"obscura" poems
May all those who fear me find friendship with me here.
May all those who disbelieve feel my commanding presence.
When they need love, let them in and I will nurture them.
When they hunger with desire, allow release in my audience.
They who tire will rest with me in my palace.
They who long for peace can have it in this place.
©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Our house is a black box.
We drape every window
but one, a pinhole
to capture the sun.
At night our eyes go dark as ink.
Our memories marbleize at
the edge of the bedroom.
Come morning,
we are nothing
but inverted images
nourished by light.
You tell me to smile
and I braid your hair.
Upstairs, tucked
behind curtains,
the children develop.
I put on another record
and the dark disc spins,
its needle lulled
into grooves the way
you are lulled into me.
We could almost dance together,
but the couple at the window
will not move until
we come into focus.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
light travels in straight lines
but truth often gets inverted
when worded through the pin-
holed window of closed minds
and blinds us with distracting
theories refracting on white walls
in a world of royals and riyals
and unnamed dark chambers.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
En esas doce horas que somos la espalda del mundo
en aquel diario eclipse
eclipse de pueblos
ecllipse de montes y páramos
eclipse de humanos
eclipse de mar
el ***** le tiñe a la Tierra mitad de la cara
por más que se ponga luz artificial
negrura de sombra
sombra de negrura
que a nadie le asombra
y a todo perdura
obscura la España
y claro Japón
obscura Caracas
y claro Cantón
y siempre girando hacia el Este
aquí está tiznando
allá está celeste
esa sombra inmensa
esa sombra eterna
que tuvo comienzo al comienzo del comienzo
rotativo eclipse
eclipse total
pide a los humanos un solemne rito
que es horizontal
y cada doce horas que llega me alegro
porque medio mundo se tiñe de *****
y en ello no cabe distingo racial
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That brief moment
Walking into the shaded apartment to find you reading in flannel
And everything in me jumps
The camera obscura of my iris snaps,
Suspending you in amber light.
The tapered elegance of your fingers across a page
A glint of Versailles blue-gold eyes
And fortified ramparts of your shoulders.
I will carry this vestige with me
In a petticoat pocket
Until we are old
And your arms do not lift me as you just did
The last strand of your hair is silver
And your cheeks sink with age like your father’s.
These small gems of youth
Of promise
To keep in a sleeve until they are needed
And the mirrors show reflections we cannot change
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 9:11 PM UTC
The crystallization of thought
leaves behind tiny granules,
like diamonds, reflective and
geometric to fit together.
Sand to glass
for a window or
fun-house mirror.
Brain grains made of waiting,
of watching.
Recognition of patterns recorded.
Faces in old photographs,
"Look! That's me!"
The big picture, stitched individual pixels,
light thru the film
projected on a wall,
fuzz of dust on the vinyl.
Motes of knowing
floating
but tough under pressure,
and in the liquid of pure,
transparent
experience,
soluble.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
~
*Black as coal.
Moth or myth?
It helps with the lights out.
And travels by thought.
Cleopatra enters Rome,
Dropping names,
Reciting pagan poetry,
Knocking on forbidden doors.
Nicole sees shadows
Of her former self
Staring back at her,
Rock paper scissors,
The color of three.
Give and take after take
On the burning soil
Of a blurred crusade.
Typewriters
And other assorted weapons
Form white lies and alibis,
Calibrating the dusted variations
Of a caught-on-camera obscura,
It is a dark waltz,
Some small hope still,
Yet there's a comma after still.*
~
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places
grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira
instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately
The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written
the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
Hay días en que somos tan móviles, tan móviles,
como las leves briznas al viento y al azar.
Tal vez bajo otro cielo la Gloria nos sonríe.
La vida es clara, undívaga, y abierta como un mar.
Y hay días en que somos tan fértiles, tan fértiles,
como en abril el campo, que tiembla de pasión:
bajo el influjo próvido de espirituales lluvias,
el alma está brotando florestas de ilusión.
Y hay días en que somos tan sórdidos, tan sórdidos,
como la entraña obscura de oscuro pedernal:
la noche nos sorprende, con sus profusas lámparas,
en rútiles monedas tasando el Bien y el Mal.
Y hay días en que somos tan plácidos, tan plácidos...
(¡niñez en el crepúsculo! ¡Lagunas de zafir!)
que un verso, un trino, un monte, un pájaro que cruza,
y hasta las propias penas nos hacen sonreír.
Y hay días en que somos tan lúbricos, tan lúbricos,
que nos depara en vano su carne la mujer:
tras de ceñir un talle y acariciar un seno,
la redondez de un fruto nos vuelve a estremecer.
Y hay días en que somos tan lúgubres, tan lúgubres,
como en las noches lúgubres el llanto del pinar.
El alma gime entonces bajo el dolor del mundo,
y acaso ni Dios mismo nos puede consolar.
Mas hay también ¡Oh Tierra! un día... un día... un día...
en que levamos anclas para jamás volver...
Un día en que discurren vientos ineluctables
¡un día en que ya nadie nos puede retener!
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---
poetry. folded into my back
pocket dark garnet pages are
left frayed and friable like
leaves on the bottom
of a teacup
poetry. stancion of
formed glass emptied of
its torch by breakage
each shard a grain
of obsidian
sand
poetry. lamp of a great
beast structure struggling to
find its way through the labyrinth
Minotaur myths blackness
camera obscura to a feast of souls
who's meat is dusty tomes
skeletons in tombs
choking on their crusts of
parchment owls
poetry. oil of anointing
for to wrap the Christian
alive as he burns in
the garden of
Caligula
i am poetry. all of these
am i. a paper soul clipped
from an origami bird's wing
frayed like a homemade
leaf but never
empty
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
( for Virginia Woolf)
Light & dark collide
her life is a palimpsest
of butterfly memories
of twisted ills & happiness
viewed through a pin hole
captured in black & white
The Lighthouse still stands
in St Ives where it always was
where she used to go as a child
she writes “ Mrs Dalloway”
& eats conference pears
Occasionally she hears the birds
singing in Greek as they fly by
Death, which will claim her is always waiting.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
there is a door
obscura
in my mind
a black ocean
that smears alizarin mist
between love
and the dissolute
i hear
a storm of thick whispers
a breath calling
in free fall
my malleable lover
plays voodoo poppet
carousel of lady buddhas
diagramed unholy ***** *****
with scumbag eyeballs
contort for eager ruin
an ornamental cadaver
bejeweled
in a lake of tears
give me flesh
smell my rich ****
bouquet of **** the *****
transfixed eyes of flames
spread legs wide
thigh spillway buttered
loving the snag
and strangle
of a silk tourniquet
watch me shunt
and glassy stare
a glittering doll shimmies
blood bauble
and flapping tongue
torrent of curving jaws
clever teeth
to tear
and lips to be torn
a cockeyed brain
drowning in
illegible consciousness
for foot slaves
in a sweat and ****
magick show
body of irresistible horror
in descending spirals
to love
in the grotto
of furies
imbued with prayers
that fill the spaces
in her throat
martyr of transfiguration
she falls as
dust falls
i depend on her
tapestry of shuddering lust
in moist air
locked behind
a blood stained door
marked no exit
this savage pageant
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
Ni el tiempo que al pasar me repetía
que no tendría fin mi desventura
será capaz con su palabra obscura
de resistir la luz de mi alegría,
ni el espacio que un día y otro día
convertía distancia en amargura
me apartará de la persona pura
que se confunde con mi poesía.
Porque para el Amor que se prolonga
por encima de cada sepultura
no existe tiempo donde el sol se ponga.
Porque para el Amor omnipotente,
que todo lo transforma y transfigura,
no existe espacio que no esté presente.
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Yo canto al cielo porque mis linfas ignoradas
hacen que fructifiquen las savias; las llanadas,
los sotos y las lomas por mí tienen frescura.
Nadie me mira, nadie; más mi corriente obscura
se regocija luego que viene primavera,
porque si dentro hay sombras, hay muchos tallos fuera.
