Hyde Mill (Sandy Ellarson)

#111

They moved the river to build the water wheel,
Then built a wooden race to divert the current.
Sluice opened, stones ground raw grain into meal
For a hundred years, until the old mill was spent.
River turning wheel turning gears turning stone,
A devolution of mechanics all to crush a seed.
The sun burns for years to dry an animal's bones,
And countless gallons of water won't break a reed.
I'm reluctant to approach the mill too closely
(Its ancient timbers are desiccated, ghostly),
Hear its stoppage rasped by the river's relentless
Passage over the shattered race's detritus.
Away from the wreck, a little waterfall churns
Spray, wrack, and spume, and, like time, it burns.

The Image Disappears (Dali)

#110

The first image to disappear
Is a recovered memory,
Now a vanishing Vermeer.
The woman is just scenery,
Like the map and the checkered floor,
Looking out a window or door.
She's pregnant and holds in her hand
A weapon, an artist's stylus.
She's been swallowed by her husband,
Right in front of all of us.
Both of them will disappear,
Because neither is an image,
But an embodiment of fear:
A man and wife erased by rage.

Sita (Odilon Redon)

#109

My dear, your diadem, jewel-encrusted nautilus,
A shield of serried shell and whorled pink, is us,
The gift of a god to expiate his enviousness.
I refused to let even him pin it to your headdress.
I pursue you and your captor, ten-headed Ravana,
Led on by the gems and perfumed scraps of clothing
You drop, leaving a guttering trail I follow,
As word follows word into our future Ramayana.
I know your face, how it won't betray your loathing
A rakshasa's touch, from which blister beetles grow.
Your dark eyes are fixed upon a moonlike ovum,
Wherein our twins will dream of battles to be won.
You know, my love, as well as he, that I will come,
And with his death I'll change the moon into the sun.

American Vultures (Karen Thompson)

#108

The circus train cars abandoned decades ago,
The circuit of America now belongs to vultures,
Who once followed the elephants and clowns
Like starved, yearning runaways, an exiled sideshow.
Now, as then, they only eat the unclean, if pure,
Scraps of disease or murder on the edge of town.
It exasperates them, winging round and round,
With only frowning little girls and unplanted
Trees, shrubs, and ancient sawdust on the ground.
We know that of all fowl we're the most unwanted,
But those tiny birdbaths are simply insulting.
Tattered flesh, the strength of decay, our putrid breath --
From a vulture's field of view nothing can be revolting.
We soar, bubbles of gold, spiraling death.

Note: I purchased this photo collage from Artlink, a local non-profit art gallery in Fort Wayne. The artist, Karen Thompson, is my favorite local artist and I want to thank her, not only for giving me permission to use this image online, but also for providing a digital copy. Her work can be found here.

The Temptation of St. Anthony (Max Ernst)

#107

The source of every dream is temptation.
What lures us from our accepted selves,
What threatens us in its blurred creation,
Is the rank soil the hungry flower delves.
Or do these harpy leers and mutant screams,
(Or, for ordinary men, unknown thighs,
Or being chased, or invisible sighs),
Come from beyond the mind, not being dreams,
(The film of sleep), but visions meant to try
Our faith in reason or reality?
The Saint, tortured by what no man should see,
Expelled the imp, the whore, canker and maw,
By waking up to dismiss all he saw
As a devil's prank. Question is, can we?

The Doctor's Dream (Durer)

#106

Doctors of medicine or learning are equally prone
To slothful napping, succumb to sweetly silken pillows,
Nestling near a cosy stove to warm exhausted bones,
Gone from the universe and prey to the Devil's bellows.
A Venus dreamed can be rationalized as a patient
Appealing for mercy: "Touch me, cure me, oh, please relent!"
The rotting apple she leaves him is sufficient payment.
When Cupid walks on stilts he has no hands free for arrow
And bow, no desire to quicken desire, to speed blood's flow
To love's wound, or, is he the Doctor telling Venus, "No?"
So, the Devil's vapors have failed to stir the Doctor's lust,
And Venus has not tempted him with naked hips to thrust.
Virtue doesn't make one happy, the Doctor's frown suggests.
He's miserable dreaming the goddess's impish breasts.

I See Again In Memory My Dear Udnie (Francis Picabia)

#105

The petal of the first flower we loved
Invited us to come nearer and touch
Its iridescent flesh, waxy and grooved,
To breathe what it exhaled, but not too much.
In time we learned to pluck it up and pull
It apart to make rhymes or to annul
The vow implicit in adoration
Of what soon fades by adulteration.
My Dear Udnie, I remember well your
Arms folded, legs crossed, and insistent tongue,
Your offered throat, and your eyes, green and long,
But your exploded image I cannot restore.
You are, somewhere, no more a torn petal,
While I see scraps of paper and metal.