medusa as a young girl

medusa as a young girl
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

i love this poem. just haven't had a fitting image to go with it til now.

she sprouted from my head like the serpents in her mind...

Arms of the Snake

Because she has no arms,
she embraces him with her body,
crawls the distance of his flesh
like a light-starved vine.

Because she has no legs,
she coils through his thoughts,
like a root or a shadow
growing wild in his mind.

Because she has no words,
her tongue splits in anger.
She hisses in the dark,
shakes a rattle in his face.

Because he has no choice,
he bears both fang and kiss,
comes to crave her silver tourniquet,
savor venom in his veins.

Because she has no heart,
she sheds her skin to depart.
She exits through his fingers,
leaving only her empty sleeve.

– CHRISTINE BOYKA KLUGE

twilight

twilight
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

The Grasp

There are moments of twilight
Between wakefulness and slumber

A space and time which neither
Reality nor Reverie truly reign

That comes the most relevant objects
Of origin that shapes what the mind

Thinks and what the soul senses
And being in a hollow shell

One can only wonder
In the expanse of experience

And memory why one hangs onto
One thing and releases another

(2003)

repose

repose
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

THE WASTELAND. TS ELIOT.

Part One: The Burial of the Dead.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for n hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
                          Frisch weht der Wind
                               Der Heimat zu
                             Mein Irisch Kind,
                             Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl,’
-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence,
Oed’und leer das Meer.

Madam Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal city,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sigh, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where St Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying” ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
O keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
You! Hypocrite lecteur!- mon semblable, -mon frere!’

In Sepia

in sepia
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

I have dark eyes.

I know I'm looking into the sun when these irises look brown, washed out, becoming more transparent than the imaginary walls that have taken years to build.

Walls you can't see but are more stout than the ones crossing China...

the kitchen entrance

the kitchen entrance
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

well don't just stand there staring. open the door and see what you find...

objects

objects
we spend our lives in dark places,
in storage, in waiting
for special moments
christmas day or an anniversary

we come into view,
proud of what we are
endeared with enough care
to be passed among hands
a gift, a souvenir

in bright times
we leave impressions
lasting generations
a chance at transcendence
to new hands, new hearts

but in the lay of time
we are mostly just things
untouched, unheld,
staying inanimate, cold
not a velveteen rabbit
not a warm hobby horse

yet we have moments
when with velvet and wood
blood is caused to stir
giving pulse and rhythm

Matias I (2004)

Black as black is the night
Dark in a manner that stays without fright

He only betrays his colour when in sunlight
Even I show my red under those rays

Though unlike him I find no peace
When I slumber curled like a nautilus

soundtrack (2005)

fallen bells from jacaranda
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

previously posted without image

the soundtrack of my life
is found among
the littered remains of fallen angels

there is a melody out there
that i will recognize among
the dirty feathers of the flightless

there are images on a silver screen
the film that tries to graph a life
seems somehow awkward and familiar

there are faces i’ve seen before
only on ghostly backlit screens
their lips move in sync without meaning

the score is made of melodies to remember
but i have problems matching it
to the right scenarios

the music has a voice i know
i just can’t seem to place the face
the correct association
seems lost among the broken notes

experience

this is something i posted as a comment on someone else's blog. in reading it, i decided i wanted to keep it. thanks to lostinscotland for being the inspiration...

"half of experience are the things we have comed to get used to, take for granted and sometimes over-cherish.

the other half of experience are the things that are sometimes difficult or impossible to communicate, give form to and keep in your field or vision or circle of mind easily.

but the latter, being difficult to point to in the moment are ever present in memory. they are never lost. they might be called intangible. they might be called transrational.

whatever the label, they are real and won't ever be lost..."

words over your eyes

words over your eyes
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

sometimes we hide behind words.

sometimes we hide behind words we don't even fully understand, they are in another language but we stay in their shade and peer out into the vastness between us and the other person, the rest of the outside.

it is the nature of ambiguity.

it is the double entendre of the voyeur and the exhibitionist.

what she was trying to tell me

what she was trying to tell me
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

i was in an unfamiliar place.

she was a stranger.

she was telling me things.

i didn't understand her words but they felt like quills being pushed into my skin.

she was telling me something important.

she was someone important.

humans don't keep their tears on the tips of feathers.

weight

weight
Originally uploaded by equusignis.

because there is anger in the tears in my eyes
because the color of my anger is somewhere
between the crimson of blood and the scarlet

of the imaginary letter on my chest
because in this moment the hollow in my
breast burns. it's the sensation of going

to ashes but not yet sprouting new feathers
because i know the origin of my suffering
because i can accept that from the inside

is the start of the only road out of myself
and the only real pain that is my own
is the weight of others carrying my burden