Los gérmenes conocen mi beso cuando anidan
Bajo la tierra, y luego que son flores me olvidan.
Lejos de sus raíces las corolas felices
no se acuerdan del agua que regó sus raíces...
¡Qué importa! Yo alabanzas digo a Dios con voz suave.
La flor no sabe nada, ¡pero el Señor sí sabe!
Yo canto a Dios corriendo por mi ignoto sendero,
dichosa de antemano; porqué seré venero
ante la vara mágica de Moisés; porque un día
vendrán las caravanas hacia la linfa mía;
porque mis aguas dulces, mientras que la sed matan,
el rostro beatífico del sediento retratan
sobre el fondo del cielo que los cristales yerra;
porque copiando el cielo lo traslado a la tierra,
y así el creyente triste, que el él su dicha fragua,
bebe, al beberme, el cielo que palpita en mi agua,
y como en ese cielo brillan estrellas bellas,
el hombre que me bebe comulga con estrellas.
Yo alabo al Señor bueno porque, con la infinita
pedrería que encuentro de fuegos policromos,
forjó en las misteriosas grutas la estalactita,
pórtico del alcázar de ensueño de los gnomos;
porque en oculto seno de la caverna umbría
doy de beber al monstruo que tiene miedo al día.
¡Qué importa que mi vida bajo la tierra acabe!
Los hombres no lo saben, pero Dios si lo sabe.
Así me dijo el Agua que discurre por los
antros, y yo: -¡Agua hermana, bendigamos a Dios!
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oh
good intentions,
good intentions
on being too much and not enough:
love me like you need me;
like my arms are home
not embers
for I’ve
growing pains, but in my
chest
and a map of you on the back of my knees.
the danger of vulnerability
my love, our love,
a parody of true love,
a marionette propped up by pleasantries and
obscura.
the tender fingers of moonlight caressing the hills, the skyline
in the nighttime as we traverse;
silky tendrils of hope and the mysterious promise of midnight,
stars blooming across space -
this is
our anhedonia
and with you I taste god;
impossible to get to know the
crevices of you and not
pour myself into them,
consume them.
play my heart strings like an
instrument,
guttural.
make me scream.
I was a wonder girl but not a
forever girl
much too much to
press under your thumb.
find someone more wholesome and
crackle-of-our-fireplace.
oh good intentions
good intentions
say goodbye.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
I hardly journey there anymore.
Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.
The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.
The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—
Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.
I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,
Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.
On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.
Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.
The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,
Smudged thumbprint.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC
seven wonders: the phenomena of the human condition in seven parts
1. the broken heart
the “humpty dumpty” syndrome, where you couldn’t be put back together again
the replaying your last words until I *****
the part where I was drunk on your lips
and now I’m just drunk.
the part where you pretend this pain isn’t tangible,
that you can’t die from the break; from the flowers growing in your lungs
2. lost
a child, wayward
a blank space and the search for gravity, stability-
it’s the theme of your nightmares,
the thud thud of a tiny, panicked heart.
but, you don’t know the real definition of lost
until you’re a nomad in your own cranium
3. loss
4. disaster
nature obscura;
picasso reimagined.
the breeze pushes the seat of a swing set,
and in that moment nothing aches more than the way that swing misses children,
or how the ground yearns for feet.
chernobyl: a mass eviction
5. war
desolation; annihilation. this is what we’ve become.
