Cellar door, a beautiful blend of sound. First two syllables hit high and nascent. The els, ohs, and ours, a lot like a prayer, romance, language, collective memory. Cel, la, dore, hits head, tongue, solar plexus, massages the body from the top down, through spoken word, thy will be done on earth. Susurro and jungfrau. Sphinx and doubloon. The sss is sibilant, the luh a tease. Door is the om-like climax, the deep rush. The D, a light tip of the tongue at first, lips then parted, unsure: the end of R. © Carlos Chagall, 2013
Archive for March, 2013
Love I think has side doors, ways to enter unannounced, behind the main stage, below the orchestra pit. Oh, but to fly down to the center spot from the mezzanine tethered to a taut invisible wire, a nymph dreaming of a midsummer night. But then what? Soliloquy, bow, curtsy? A pas de deux followed by fond adieu? I'm through your cellar window, past sorrow, stumbling over joy in the dark and damp. Overhead, a string, a pullchain of light, evades my touch with each stretch to grasp it. © Carlos Chagall, 2013
Last night when I came into the bedroom,
I turned the light on low. You were asleep
with the most wonderful look on your face.
On your back with your hands drawn to your chin,
your shoulders raised in a shrug, eyes tight,
Duchenne smile, you beheld the marvelous,
cheeks red, lips pursed in amazement, as if
you were witnessing the birth of a star.
I watched you, in the presence of angels,
then I closed the light and raised the blanket,
and cautiously slid in there beside you,
so not to startle, jar your reverie.
I found my place in our nighttime hollow,
sunk in the mattress, you shifted and slid
into orbit along my gravity,
snuggling up warm and long against my back.
We are ancient Mayans drawn on the wall,
in the capsule, awaiting reentry.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
There's a rider on the storm, gallops underground, up on the hill, Père Lachaise. In Montmarte I take it easy, with my easel and I paint, pointillistic in the sun. Fine dots of light float free in photons after noon. on that day: manet monet chagall corbet. Can you tell? I have no clue what arrondissement I'm in. Just a hazy, dizzy mood, this spin ... so absinthe minded. Does everybody smoke here? Well let's be clear, I'm joining you, I'm weak. Giving up my good intentions for you my loves, monique dominique veronique. C'est magnifique! - to be continued -
© Carlos Chagall, 2013 Rider on the Storm Absinthe
The Mona Lisa at the Louvre, is not my favorite girl in that room. It's the bride from the feast at Cana, who sits on the other side. You can hear angels call, feel the spirit move them all, the guests who came to celebrate. I hope I'm not too late. But no one sees her, they all turn their backs, to spy the smile of Lisa. - to be continued -
© Carlos Chagall, 2013 Paolo Veronese – The Wedding at Cana Louvre
Haiku for Betty, from her window in Indy the world comes alive. best wishes for success on your chapbook, Chagall, 2013
Chagall, look! It’s you!
Sebastien Greco pointing to Marc Chagall lithograph on exhibition, 2003, Musee D'Orsay, Paris, France
Alphabet City 