The Fractured Egg #3
the perpetual lovers (gustave moreau & his model/lover)
– for ghibellino
the moss-covered cross
a remnant of you / a now unknown grave
risen & gone never to return again
no matter how hard some believe
& i, enraptured by your arrival
seeing this tomb / the tome / this town
in your hands – making the search
he was buried in the same grave twice
rather 2 different graves
his lover rather – a stolen vault – now identical initials
another secret alphabet kidnapped
another name
yet the same illegitimacy / the pre-nom
his only lover – eternal love – the same principal
the same calligraphy – an opinion – not a fact
no real proof – an earlier death
the scent of body odor – interned like jesus
his body stolen – removed – resurrected
reunited with his lover – her name his crest
his design tattooed in mist on her flesh
her bones – her soul
the storyteller reminds us that this is only a story
[[[[[[[[[[like his own name ]]]]]]]]]]
but that’s another story to cross
another urn to be filled
pilfered – stolen – overturned
our ghosts reside in the hotel of noble existence
& the lovers exist in a painting long disappeared
odd to speculate
normal to imagine or believe
the flame now black – but still decidedly burning.
-Montmartre cemetery paris September 2014
the photos of Roy De Carava @ MoMA – Jam Session
2 boys talking
2 shadow lights
we dark hats hanging from the sky
hotel
speaking street
sitting on corner bench
a couple talking
a subway window
hung with shovels
& moist with hallways
of ketchup
battles
my self-portrait a gaping hole
my graduation from this
intersection
from my adolescence then to my adolescence now
woman – you are my kitchen
i am man baby
stove there in
sewing stairwells
i cook lightshadows
2 talking us smiling not smiling at tables
you are my pot
i am the stew there in
dancing wet branches
are shoulders laughing
embrace shadowlight
without convention
remaining nameless
balloons
i sell you me half/man
/half/man
½ mannequin
scarf half-wrapped
such eggs
eyebrows fruit sack
fruit
such hands
you leave again & again I wish that you would never return
such returns
such hands
a couple of shadow & light
staring
talking
dancing
smiling
half-scarfed
(kissing?)
walking
clasping
hands
counting stripes
wearing gloves
removing gloves
putting hands in pockets
white shadows
darklight
counting stripes
lying down
counting steps
you & i
out of order
daily
trees
resting
why do you
did you
(why did she leave her baby in a tree) ?
mirror split
sun
strolling
advertisements
why did you call?
why did you lock me in the phone booth?
atoms of energy
we talk
you
myself
the action of words
walls
arms
the strong session of jamming into us.
dancing dark cardboard.
garments between friends.
out of fashion
steamers.
sandals
forced shouting freedom
across the
picket.
sun & shade
way up on the silver
fence / we are the tool of color & light
we are the memories that we contain
I love these poems. Both of them. Each one is very invocative of resonating moments in my life. The cemetary in Montmartre is in the vicinity of a neighborhood in Paris where I felt I must have been born for a second time. The entire rest of my life was originated there. Roy DeCarava is one of my favorite photographers. For awhile, I was friends with his wife, Terry, who worked with me as a typesetter. I found out a lot about Roy’s life and how he worked, also his values, both social and artistic. One of the rarest ones.