i sent my poem in for the exhibition. of course the curator had to beg me for it. she even had to use her father's illness and his impending recovery at her home to induce me to submit something. i didn't even write anything new -- that is the sad part. the painting i was assigned was interesting but i just don't seem to have it in me right now. i wish i did. it feels odd. 6 years of intense writing and now -- zippo. ah well.
we had an odd snow this morning-- only the second or third of the winter. the snowflakes were the size of pancakes. seriously they were huge. i've written many poems about this time of year -- the almost spring. the snow drops are blooming in the shade gardens right now. there is something about snow and flowers together that strikes me as sublime. This is a poem by a fellow named Mushika. I adore him.
The Passion of Flies
The hips of a dead Iphigenia
Hide my eyes while I collapse.
A fatigued wind slurs her body,
Lashes ruby after ruby of rain
Strung upon her seized veins.
Behind our naked, coiled limbs
The porcelain sky and the Aegean
Lie outstretched like sexless lovers.
Each beckons in strained silence,
Like two parallel transparent wings.
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