Archives for posts with tag: Marc Chagall

lovers-with-flowers-1927
I want
       a Poem
by Jeri Thompson

To be written about me.
To inspire the sort of passion
That makes me immortal
On a paper page, in a paper book.
I want to bleed
A river of free-flowing ink.

I want a poem that stops me, tilts my head to the side
And slowly runs its fingers along my spine.
I want that poem to grab me,
Throw me on my bed and
Reach for my panties.

I want to live forever in ink on paper
Through the pen of a poet.
I want it to hold who I am in time,
Never to age another day.

Make me live forever in your words.
I will wait for that.

IMAGE: “Lovers with Flowers” by Marc Chagall (1927).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeri Thompson thrives in Long Beach, California, where she spends much quality time with herself and her Trikke (Scarlett Birdie) riding along the beach bike/Trikke path. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014, she is soon to appear in Pearl magazine. Also find her in Silver, Green, and Summer Anthologies from Silver Birch Press, Cadence Collective, and Carnival Literature Magazine (Vol. 4). She is a CSULB grad AND LBC resident since 1992.

green-lovers-1915
HERE, WAITING
by Kerianne Methe Gardner

I am waiting for someone
To talk to me; to notice I am so lonely
Despite my bright smile;
I am waiting for a Friend,
Hoping my Friend Request will be accepted;
I am waiting for response to a message
Sent; Will you spend time with me?
I am waiting for someone to
Make time; to take time
To be with me
Because they like me;
Because they think I am sexy,
Funny, and a good conversationalist;
I am waiting for romance;
To be swept off my feet;
Doors opened, my hand
Held; an appreciative glance returned;
I am waiting to be asked out to dinner; candles low; wine,
Smoldering Gaze that says I want you;
I am waiting to dance; to be held so close;
I am waiting to be treasured;
To feel treasured; I am waiting
For someone who wants to
Know my body as well as their route to work;
I am waiting for warmth;
Campfire companionship; a good story;
I am waiting for someone to notice
My hair; to run their fingers through it;
To pull me near to them; solid contact;
I am waiting for an urgent caress,
Whisper and demand in the same breath;
I am waiting for a man
With perseverance to gift
A little death, even when satiated;
I am waiting to feel;
To be; to live;
I am waiting to love; to know what it feels like
To truly be one; I am waiting
To heal; to be healed;
I am waiting for you;
For you to notice
I am here, waiting.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This writing prompt came at an apropos time in my life, when I was feeling dissatisfied in my marriage and had been contemplating asking my husband for a divorce or beginning an affair to mitigate for features missing from my marriage. Turning forty has been an empowering event for me; I felt inspired to evaluate what I had and had not yet achieved in my personal life and contemplated why I was so forlorn about my marital situation. This poem documents where I hope to be, romantically, in the future.

IMAGE: “Green Lovers” by Marc Chagall (1915).

Kerianne Methe Gardner

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: With a B.S.A degree in Range Science, Kerianne Methe Gardner has written scientific and policy documents for the Environmental Protection Agency in Seattle, Washington, and invasive plant species field guides for the U.S. Forest Service Southwestern Region as a subcontracted ghostwriter. She has been an interim instructor at NMSU’s Range Science Department and family education facilitator in Washington. Composing poetry and short stories has been a creative outlet for her since she was eight years old; 2014 was her first foray into exposing her deeply personal work for publication. In August 2014, she had two poems published in La Palabra: A Word is A Woman’s Second Anthology (Mothers and Daughters, Swimming With Elephants Publications, 2014). She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with her husband and three daughters.

the-fall-of-icarus-1975
MYTHICAL VAINGLORY
by Massimo Soranzio

Were I a mythical hero
(Just to play with that idea,)
Old Ulysses would be my man:
The old King Tennyson showed us,
Bored and restless, seeking knowledge,
Strong in will, never giving up.

