Archives for posts with tag: Salvador Dali

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Gravity Grateful
by Mark Blickley

Looking down from high places doesn’t bother me at all but when I have to look up at things, like buildings, it makes me nervous cause it feels like some kind of force like a magnet or something is going to pull me up and lift me off the ground which is a lot worse than falling ’cause if you’re falling down you know you’re falling and that’s that but if you get pulled off the ground and lifted into the air you’re not falling, but you could fall at any moment, and there’s no end because if you fall you have to land, but if you’re lifted up it could go on forever and I hate that.

Photo of Dalí Theatre-Museum (Figueres, Catalonia, Spain) by the author (January 2020).

Museum of Salvador Dali

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This past January I visited Barcelona, Spain, with my daughter Deirdre. We rented a car and decided to take a side trip to the Salvador Dalí museum at Figueres, Spain. After viewing the inside of this exquisite museum, I focused on its exterior structure. The photo that appears with my poem is my looking up at a detail of this magnificent building. When we returned to Barcelona, I obsessed over this photo, which resulted in my writing a surreal-tinged prose poem, “Gravity Grateful.”

PHOTO: Dalí Theatre-Museum, Figueres, Spain by Taras Verkhovynets, used by permission.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mark Blickley is a widely published author of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and drama. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His most recent book is his text-based art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin, Dream Streams.

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Waiting for the Butterfly
by Diane Funston

I creep into the butterfly habitat,
dappled with perfume.
Wearing my most colorful,
flower-full blouse.
Ready for filigree butterflies
to cover me.

I stand still as a park statue.
Silent as the pious in prayer.
Occasionally I drift
toward a new feathery squall—
offer myself,
passive altar,
a turned-down bed.

Amazed, I see whorls of wings
flicker and flutter past me,
to settle instead upon
silver-haired shrieking tourists,
corpulent camera man in a sweat-logged suit,
chocolate-smeared children waving their arms,
calling, “Come here, butterfly, come over here.”

I watch amidst chatter and clutter,
silent, scented, open-palmed—
still waiting.

IMAGE: “The Queen of the Butterflies” by Salvador Dali (1951).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Diane Funston splits her time between a home in the mountain town of Tehachapi, California, and the high desert of central Nevada she shares with her soul-mate husband Roger and three boisterous dogs. She has been published in various journals in California and on the East Coast. She is the founder of a weekly poetry group that has been meeting in Tehachapi for over 10 years. She holds a degree in Literature and Writing from CSU San Marcos. She once heard Lawrence Ferlinghetti read in San Diego, and has visited City Lights Bookstore several times. She writes frequently of longing and loss.

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A LOST ECHO
by Sheikha A.

The night haunches on its elbows
and pretends to look towards me,
like a favour bestowed;

he probably doesn’t know of the numerous
times I have pedestalled him by starting
my sentences with ‘this night’.

This night doesn’t know his ego is
gartered to his palsied ability
to respond –

he probably doesn’t know he wears
the crown of Narcissus; unable
to see through simple equations,
sitting by a pool of illusions.

The night doesn’t know he has been traded
for sunlight, (and which is why) summers are
not guests but squatters here;

he probably doesn’t know his (self-assumed)
ingenious tendencies have become gaunt
of amusement for the wing-bearers now.

The night should know shadows
do not reflect in his gold-pecked
mirrors of falsity;

he should know
his broad, muscular back
is too weak to shoulder
my naivety.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The poem is based on Narcissus and Echo. Echo falls in love with Narcissus, who rejects her love — causing her to pine away in the mountains, becoming the echo buried between the rocks. Narcissus, while quenching his thirst from a spring, falls in love with his reflection — and he withers away by the water waiting for his love to embrace him. Myths fascinate me because each holds a story of love that is relatable to our present situations. For instance, in this myth, both loves are unrecognised and unrequited, causing each to turn into an object reflecting the traits of the other — he becomes a flower, and Echo becomes stone.

IMAGE: “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” by Salvador Dalí  (1937).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sheikha A. currently lives in Karachi, Pakistan, after moving there 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, and 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 sheikha82.wordpress.com.

Dali
self-portrait as Salvador Dalí
by Jax NTP

rationing out mistakes, you must devour them slowly,
and you must systematically create confusion — it sets
creativity free. the way a blank book seeks the writer
for a long-term relationship. the Metamorphosis
of Narcissus, the hands cupping a soft-boiled egg,
strangulating sexuality. supported by the privity
of osseous for crutches, the female coccyx exposes
seven tantric drawers — each compartment
is a disambiguation of tikkun olam — how to surrender
the need to know.

emmenez-moi au bout de la terre. il me semble
que la misère — serait moins pénible au soleil.
take me, not the Burning Giraffe, i am the drug.
take me, not the melting Camembert clock,
i am the hallucinogen. the urgency of optical illusions,
the human skull consisting of seven naked women’s bodies.

to preserve my madness from oblivion: there are days
when i think i am going to die from an overdose
of satisfaction. intelligence without ambition
is the Woman with a Head of Roses, Madrid
without the architectural peninsula — where
skeleton ships become men and men become voyages.

false memories are the most authentic. redolent
of nightmares, not dreams, embalm the broken
portico of your heart before delirium plants elephant
on stilts. Language is a source of misunderstanding — forged
in a kiln that cannot go north after summer. act the genius
and you shall become one. if you understand the painting
beforehand, you might as well not paint it.

IMAGE: Salvador Dali with a starfish on the beach in Cadaques, Spain (c.1960).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jax NTP holds an MFA in Creative Writing – Poetry from CSULB. Jax was the former editor-in-chief of RipRap Literary Journal and associate editor of The Fat City Review. Jax has an affinity for jellyfish and polaris and a fetish for miniature succulent terrariums. Visit her at jaxntppoet.tumblr.com.

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A MAN MAY MAKE A REMARK
by Emily Dickinson

A Man may make a Remark—
In itself—a quiet thing
That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark
In dormant nature—lain—

Let us deport—with skill—
Let us discourse—with care—
Powder exists in Charcoal—
Before it exists in Fire.

IMAGE: “The Face of Mae West Which May Be Used as a Surrealist Apartment” by Salvador Dali (1935).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, and lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. . While Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime. It was not until after her death when Lavinia, Dickinson’s younger sister, discovered her cache of poems and the breadth of Dickinson’s work became apparent. A complete collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. She is now considered one of the most important American poets.

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THE LAST SAY
by Victoria McGrath

Though I may not always say it
please know
that you annoy me,
not every minute of every day
but certainly enough that I am glad
to not have to spend another minute
of any day with you, and
 
though I may not always say it
please know
that the difference between “shedule”
and “skedule” is not that one is a timetable
for a bus and the other for a train,
and I could have told you this had you
“espifically arksed” me, and
 
though I may not always say it
please know
that eliminating the creases
from your good dress-shirt
always gave me more satisfaction
than being ravished by you
while ironing it, and
 
though I may not always say it
please know
that I am pleased your current girlfriend
dumped you for a younger model
because even though it’s a cliché
karma really is a bitch
and so, apparently, am I, and
 
though I may not always say it
please know
I really do believe that sometimes
these things need to be said.

PHOTO: “The Mae West Lips Sofa” designed by Salvador Dali (1937).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Victoria McGrath is an emerging poet who lives in country NSW, Australia, and is a graduate of the Australian National University. She has won a number of poetry awards and was shortlisted in 2013 for the prestigious Newcastle Poetry Prize. She has been published widely in journals and anthologies and has performed in a range of events including as featured poet at the Bundanoon Winterfest in 2011 and 2012. A publisher has expressed interest in her first, not quite finished, manuscript.