GREYSHADOW'S #41 (the artist of the week is back)

Feb 14, 201412 min read

Deviation Actions

Exnihilo-nihil

Published: Feb 14, 2014

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Music of the week / month :

EUSTACHE DU CAURROY

Pavane pour le Roy / Pavane for the King

OPENING SONG: REQUIEM OF FRENCH KINGS IN RENAISSANCE - A MASTERPIECE!

Fine English Poetry

Variations on a Theme of Persephone“Words, words, words.” – Hamlet
i.
All I knew then were ghosts. Her body
an excuse, pale and stripped in the vague
gray-white. Second-hand sheets. The room wet
with winter, the window she could not force
closed. One mosquito, wailing. When she tried
to date, it was Tantalus clawing for a low
vine. It was her mother’s halo. She existed
in what would not die around her. I like you because
you’re a smoker, she said. I bit her lip and sighed
ii.
exhaust. Her body numbered
inside itself what was not
her. She woke here from a Kindly
One’s chemo dream. Edith
Hamilton played my
garden for diamonds,
said Persephone would discover
nothing grew up in this dark. The hanging
ivy plated silver. The poppy-red
rubies snarled, shades of mountain
lobelia, azalea on stone. But the thick
iii.
skin of the pomegranate that broke
inside her mouth – that swelled
from somewhere. All I knew was flesh
goes to flesh, dust to dust, that the apples
came from somewher BEYOND THE CEMETARY GATESI stood outside the cemetary gate
and rattled the bones of the Darkness,
I pleaded with her to let me in before
I faded away into something other than
a beautiful decay, at last she sighed
and opened with a creak, scattering
the softest black petals on the ground
to cushion my bare feet-but I still
cut myself with a momentary disharmonious
thought, so she bejeweled me in the Silence
she exhaled, I traded Reason for Reverie
and wished for a Measure of Magic to crawl
under my skin and exhume the relics that
hid there, I shed veil after malformed veil,
I left my mortality a disheveled mess on
the ground, at last I was naked as a Dream,
so I gathered the mist about me and waited...
waited for my haunting to begin and the
dead to make me one of their own.
December 12-13, 2013
© Jewel MoonSilver Knight - All Rights Reserved. DuskCrowning glory aflame,
a golden Queen
surveys
Jeweled ladies
revel in the coming
of night.

Fine Photos

Belle et bonne poésie Françoise

XIJ'ai atteint la rive des mirages,
Et je les laisse
Déverser sur moi,
Émerveillée
Leurs vivantes éclaboussures.
J'ai atteint la rive des mirages
Et je les regarde,
Et je vous découvre, ébahie,
A travers ces yeux qui vous aiment,
Qui vous aiment, et qui vous aiment encore...
Ils sont là, ces mirages, tout près
Ils m'enlacent les veines, insidieux
De leurs nuances blêmes
- Flous qui déguisent
Le danger de vos charmes.
Ils sont là, ces mirages, si près
Qu'un pas, une pensée
M'y jetteraient -
Mais en votre nom je lutte
Pour ne point profaner
Cette frontière
EP 200114 2003

L AutreJe ne suis qu’une ombre de passage,
Une brume vite dissipée.
Je m’évapore, triste mirage
D’un fantôme malmené.
Perdue dans le ressac du temps,
Plus qu’un nom oublié,
Par la mémoire érodé.
Réduite à néant.
Vague souvenir
Léger d’avenir,
Empreinte effacée.
Egarée.

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Fine Surprises

Fine haikus//eastern//short texts

yawn of firedo not
wake the dragon
you placed
the wisdom pearl
there anyway *Unforgettable*Apparition
Alive with memories
Haunting sadness.
2014 Delice1941
6th February2014 HaikuWriMo - Bonemealfamily dinners
continue after burial SodadeQui deviendrais-je?
Elle me parle de toi
La Nostalgie CCLXXIthe gate frozen open
still no one comes
- winter moon

Artis of the week - the return

Today, for this great return.... Our dear Rachel is the artist of the week/month! Coming from USA, a true rose of the south, able to speak with the stars. If you don't know her... read. Now.

My favorites:

"France, mère des arts, des armes et des lois,
Tu m'as nourri longtemps du lait de ta mamelle :
Ores, comme un agneau qui sa nourrice appelle,
Je remplis de ton nom les antres et les bois.

Si tu m'as pour enfant avoué quelquefois,
Que ne me réponds-tu maintenant, ô cruelle ?
France, France, réponds à ma triste querelle.
Mais nul, sinon Écho, ne répond à ma voix.

Entre les loups cruels j'erre parmi la plaine,
Je sens venir l'hiver, de qui la froide haleine
D'une tremblante horreur fait hérisser ma peau.

Las, tes autres agneaux n'ont faute de pâture,
Ils ne craignent le loup, le vent ni la froidure :
Si ne suis-je pourtant le pire du troupeau."

Joachim du Bellay (1522-1560)

I'm not dead - yet- // see you....