising, from long disappeared passages &

old road

Pounding with the resonance of a single, surging heartbeat.

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& Step lightly into, like a fox beneath the moon,

zeusian twoveil of

Or the hunting bird, balanced, upon a branch pulsing,

with bowl

& Heavy clouds damping electrical skies.

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& Shaking berries into a bowl,

dusk bowlbowl on linen

Sharing handfuls bed to bed,

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 A nurse tending to the wound.

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The rhythm of & clapping hands,

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Two Palms, pressing deeply & into a lover.

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& Feet upon a curving world, arcing night into day,

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Timelessly vanished into a pulsing desire & always

old road

Echoes dress the wound.

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A heartbeat washing the sky &

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A vanishing moon, poured into bowls & delivered bed to bed.

with bowl

& Walk pulsing,

skyward 2

& Walk always,

dusk bowl

& Walk into.

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Source material for digital collage:

Etching No 2. Soft ground etching by German landscape painter and etcher Franz Joseph Manskirsch (1768-1830).

Ancient Egyptian tomb art. Unknown artist. est. 2000 B.C.

Michelangelo, Sistine Chapel, 1508-1512

Mesopotamian Incantation Bowl, 8th Century, photo Christies.

veil of

I do not claim copyright ownership of original images. I have created new images for non-commercial purposes of commentary or parody under fair use provisions of the copyright law.

with bowlfaded ampersand

 

 

Yes

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I did a drawing

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And decided to call it

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‘Yes’

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Because there are so many reasons

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To say

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‘No.’

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After an extended break I find myself slowly catching up with the many interesting posts I missed. A short while longer to finish some things (I haven’t really been taking an actual…holiday) and POEMIMAGE will be active again. It will be my pleasure to introduce you to many interesting poets and writers whose work I will be addressing visually.  As well I’ll relate some of my own ideas and writing. I need to complete my end of the ‘Blog Hop’ bargain after Richard Guest generously shared my page with his readers. Thank you for gracing this page with your presence.

new5interaction3natural 3

Vincent in the Sky Above Bologna, 1493

vincent and the star

A star hung in the sky just above

The brim of his straw hat.

He gazed upon a city.

I hope nobody mistakes me he thought

I hope nobody mistakes me, he thought.

He gazed upon a medieval woodcut

On Christmas Eve.

gazed uponvincent largevincent ways of seeingvincent behind hilltop

I used Google Earth

To track the movements of the past,

Finding where the sky began…

I had to do this

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Before unplugging

For a few days…

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To contemplate what I might awaken

Soon, &

2015,

So soon upon us…

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& In this season of celebration,

starry sky

A star alighting upon Vincent,

Wishing you

  A Happy New Year.

woodcut

The woodcut, depicting Bologna, is by an unknown artist, 1493.

Self-portrait by Vincent Van Gogh, 1887.

Bologna street scene from Google Earth, 2014.

snow streak

I do not claim copyright of the original images.

I have recomposed original images to create a new non-commercial work

for purposes of parody or commentary

under fair use provisions

of the copyright law.

vincent overlooking Bologna

Solstice (with Van Gogh sunflowers)

and nighta globesolstice-with-sunflowersglobe 3overlay2a second globe

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A Bolt of Black Cloth

9

I imagined a colour the density of funeral bunting,

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A bolt of black cloth,

a singed songflaring

A sudden black waterfall quickly dropping six stories,

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Unrolled from a balcony,

dense nights

The beginning of a voyage,

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Negotiating darkness.

flaring

My father shopped at Dales for paper bags full of groceries,

parkinglot

I waited in the car listening to the radio,

people who knowwaiting in the car 1

I tried to describe a song called Eve of Destruction,

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He looked at me in the rear-view mirror,

r

Columns of black smoke rose above the Pacific Ocean,

spark 2a ring

Like poisonous vines,

the projector shining

Morse code blinking through the darkness,

waiting in the car 1

At night he came home as late as possible,

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Then looking again into the rear-view mirror,

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He repeated the name of the song,

‘Eve of Destruction.’

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I pictured a wooden bowl in my chest,

parkinglotthe projector shining

Smoothed and worn by water,

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& Climbing the stairs into this language,

a ring

Gazed, longingly, into a rear-view mirror.

