the poetry of shs
presenting our [ekphrastic poetry] submissions
Train Station
Jeff Rowland |
Standing on the cold platform, watching you go,
Far away. The rigid bottom of the scuffed black shoes hitting the ramp, Taking you away from me. You enter the train, as our eyes met once more. You said you loved me, but you wanted to see the world, So I said go. The bell is rung, by the man who only seems like he wants to go,go,go. The wheels turn and your figure becomes a memory. So long. Tears fall, no feeling left. My feet become their own, and take me to the car. Flabbergasted by your actions, part of me becomes follicles of air. So as you go, I only wish you the best But if you opened your eyes, you would’ve seen you were my world, and maybe I would’ve been yours. |
(Haphazardly tape on)
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Untitled study for Untitled (policeman))
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The Poppy Field near Argenteuil,
Claude Monet (1873) Musée d’Orsay, Paris |
Interior Window of Schloss Kirchberg,
Paul Kauzmann (1874) |
The field is open.
It feels like a dream. A chill in the air. Now I am safe, Running free. The flowers whisper. The trees whisper. I see a door open, A bird flying free. That is my dream, Safe, Floating through the air. There is a chill in the air. I can hear it whisper. Are we safe Out here in the open? In my dream, I felt free. Maybe we are free. I breath in cold air. Maybe it was a dream, Just a whisper. Here in the open, We are safe. |
I am safe
But not free. Outside, I see a parasol open, A bird in the air, And the trees as they whisper. But I can only dream. In my dream, I was safe To whisper. Outside and free, Feeling the cool air, Pushing the doors open. The flowers open. The birds fly through the air. They all want to be free. |
C’est La Meilleure Vie
Come one, come all! It’s the 1880s in Paris Every dream is captured here, vous saisez, Il y a tout! Everybody is coming to the Chat Noir. See, the poster, the display, Le chat perches on the red banner. Look at his bristling fur! The yellow globes of his malevolent eyes, And the curvature of his sarcastic tail, The perk of his whiskers prick the air. Absinthe and abject misery, but oui, C’est la vie, c’est de l’art! All the feelings, here, Look at the dansers, hear the music, Pouring like wine! Le chat, il sait! The tempo swings, can you hear le concert The scents permeate, La Tour thrusts into the sky! See the whirling dress and coquettish eyes, The heady mixture of parfum and smoke (Also piss and cheap beer) See, the cat is fier, proud, His torso elongates and boasts his velvet coat, Claws sharp-edged. Look at his smirk! Le chat noir! |
Le Chat Noir
Théophile Steinlen (1881) Le Chat Noir Collection |
Her fingers trembled gently against the flower’s thin little stem
Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones Because they had punched and kicked until she could no longer cough up phlegm And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones Every other time she had arranged the blooms’s rose cousins, the whites of her teeth shone bright And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones And that the fact her lover might not wake was keeping her up at night Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones Still the blossom heard her heart beating much too fast And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones The pursed lips from the treasured happiness she had thought would last Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones The blossoms she picked out told of her love for her And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Yet it also knew the love for her girlfriend would never deter Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones She would visit the hospital, the flower’s vase in her right hand And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Yet it smiled when it saw, at the bottom of his vase, a slim silver band Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones The blossom saw that she would hate those men until her very last breath And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Because the prejudiced had beat her girlfriend almost to her death The blossom saw that she would hate those men until her very last breath Because they had punched her and kicked until she could no longer cough up phlegm Because the prejudiced had beat her girlfriend almost to her death Her fingers trembled gently against the flower’s thin little stem |
Images beautiful and perfect, melted, reborn into abominations, mere rearranging.
Masterpieces into mixes, art uninteresting. Better, wasn't it – humans, not machines, making art? NO. ART-MAKING MACHINES, NOT HUMANS. IT WASN'T BETTER. UNINTERESTING ART MIXES INTO MASTERPIECES. REARRANGING MERE ABOMINATIONS INTO REBORN, MELTED, PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL IMAGES. |
Fire Escape Collapses
Stanley Forman (1975) |
When I reached the ground,
They say I landed on you. The softness of your Broken flesh slowing my fall. The dust cloaked, choked and settled. I don’t remember, But I dream of falling at night. I wake up so suddenly. Is that maybe what it is, To die? When you hit, was it? What I remember: Momma crying loud for you. A faint impression: You flew down like an angel, Like Icarus piercing earth. Don’t worry, it was Fast and over in a blink. It hurt a litle, But your nightmares drag on, and It’s not like that at all. It’s okay, forget. You don’t have to keep it all, Just take me and you Without everything else, just Us together in the flat. We used to play there, When your Momma was at work. With your plastic truck. I would rumble out vroom, vroom Like your Momma did for me. |