Focus on Kandinsky’s white dot

 

                    dedicated to Trayvon Martin

 

focus on Kandinsky’s white dot
let the banality of real disappear
the colors like musical chords
the drama of primary
the black on white of keys

the white dot
it makes everything else black
dark holes envelope the whole
the emptiness of space stretching
from your there to my here

artificial constructs of time and space
memories of colors red and yellow
the impact of light on matter
what matter gives up to the eye
what it keeps for itself is black

black the color of all colors
the white dot in the dark whole
the sound of breath inside your head
imagines you are more than a dream
but your there is only a dream

my here nothing but a dreaM
forget the rules of the academy
there are no rules
forget theory of the iconoclasts
remember Einstein was wrong

there is no theory of everything
everything does not exist
the there and the here
the other there’s and other here’s
this earth spinning in a black void

energy moving through void to place
a truck leaves full of blue Buddhas
music born of an inner necessity
the disappearance of self and other
the meaninglessness of there and here
a white dot in the dark whole

published in BorderSenses 19, 2013

kandinsky's white dot

poem in first Yellow Chair Review anthology

 

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Embrujada

she seeks truth in a boy’s flesh

he has none

nothing promised

nothing given

nothing subtle nor redemptive

a flame between her eyes

fire at the tip of a spotted nose

burning bush splinters and ash

disconsolate night gives birth to fate

 

ancient house of cactus and brick

she howls there in the shadows

a starved dog on a hot night

dystopia present tense and here to stay

decay accumulates with every breath

nothing borrowed and nothing new

honest blues buried in the back yard

a stone grave

a brass bowl

an angel carved from a dead tree

her self caught in bad retro porn

The Devil in Miss Jones

no satisfaction to be had

grace and wisdom another myth

 

the only truth found in a drunk tattoo

ugly monkey

frog beauty

frantic ache

sad tequila spit of rain across her face

language no more her gorgeous cloud

no mermaid symphony

no siren song

no wild sweet echoing in the dusk

gentle oasis gone dry too damned fast

his warm flesh now snow cold soon old

a foul shadow left behind to tantalize

time chained and drunk in a pine cave

universe dancing to night’s song

____________________________________

 

 

In 2014, Donna Snyder released two books of poetry, Poemas ante el Catafalco: Grief and Renewal (Chimbarazu Press) and I Am South (Virgogray Press). NeoPoiesis Press will publish The Tongue Has Its Secrets in 2016. She coordinates free weekly workshops for the Tumblewords Project, which she founded in 1995.

Order Yellow Chair Review Anthology

I have two pieces in the new anthology She Rises

I have a poem and an essay in She Rises, a new anthology from Mago Books.

cover of She Rises

cover of She Rises

Available through the publisher Mago Books and through Amazon

My poem The Crisis in Physics in VEXT Magazine, with art by Reiner Langer

http://vextmagazine.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-crisis-in-physics-by-donna-snyder.html?m=1

Einstein’s failed search for the Theory of Everything A truth that mathematically reflects the universe Those poor Platonists so sure that numbers and equations are the true reality behind this pathetic reality we call here and now The ideal realm of which we mere psyches sense nothing but flickers and shadows  Those special minds Their beautiful equations bring us multiplicities  Multiverses and the immensity of black holes’ negativity  A string that leads from this umbilicus mundi to that where sometimes a pipe is not just a pipe And time is not just a moment gone faster than the length of one’s lament

No experiments demonstrate a + b = c because there is no absolute The one thing Einstein could take pleasure in knowing was that he was right about that one thing  But was he really?  Or is it all just psychology, just another construct? That arrow shot from the back seat of the celestial omnibus arrives later than the one liberated from the hood  At once an ornament and a memory
The answers are in the stars after all Relativity’s proof  Like the comparative thickening principle of corn starch or flour from wheat  The difference between pudding and roux  Without the attentive spoon all is scorched  Not even the dogs will eat it  There is no imaginary time when stirring the pot  Once burned it’s done  No way back from black
If Einstein could not solve this problem of the now then even less can I a mathless victim of uncertainty’s principle  I can’t see direction and speed at the same time  I am just one example of indeterminancy  The observer always changes the observed  Ask an honest social scientist if you can find one
Escape from the easy comfort of Ptolemy  Embrace the fact that all truths are truncated  There is no escape from the passing of time
While drunk on youth behind us the mighty all is gone
OHRENSAUSEN 44 ( DAS LEBEN  Anfang oder Ende  Kraft )  by Reiner Langer

OHRENSAUSEN 44 ( DAS LEBEN Anfang oder Ende Kraft )
by Reiner Langer

Surrealist Resurgence; Nouveau’s Midnight Sun

A thoughtful and thorough review of this anthology of 21st century, American Surrealist writers.

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The Fiend

(ed. John Thomas Allen)

The poet John Thomas Allen is on a mission. From reading the introduction to this short but powerful anthology; Nouveau’s Midnight Sun, comes an urgency very unique to 21st Century English language poetry, is it something not seen since the doings inside The Cabaret Voltaire almost a century ago? And it enters the living rooms of a rather sick and ailing western psyche right on time, as far as I can see.

While pictorial art has made many more inroads through the surrealist attack on what was once called ‘the bourgeois mindset’, or ‘culture’, the word, the written arts (that Artaud would not deign to degrade by calling them ‘literary’ or ‘literature’) have always had a much rougher ride, particularly outside of their native (and now ‘ancestral’?) tongue; French. We are children of the surreal, whether we’re aware of it or not.

Nouveau’s Midnight Sun,

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