I don’t believe in god (maybe nobody does), and
in this game of chance, a tango on a tripwire
there is no space for a deity;
telling ourselves that fighting for your country is a salvation
as we try to justify holocaust
6. ignorance
as the sunrise sets the clouds on fire
you try to reject the possibility that not all is good
it’s a comfort;
it’s bliss;
it’s your coffin and your funeral
7. death
better to burn out than fade away
a spray of stars, smouldering ash
we all have to go one day.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
El indígena * - los acabados/extintos. Los únicos que existen aún siguen escondidos en la selva huyendo del recuerdo de las lágrimas e imágenes de la salvaje Conquista
El europeo * * - el que llegó solo pa robar, violar y matar al indígena...y por supuesto a los otros de las castas de piel obscura
El mestizo * - mezcla de los dos anteriores que tuvo la gran fortuna de no poder formar parte de ni la cultura de su mamá ni papá simplemente por haber nacido
El criollo * * - El Libertador pero no del pueblo sino de sus propios intereses de acabar lo que comenzaron los europeos
El ***** * - el secuestrado, desterrado, esclavizado, odiado, torturado, violado, y matado por el color de su piel
El mulato * - sufrió igual o poquito más quel mestizo pero no tanto como el zambo
El zambo * - pobrecito del zambo que es el rostro más bello del nuevo mundo pero como el mestizo y el mulato nunca fue recibido y nunca pudo identificarse con ningún grupo cultural..de esta mezcla viene las más guapas mujeres del mundo
*El engañao, esclavizado
perseguido y matado
* *El zángano, explotador,
asesino y sinvergüenza
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 12:01 AM UTC
You wrote to tell me youve been thinking about me lately
Since the star wars movie came out
Long gone memories of Me draped in my black darth vader t shirt *** in flashes
You said youre happy but wander if I think of you.
after us I played james by camera obscura 10 times a day till your name didnt leave me breathless and broken all over again
Some things dont mend
and I now understand why you're so scared of growing old
And I understand why youd leave posted notes all around my house
inside jokes
Found
Are hard to forget
I get it
That You could love her and him and them and they and still love me
So ill play that song one last time
it doesn't hurt
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
C'est oui, paste away, we make do, duty calls
Le Bourgeois gentilhomme
(French pronunciation: [lə buʁʒwa ʒɑ̃tijɔm],
From the troves of our public domain,
what did you wish you had known,
when you had that chance
at Jeopardy, one chance,
if a wish were truly wished,
we occur to some as riverwise twisted
fibers from longer ago than local time science
allows, you suppose allowing belief with reason,
cause of pain is pain relief, loser role attained,
proof of past trauma drama as collect sets. Points.
Scoring. Exact.
Past out act/ Bam/slap play slips into Chris Hart,
o we all recall him, he did that slapping body music,
and did not comb his hair for a year or so,
-not him, the kid from Orm, the dean's kid.
so in your reader mind, you have a few clues, times
and seasons seen from distant bubbles still,
- Reagan's daughter attended Orm. Datafact.
time slips, mental lubricant for safe letting.
All forms go out be come standard, it is the object.
Like that, or this, to ways to sense make and so
many more point from which one may choose to see.
McLuhan bolted, as I learned the ropes and gears
years ago, a kind of ******** in and out,
with pressing walls, closing in and teeny, tiny holes,
shine so bright as day explodes camera obscura,
on the inner wall on the backside of our eyes,
mindtimespace stirred into a foam,
the old saying, put a head on it, meant something
to sailors in the beer commercials.
I got advice from Ziggy's therapist {that's amindscrew}
in the funny papers, we all saw the truth freeing
knowledge that everyone knows,
nobody is as happy as people in beer commercials.
Mar 26, 2023
Mar 26, 2023 at 5:48 PM UTC
Wasted days hang like corpses
in the five second pause
between our lips
and thick melancholia spreads
through my bones
with thoughts of
what should have been.
I want to tell you that I'm sorry,
but that's not quite right-
I want to give you the oceans
that press against my seams
and bend with weighted remorse.
I want to tell you that I've missed you,
but that's not quite right, either.
you have been missing from me
and I've been sticking these leftover pieces
together with chewing gum
and bits of dental floss,
blindly trying to recreate
a feeling from shadows and memory.
I want to tell you that I've changed my mind,
but this one sits like a lump in my throat.
I haven't changed my mind
because it's never really left you.
I've been looking through this camera obscura
at all of the things I thought I knew
and I missed the ghost of an idea,
patiently waiting for an eloquent realization-
It's always been you.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
En mi rincón le insuflo a mi fagote
vientos de libre poesía.
