He ploughed the deep
Recesses of his mind,
And sowed the seeds
Of self-analysis.
Fed them with nightmares,
Watered with cold sweat.
And then he harvested
The bleeding flowers,
The poisoned fruit
Ripe in his phantom fields.
Disgustingly voluptuous.
Surreal.
A mere look at them
Is threat to sanity.
The idle crowds stare
Embarrassed by the man
Who vivisects himself
In front of their eyes.
The mind of the artist is seldom fallow; the essense of art is transcribing the whorls of passion found therein into something others can share - or at least stare at, point to and wonder... Well written indeed. Rgds, Ivan
What a wonderfully apt word for Dali..that he 'vivisected' himself 'in front of their eyes! ' I can't think of a single word that fits him better....what a challenge his paintings are, and how well you have expressed it (or him?) . Welcome Back! !
A very powerful, beautifully written piece. Wonderful to see you posting here again. Your eloquence has been missed at poemhunter. Warmest regards, Sandra
An excellent polished piece of writing like all your work, not a word out of place and not a word wasted. It conjures up Dali's paintings beautifully and what a superb ending! Definitely a 10 from me!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Harrowing but compelling. Top-notch imagery. So good to have you back, Julia. Love, Gina.