From the moment we are born, we learn an inexorable truth: one day we are going to die, and as we grow older, we get to experience the contraries that often afflict our existence. We have a tendency to fight what we consider negative, and many of us become blind to the fact that without darkness, there is no light. To many of us it takes some time to realize that we have a choice between resisting and losing the battle to what is an unavoidable part of our existence and accepting the darkest moments in life and gaining perspective and wisdom that will lead to enlightenment. Inspired by works of visual art, The Valley of Your Life explores ways in which darkness co-exists with light and enriches the human experience. It embarks us on a journey from the desert to the valley of our lives through the vessel of the poetic word.
From the moment we are born, we learn an inexorable truth: one day we are going to die, and as we grow older, we get to experience the contraries that often afflict our existence. We have a tendency to fight what we consider negative, and many of us become blind to the fact that without darkness, there is no light. To many of us it takes some time to realize that we have a choice between resisting and losing the battle to what is an unavoidable part of our existence and accepting the darkest moments in life and gaining perspective and wisdom that will lead to enlightenment. Inspired by works of visual art, The Valley of Your Life explores ways in which darkness co-exists with light and enriches the human experience. It embarks us on a journey from the desert to the valley of our lives through the vessel of the poetic word.
The Writer, the Enchanter
I like to touch
the hearts of the crowds, hold
their eyes, awed at my juggling
of words,
small balls of light circling around my head
like some stardust. I practice
my magic for those who walk by daylight
but are asleep. Robed
in the same cloak, they share
the need to wake, to see
that life is more
than an office, a desk and a laptop, bank notes,
ibuprofen, valium, clearance items, BMWs, diets, feasts, an orgasm.
I give them a gleam of my light in hope they realize
that their experiences, their feelings are unlike
mine, unlike others’, that we all
can be writers of our lives.
The Juggler (The Magician), by Remedios Varo (1956)
My Fantasy Garden
My garden must be as colorful as Miró’s,
that pale blue of a cloudless sky
that kisses the sloppy ground of perfect green, red grass
that never dies, the canvas for each living creature,
with its concentric flowers,
each circle a color of orange, dark or light green,
yellow, red, blue, or black, flowers
that never trigger itchy eyes, runny noses, or a marathon of sneezes,
with lingering floral scents,
without insects that sting and bite and turn
the skin of my legs and arms into a land of little volcanoes erupting
with pus and angry red,
with harmless unnamed critters: the snake-
like caterpillar with pink face and black wavy body,
the half-chicken-half-dove bird
with rosy chest,
the exceedingly tall ant with checkered
abdomen and black thorax as if wearing a winged silk shawl,
the peacock-and-ostrich as one, shaped
like two quavers—a musical touch,
the funnel-faced parrot reaching for the star
of the garden,
and feelers, lots of feelers,
so much needed to connect
with others and remind us not to step
out-of-bounds.
The Garden, by Joan Miró (1925)
Eternal Desire
Take me to that place where time
stands still and sunlight scatters
across the sky through cosmic dust
while we are bathed i n
g o l d e n
r a i n.
Lock me in your manly embrace,
then throw the key into the abyss below
my feet.
Ground me in the patch
of wildflowers, grassy as we kneel, wrapped
in a bubble of eternity.
Kiss me until your lips
have covered my body, north
to
south,
west to east.
Let your vertical
rec
t an
gles
merge with
my
les ci
rc
in an
e x p
l o s
i o no f
g o
l d
The Kiss by Gutav Klimt (1907 or 1908)
Chameleoning My Way to You
If granted a superpower, I would blend into the grey
leather of your car seats, the brown nylon of your studio
carpet, the stainless steel door of your refrigerator,
your bedroom’s wallpaper, blue
with red nine-petal flowers,
so that I could know
the ground your feet trod,
your new work projects, your
latest cravings. I wonder if you still dread
Sundays, if your drawing hands silence
the voice of your anger, if you sleep naked, your body heat
stirring my embers, the taste of your skin lingering beneath my tongue.
Linger, by James Bullough (2020)
Spinning Yarn
My fountain is dry, lost in the confines
of the empty hallways of mis entrañas.
Death surrounds me: an old carpet, fading
like the green in a dead patch of grass.
Ceiling, walls, mantelpiece, chairs, all
are covered in dying moss.
Help me find my water, mi musa amada.
Pull some life from me with your magic thread,
the singing birds de la luz, del amor, de la paz.
Guide them through to the outside
world, the breeze brushing the curtains apart.
Let them see your earthy skin touched
only by the green of your spring-leaf gown, your
waist-long hair, lit by the fire of Apollo. Show me
the way back to the garden of unending words.
Dead Leaves (Les Feuilles Mortes), by Remedios Varo (1956)
Feeling Alive
What is life without the storm,
the dark veil covering
the blue sky, like smoke
eating up the oxygen
in a room on fire,
the bolt of lightning followed
by the scream of thunder?
What is life without the geyser
bursting energy into the air
burning the soil
around my feet
and the feet that dare
to come after me?
What is life without the wording and the words,
the fleshand bones
of thoughts roaring in my head,
then, uttered,
shooting
blood up
and down the body?
What is life without the dance and the dancer
propelled by the heat
of one body against another,
the love and the lover
two people,
one heart
pumping at once,
the clap that keeps me tapping
and the clapper?
Dance of Passion, by Michelle Constantine (2012)
Poetry, like art, is subjective. That being said, I was reminded of a term learned in one of my high school English classes. The poems throughout this book encapsulate ekphrastic poetry at its best!
My favorite poems are those that align with a corresponding art piece showcased within the book's pages. Seeing the poetry side-by-side with the masterpiece that inspired it completes the picture. Not having each poem correlated with its art piece was a missed opportunity. Having to look up specific artwork I wasn't familiar with on my laptop and toggling back and forth between the art and the poetry didn't make for an ideal experiential read.
Another thing that could have been included to make this poetry collection more complete would have been an introduction, if known, of the artist's intention behind their work. Coupled with an image of the masterpiece, this would have made the poetry a far more well-rounded offering when reading through the poet's interpretation. Were the artist and poet's offerings aligned or diametrically different? I'd be interested to know.
Finally, this particular collection of slim-volume poetry ends on a note that I suppose could be seen as complete by some but, for me, was a glimpse of the valley of the shadow of death. That's not really what I was hoping to be left with. Although the last poem expressed that we should live our lives and that the comforting presence of our loved ones remains near, I didn't find this inspirational or motivational. It is much better to end on a far more positive note, without being tethered to melancholy, which would lead me and others to try writing ekphrastic poetry for ourselves than ending on a note of death that will inevitably come for us all.
Despite the above critiques, the poetry in "The Valley of Your Life" is easy to read but not trite; it is not layered but intriguing and enveloping. This poet's writing style is smooth, intelligent, and honest, and it honors the master artists and their masterpieces, creating a sensational experience overall.
To attend an event where you had this poet's poetry framed and displayed next to prints of the works that inspired the words is one I would be present for! Art museums should consider incorporating this, if they have yet to do so, not only with this poet but with other ekphrastic poets worldwide.