Marilyn

Someone was asking the other day if I'd written any pantoums, so here's one. I think the form, with useful repetition of lines, works well with the subject. The poem is a response to Andy Warhol's Marilyn Diptych, right.

Marilyn

On display like cans of soup

stacked on shelves in a shop

her identical faces screened in silk

fifty images lined up in neat rows

 

stacked as if on shelves in a shop

a branded icon of the movies

fifty images lined up in neat rows

a perfect product of her time

 

a branded icon of the movies

in bright yellow, pink and blue

a perfect product of her time

until her shining star blurs

 

from bright yellow, pink and blue

to slated monotones

until her shining star blurs

as ink smudges over her image

 

to slated monotones

and she is blacked out

as ink smudges over her image

and she fades almost to nothing.

 

She is blacked out

fifty stills of her on the wall

but she fades to almost nothing

a ghosted outline of a movie star.

 

Fifty stills of her fill the wall

but she becomes invisible to us

a ghostly outline of herself.

And she died, just one, alone.

 

 

Leaves and leavings in Carpelan's Shadowland

Carpelan's Shadowland, by Vivi-Mari Carpelan

I was pleased to take part this week in a reading of poetry inspired by some stunning prints in an exhibition at the wonderful Mid-Wales Arts Centre, near Newtown, Powys.

I chose this multilayered image by Vivi-Mari Carpelan to work with, and produced the poem below.

Some 25 poets wrote new work as a result of this exhibition, and their poems can be seen alongside the pictures that inspired them. The show is at Mid-Wales Arts Centre until May 5th, 2019; and will transfer to Aberystwyth Arts Centre later before going on tour to other venues.

Here's my poem from the project:

Leaves and leavings

Her memories are fragments

taken from a wreckage of smashed mirrors,

pieced back together

so that her recollections

are only reflections of each other.

Misremembered pieces

imitate but falsify

and she no longer understands

that what she recalls

are only distorted images.

Layers of shadow on shadow

show that nothing is what it seems –

not in the past or present.

She weaves the spectres

of mis-shapen memories into tapestry

makes a new collage

layer on layer

angular fragment on fragment

and she looks through

a window, but sees

into a twisted looking glass,

her view veiled

by an apparition of herself.

Still she sees leaves,

even among winter bare trees…

leaves and phantoms of leaves,

remembrance of leavings;

and he is there, his silhouette

down there among the gravestones.

She watches where he looks

but whatever he remembers,

whatever he sees,

his memories and recollections

are obscured by light.

For more info about the 'Inspired' exhibition see also: https://www.midwalesarts.org.uk/event.html?id=33

Vivi-Mari's website: http://vivimaricarpelan.com/

Transitory lives

Happy to have this poem published in the March edition of Visual Verse. (Link below)

Transitory lives

If she shakes her hands silver rings will fall

like splashes of water. If she could shake

her hands. Her fingers are traces of smoke,

phantoms in the light of dawn. Once strong, firm,

they’d push back wild hair while her hitch-hiker’s

thumb stood determined to stop all the lads;

and she’d hold onto the motorbike guy,

until the next brief stop in a life on

the move. Now, the skin is transparent. Her

fingers cage a butterfly that trembles

on the soft skin of her palm; fragile wings

flutter in the arch of her gentle grasp.

At 5.23am, a long sigh

escapes her, and at last they fly       free.

Visual Verse: http://visualverse.org/submissions/transitory-lives/

 Image by Tertia Van Rensburg

©2017JackieBiggs

Being watched

Image by Manon Bellet

Pleased to have this poem pubished recently by the lovely ekphrastic anthology Visual Verse (see links at bottom of this post)

Being watched

her chemise
lands in a whisper
        of silk on slate

clear shadows slant on the wall
where afternoon sun finds
       gaps in blinds

       she knows he watches
       so she spins

turns in a whirl
       of sun and shadows

dust motes drift
        her skirts swirl
              and fall

her hands snake in a rhythm
only she can feel

heat pricks her neck
       the blush of her knowing
       shows in her face

and sweat cools
       making a dampness
               on her back




http://visualverse.org/submissions/being-watched/


http://visualverse.org/about-visual-verse/

@visual_verse

Will you bang your head on my wall?

Will you bang your head on my wall?

(in the Rothko Room, Tate Modern, London, January 2016)

Come into my prison,

come

be my guest,

feel what I know.

Spend time in my darkness

among the colours of my night,

here in my place of shades,

where doors are blocked,

no light comes in,

and everything fades.

Will you bang your head on my wall,

or will you see your way?

Do you think, or do you only stare?

There are bars on the window

to keep you safe, but does that mean

there must be something out there?

Do you dare to dwell in my space,

make it your own?

Why don’t you come in,

bring the horrors that you face?

Your mind can take you anywhere –

through walls, closed windows and doors,

but do stay right here,

among my soft maroons and dim lights.

This haven I made for us all

is the perfect place for those lonely nights.

Why would you want to break out of here,

what do you think you would find?

Will you bang your head on my wall?