Vale, vale la pena:
(como no brinquen multitudes en algarabía
-bárbara tribu diapreada de achiote-
y aunque no salten soledades de Góngora y Argote...):
¡surta clara, serena,
sincronizada, esbelta Arquitectura,
Música pura,
libre Poesía!
En mi rincón le insuflo a mi fagote
vientos de libre poesía!
Vale la pena, vale:
y así chillen don Pánfilo, don Zote,
doña Carraca, doña Chirimía:
¡toda la trinca! todo el cotarro! El zafio lote!
¡como apruebe la Onfale
cuya rueca devano, Esfinge Obscura,
sóla Aventura,
mía Fantasía!
En mi rincón le insuflo a mi fagote
vientos de libre poesía.
Vale, vale la brega:
¿muy ronco el timbre para el flébil estrambote
de mi Balada? ¿muy áspera la voz? ¿la
melodía
muy tosca? ¿a los oídos es azote
mi troya nocharniega?
¡no me importe!: si ríspida y si dura,
de ésa sólo se cura
la Musa mía!
En mi rincón le insuflo a mi fagote
-don Pánfilo, don Péndolo, don Zote,
doña Carraca, doña Chirimía-
vientos de libre y pura y de díscola y recia poesía.
898
deaf eyes, blind ears, pens down!
two of my English Teachers,
from high school and college
from way way back when,
i requested, critiqued my poems,
cause they could, ex-teachers...et al
They said:
Your emails are too short,
your poems are too long,
we recommend that your
quit this, do what we say:
pens down!
Your poems are travelogues
to places in your mind, we’ve
got no interest in visiting, Egypt
and Exile, cemeteries in a privy,
time to get a new travel agency!!!
Your imagery, ars obscura to us,
everyone but you, despite too many
copious notes, which proves our point,
you need to
smile more and write less.
Just because you’ve got creases,
lines all across your face, doesn’t
mean any wisdom came with them,
nor did you listen in our classes,
we suggest, resolutely, give it a rest.
all the best, & do not ask again
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:07 AM UTC
Juventud, divino tesoro,
¡ya te vas para no volver!
Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro...
y a veces lloro sin querer...Plural ha sido la celeste
historia de mi corazón.
Era una dulce niña, en este
mundo de duelo y de aflicción.Miraba como el alba pura;
sonreía como una flor.
Era su cabellera obscura
hecha de noche y de dolor.Yo era tímido como un niño.
Ella, naturalmente, fue,
para mi amor hecho de armiño,
Herodías y Salomé...Juventud, divino tesoro,
¡ya te vas para no volver!
Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro...
y a veces lloro sin querer...Y más consoladora y más
halagadora y expresiva,
la otra fue más sensitiva
cual no pensé encontrar jamás.Pues a su continua ternura
una pasión violenta unía.
En un peplo de gasa pura
una bacante se envolvía...En sus brazos tomó mi ensueño
y lo arrulló como a un bebé...
Y te mató, triste y pequeño,
falto de luz, falto de fe...Juventud, divino tesoro,
¡te fuiste para no volver!
Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro...
y a veces lloro sin querer...Otra juzgó que era mi boca
el estuche de su pasión;
y que me roería, loca,
con sus dientes el corazón.Poniendo en un amor de exceso
la mira de su voluntad,
mientras eran abrazo y beso
síntesis de la eternidad;y de nuestra carne ligera
imaginar siempre un Edén,
sin pensar que la Primavera
y la carne acaban también...Juventud, divino tesoro,
¡ya te vas para no volver!
Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro...
y a veces lloro sin querer.¡Y las demás! En tantos climas,
en tantas tierras siempre son,
si no pretextos de mis rimas
fantasmas de mi corazón.En vano busqué a la princesa
que estaba triste de esperar.
La vida es dura. Amarga y pesa.
¡Ya no hay princesa que cantar!Mas a pesar del tiempo terco,
mi sed de amor no tiene fin;
con el cabello gris, me acerco
a los rosales del jardín...Juventud, divino tesoro,
¡ya te vas para no volver!
Cuando quiero llorar, no lloro...
y a veces lloro sin querer...
¡Mas es mía el Alba de oro!
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