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Patty Hearst in Hibernia

ph action

On April 15, 1974,

Patty Hearst,

A 19 year old university art student and heiress,

ph with a blur

Kidnapped by revolutionaries,

ph this too

& Suffering from

Stockholm Syndrome,

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Appeared on camera,

ph duality

Robbing the Hibernia Bank, (Sunset District Branch, San Francisco),

Alongside her new comrades.

ph final glow

Pulled into this place,

Across time & coincidence,

Into this name

Pursuing

Consciousness &

Thirst,

ph hearing in hibernia

Into, possibly, a

Type of

Portal…

ph indelibly

In Rudolf Steiner’s slim volume ‘The Druids’

ph at sunset

He discusses The Mysteries of Ancient Ireland,

ph movement on stones

& the Mystery Centres of Hibernia:

ph psychedelic gravel

It sounds strange today that an older humanity experienced sweet after-effects of sleep in the limbs, the arms, right down into the finger-tips and the other parts of the body. But the research of the science of the sprit shows that it was so; and the genius of language has retained something of this, though in a crude and materialistic form. A sleeping-draught was once something spiritual, that is, sleep itself, and it was only later that it became an actual liquid draught in a material form…

ph actionph her again

In modern initiation we ascend from our ordinary ideas to spirit-sight, but in those days, while ordinary human beings passed from their dreamlike life into sleep, for which they cultivated a consciousness and experienced this after-taste, the mystery priests had the ability to feel their way consciously into sleep and so learned what this after-taste implied…

ph just like a woman

Her thirst for

draught of sleep,

&

A waking-dream of

Clouds or plants…

ph faceless carriageph actionph her again

 This was the consolation which the priests of the Mysteries could give their people in ancient days; they made them see that plants are not just beautiful but are permeated by the weaving of the spirit; that the clouds do not just sail through the air but that divine spiritual elemental beings are active in them, and so on. It was towards the spirit of nature that these initiates led the human beings who depended on them for guidance…

ph with a blurPatty Hearst yelling commands at bank customersPatty Hearst yelling commands at bank customers

Digitally collaged images include security camera footage,

An ancient navigational device,

A neolithic stone structure,

A stone carving,

(authors unknown).

ph with a blur

I do not claim copyright of the original images.

I have created a new composition

for non-commercial purposes

of parody or commentary.

Patty Hearst yelling commands at bank customersPatty Hearst yelling commands at bank customersph sombre

Nothing Is Real… Strawberry Fields Forever

as a boy

John Lennon & the gates of

Strawberry Field

Where he played

As a young boy…

gate

(and still)

Nothing is real…

Strawberry Fields Forever.

gate

Every year at this time

The hole

Where the spark of you

Was,

…it must be high or low,

Appearing

Like a cosmic holograph,

Zooming into view,

A thumbprint,

Touching &

Sailing into the sound

Of all that is

Going down.

Rockabilly blues overlap into

A new dimension

&

You, again, deliver us into…

gate

(and still)

Nothing is real…

Strawberry Fields Forever.

gate

Steering through,

Beyond,

 Ornately fashioned

Gates of Perception…

Ah, Irish John of England,

Blake, Luddites and

Nell Gwyn,

Entering that space

Within your self,

Where

In your absence

 You can always be.

Let me take you

down…

Cause I’m going to…

gate

(and still)

Nothing is real…

Strawberry Fields Forever.

o

Lyrics to Strawberry Fields Forever: http://letras.com/the-beatles/186/

Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles video: http://vimeo.com/75657441

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I had a friend in high school who would wear all black clothing, as well as sunglasses, walk beneath a black umbrella no matter the weather, and hitchhike at night. He laughed that he wanted to make people wonder whether they had actually seen somebody or not. We thumbed a ride a couple miles to a diner past the edge of town, with small jukeboxes on the counter, spending all our spare change playing Strawberry Fields Forever. He was, of course, in black, the small town atmosphere verging on confrontational, and the music, even though coming from tiny speakers, aiming rays of otherworldly colours and sensations into one’s mind. This song has never ceased to touch my sense of what might be mystical. I know I am not alone in missing John Lennon terribly.

as a boy

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