Prometheus, my second choice,
Might also do: not Milton’s though,
But Shelley’s dramatic Titan,
Untamed and wild, seeking justice,
Bravely opposing Jupiter,
Showing bullies can’t always win.

Yet . . .

I am no Prometheus,
No mythical hero at all,
No, neither am I Ulysses:
I’m just the odd Prufrock, or Bloom,
Or Brueghel’s naïve Icarus
Who falls unheeded to his doom.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Myth to me is a story told and retold by poets, recycled and reinvented each time . . . If I think of a mythical hero, say Ulysses, for instance, my mind starts mixing up a number of versions of his story I have read, or seen: Homer, Dante, Tennyson, Joyce, an old Italian black and white TV series . . .

IMAGE: “The Fall of Icarus” by Marc Chagall (1975).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Massimo Soranzio writes on the northern Adriatic coast of Italy, about 20 miles from Trieste. He teaches English as a foreign language and English literature in a high school, and has been a journalist, a translator, and a freelance lecturer on Modernist literature and literary translation. He posts some of his found and constraint-based poetry on his blog, massimosoranzio.tumblr.com.

Chagall_Blaue Zirkus
31.7
by Sheikha A. 

In many dissimulated moments
that went by without a cough, hiccup
or so much as a sneeze, all of the sparring
with the ‘within,’ during glorious mornings
to cacophonous nights of unserved reminisces;
the logics sliced with surgical precision,
held apart with clamps and pushed
through the within with amps and doses
of alternated steroids and sedatives
of utter lunacy;

the moments never lifting
like mists off of their grass, like water
condensing away from the lungs on leaves,
knowing the differential of smothering
versus nurturing –

like blotched epiphany,

such has been the count so far, up
till 31.7.

There has been no stretch on time,
the tenure that comprised the moments,
whether I lived in seconds or decades
within it; giving me no meter nor mile
on length or brevity of the days
I slaughtered, and the nights I censured
the stars for shedding their dead
fur on my grass whilst grooming partially
elsewhere.

I have looked no deeper through the sky,
through thick clouds of curtains, yet I have
breathed you in, just as devoutly,
and exhale you now
as poetry –

as suborn to my wastefulness, impetuous
in knowledge your vanity will not demand
pacifications from me.

Yet I demand for loyalty
against 31.7 years of anonymity.

IMAGE: “Le Cirque Bleu” by Marc Chagall (1952).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sheikha A. currently lives in Karachi, Pakistan after having moved from the United Arab Emirates and believes the transition has definitely stimulated a different tunnel of thought. With publication credits in magazines such as Red Fez, American Diversity Report, Open Road Review, Mad Swirl, Danse Macabre du Jour, Rose Red Review, The Penmen Review among many others, and several anthologies, she has also authored a poetry collection entitled Spaced, published by Hammer and Anvil Books, available on Kindle. She also edits poetry for eFiction India. Visit her blog www.sheikha82.wordpress.com

field-of-mars-1955
SELF-PORTRAIT
by Kaila Davis

My eyes are one-hundred penny boxes stacked
twenty times in the sky.

My eyes are books with 50 trillion stars
rolling around turning into big money.

I am a school that has wings that can fly
36 miles in the sky.

My dream is like a green and red car
coming down the street.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kaila Davis is a student at Marcus Garvey Academy in Detroit, Michigan.

NOTE: This self-portrait is from the InsideOut Literary Arts Project of Detroit. To learn more, visit insideoutdetroit.org.

IMAGE: “Le Champ de Mars” by Marc Chagall (1955).

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DON’T LET THAT HORSE…
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti 

Don’t let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall’s mother
But he
kept right on
painting
And became famous
And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth
And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin
And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across
And there were no strings
attached
***
“Don’t Let That Horse…” appears in Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s collection These Are My Rivers: New and Selected Poems (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1993), available at Amazon.com.

Painting: “Equestrienne” (detail) by Marc Chagall (!931)