"redon" poems
All kinds of myriad forms and vibrant rings: rings of light on a spectrum of darkness. Odilon Redon saw it this way within his hidden dreams, sat by the pale cliffs of ocean spray— the colours fading out like the diamond light of a prismatic stage play. And the cells, finally expanding, whose inhabitants remain locked away— but still able to reach out via the astral membrane— they wrap around the trees of the mind as in the dream of the Shaded Serpent: the symbolic stage play.
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 6:06 PM UTC
*parts of you truly believe
that your frail structure possesses the gift of flight.*
*and for the rest of your days,
you will doubt what your eyes see,*
*every so often believing that you indeed
tried to fly out the 4th story window
and failed.*
*and everything subsequent is a mere, sublime transfer of energy,
consciousness and je ne sais quoi
into two disembodied hemispheres in a vat.*
*your earth-eyes, desired,
ground into meal.
spilt, with some smeared upon lover’s forehead,
ash wednesday, thursday, friday i’m in love.*
*as the Redon painting that left you shivering,
silent and naked once more as in birth.
yeux fermes,
eyes closed
yet they will stare into yours eternally.*
when you were young,
you wanted to be a cartographer
because nothing unto you had been discovered,
and you knew no wrong.
and you were as you are now,
without inhibition,
without the slightest regard for morality,
decolletage or social construct.
this was when you were a native,
without years,
without knowledge
but endowed with divinity’s
slightest, piercing eye.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 6:01 AM UTC
As we walked through the old church once more,
We saw little Andoni was there, sitting scared,
Asking us: have you forgotten our prayer?
He was angry and very square.
In the corner,
Shrouded by smoke,
Odilon Redon was there.
He watched on with an exalted air.
So we carried little Andoni to the aqueduct
And we sat in the aqueduct, square.
And we sat in the aqueduct until midnight,
Where we had first conceived of our prayer.
Mar 10, 2023
Mar 10, 2023 at 8:48 AM UTC
My eyes redon to the calming devastation of such undying realisations: I am starved of the right answers to which all true purpose lies.
I feel sickly and swollen like I have consumed too much all at once, and I feel frozen for I have lost all that I love.
I stare at the ground and with swift attention to the gravity surrounding me, I sigh as I predict future days dampened with misanthropy.
I've been lost ever since?
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
my nexus is Taft
in delight of "Bouquet of Flowers"
that inner vision of democracy
that popular work for peace is pastel
only ludicrous is thought that foreshadow him
as memory in recall thus prosperity
while conservative intent with Supreme Court
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC
I hung up a picture,
Centre wall, a place of prominence.
And as my house burned down around me
I desperately tried to save it.
But the heat made it bubble
And change, it became a nightmare,
an Odilon Redon.
Retrospectively it may have
always been so.
I was just blind.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC