Love Song of the New Moon
(after the painting by Paul Klee)
No greater love
does the new moon have
no greater joy
does it feel
than its semblance
on the earth
the ebb and flow of tides
men driven to lunacy
by its secret voice
that speaks in shadows
and disguise.
Horses can fly
like Pegasus planted
in its myth
they canter and soar
among the clouds
on fledgling wings
from their withers
to their toes
they grow
petioles and roots
they fly, they soar
in the garden
of our dreams.
Painted on 21st Street
(after the painting by Helen Frankenthaler)
There are many ghosts walking this street
as if they are alive, barely distinct
from the clouds above and the mortar
between the bricks, they gather at corners
waiting for the lights to change
they window shop, push carriages,
never pass a word, wondering
where they are, have been,
not knowing what the future brings
they wander between their substance
and the mist, and then they disappear
among the decibels
as if they were never there.
Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey. More than 850 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks, as well as in a full-length collection, Parallels: Selected Ekphrastic Poetry, 2009-2012.
(after the painting by Paul Klee)
No greater love
does the new moon have
no greater joy
does it feel
than its semblance
on the earth
the ebb and flow of tides
men driven to lunacy
by its secret voice
that speaks in shadows
and disguise.
Flying Horse Garden
(after the painting by Max Ernst)Horses can fly
like Pegasus planted
in its myth
they canter and soar
among the clouds
on fledgling wings
from their withers
to their toes
they grow
petioles and roots
they fly, they soar
in the garden
of our dreams.
Painted on 21st Street
(after the painting by Helen Frankenthaler)
There are many ghosts walking this street
as if they are alive, barely distinct
from the clouds above and the mortar
between the bricks, they gather at corners
waiting for the lights to change
they window shop, push carriages,
never pass a word, wondering
where they are, have been,
not knowing what the future brings
they wander between their substance
and the mist, and then they disappear
among the decibels
as if they were never there.
Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Neil Ellman writes from New Jersey. More than 850 of his poems, many of which are ekphrastic and written in response to works of modern and contemporary art, appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks, as well as in a full-length collection, Parallels: Selected Ekphrastic Poetry, 2009-2012.
No comments:
Post a Comment