Fountains, Gardens, and the Hunger for More
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)
