Carolyn Srygley-Moore-

Surrealism in the Whites of the Eye
 

Surrealism has its place.       The streets of France
the hills     of Colorado.           In New York

we do not tend so much toward dream.           I cling to the briars
in the briar patch             the metal fence with prongs
parethesizing my snowed-down garden.     Pricking fingers.

Cornflowers are blue I believe
as is the sky             come tomorrow.
Eye whites are nearly blue              when one comes close
in combat             the field of war or peace.

They skip arm in arm like little girls on the great playground
drawing circles in the snow with their shoe-tips.

O the dream world leaves the sadness behind
almost.         Not quite.       I dreamt of you last night
walking out on me in the library

of gloom.              The library where soon
shadows will fill the windows            in a stock exchange with light.




Improvisational Ballet
 

Of course they come for all of us.
The proponents of world wars & Waterloo.
The hippopotomus has massive jaws         that can crack the ribs
of any airplane.       They come for each of us
as we lean into the airraid jangling            our hands cupped open.
The Hangedman from tarot twirls on the horizon
with the dual face of janus, spinning.
                 Some speak the book of names
other the tree of life.            What of the graves
piled               one atop the other
in places without name?       I am afraid
there is nothing to be said.
It is all an improvisational ballet
over a field of ice.             I called my father Daddy
but it was a different Daddy        than the one you know.
                                It was a different tree
blooming yellow in marina summer & early forsythia spring.




The Invention of Fire
 

Of course, the torch was dipped in lava
roiling down the valley lilts
& fire was stolen.    Not a vestige of air & ether
Not the revelation of mythdom
But a purchase from the earth. A dollar in the pocket
of the great pole dancer
Her velvet thong.         & the wheel was a fluke
a cougar's hairball      roiling down the valley lilts.
& the work of oxen was revealed.
             Fire & wheels & death
preceding life.        A purchase from the earth
From the great medical table.
At the corner of fifty & Front there is a building
where Hendrix made of iron leans back
as his groin plays electric guitar.
I remember meeting you there         to listen
as I tasted your spit at the back of my throat.
Your not strange      you said        but special.
But my dreams I said
But my dreams.

Carolyn Srygley-Moore lives in Upstate New York with her husband and daughter. Her work has been widely published, and radio or blogzine interviews can be found via Google. She has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best-of-the-Web. Her books Memory Rituals: an Army of Suns and Enough Light on the Dogwood also can be found via google. More work can be found on Carolyn's facebook site. She has two or more books forthcoming in 2012.