Tag Archives: Marc Chagall

Prosery: There are no birds

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Marc Chagall, “Death”

There are no birds

How do I describe it? It was not like anything. It simply was.

The dragon of war has belched fire everywhere. I tread carefully over rubble and pieces of unknown things–fetid things I cannot name, do not want to recognize. Figures slither and lurk in the shadows. I step away. I think all the beauty is gone from the city. Lilacs release their sweet, wild perfume then bow down. Heavy with rain that is now falling in fat drops, I bow, too, as though to the god of the inevitable. I hear the whispers of ghosts all around me, but it is the living I fear.

I live in a nightmare. “To sleep perchance to dream,” the tragic prince said. But I think there’s little difference now. All the birds have flown away. I wonder if I imagined the lilacs.

Written for dVerse Prosery. This might be part of my series, but I hope it can stand alone. It could be almost any time or place in history. The prompt line to be incorporated within the text is:

“…city lilacs
release their sweet, wild perfume
then bow down, heavy with rain.”
From Helen Dumore’s, “City Lilacs”

Ancient Voices Call

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Marc Chagall

Ancient Voices Call

For Jay

in the after, they are changed—

if becomes when becomes now,
dream-driven by

ancestors’ call from beyond blue,

thousands of tongues, of years,
the together-worship, sing-shots to the Divine–

a fiddler’s notes become a symphony of light,
one seed flowers a meadow, and below–
ancient roots connect, murmur across seas.

My poem from the Oracle.

Above the Vortex

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Marc Chagall, “The Wedding,” 1944

Above the Vortex

And now, time has headed for the horizon
through purple storm clouds, syncopated,
in search of new rhythms.

But this is it now, a marching cadence
led by the pluck of angry voices,
the drums of war–

somewhere, moon music floats
in a waltz,
and dreams of violins

rock me into what was, and what might be,

generations of mothers scream, “Stop!”

I look for pink on blue water, the sun parting
a heavy pewter curtain. The crows watch

as again and again, a fiddle plays notes that
rise in unmeasured beats, circling like gulls seeking
elusive fish–
love and yearning, a repeating coda in an infinite song.

Fragmented thoughts in my poem from the Oracle, who knows everything that is going on now.

In dreams, I flow timeless

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Marc Chagall, The Wedding, 1944

In dreams, I flow timeless

We wanted to be sun-drunk,
lazy as rocks, measuring time in eons

bare skin, the scent of ripe peaches
in the air–

shadows urged tiny storms,
and after, and after

the sky
endless,

the sea still beating time,
the heart to land’s lungs

and we, not rocks,
pulsing, breathing,

dancing to the fiddler’s music,
falling when it stops.

My poem from the Oracle.

The Songs: Sun, Moon, Earth

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Detail of Four Seasons Mosaic by Marc Chagall in Chicago

The Songs: Sun, Moon, Earth

1.
She rises for others, but never as for us–
a long-bowed cello note sustained
as she wakes, red-breasted,
timpani beat the rhythm of the day,
joined by bird-flutes and wind-harps
while she dresses in gold,
she spins light in contrapuntal streams
with shadow rhythm. Our own star,
crowned giver of life and death.

2.

The moon sings with silvery voice,
her soft hums become operatic arias.
Though on her arid surface, men stood,
and watched the Earth rise. Still, but not silent,
no mere satellite, she demands the spotlight
shine on her. Owl-hoots, wolf-howls, rustles
of restless night creatures are percussion to
her melody. But in the morning, she smiles
as three crows call, the trees wave,
and the birds sing her a lullaby.

3.

And here-
we rotate, revolve, reflect in repeated reverberations—
Earth has its own music,
sea-sighs and deep-belly rumbles,
bird-tweets and dog barks, baby-giggles, and lovers’ moans.
Bangs and bombs, birth cries and death-rattles.
But listen as a rooftop fiddler plays
all the color, all the light–
the songs of earth, moon, sun, and stars.

For dVerse. Laura asked us to write poems with three separate stanzas using one of her word choices. Sun, Moon, Earth was the only one that really appealed to me.

Shadows

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Marc Chagall, “The Fiddler,” 1912

Shadows

If shadows me, like a dream
half-remembered

like that moon, that dripped
quicksilver in summer heat, gone,

like the fiddler whose melodies
float from rooftops
and across oceans–

a thousand melodies,
some not yet composed,
but heart-held, waiting.

The Oracle gave me this message very quickly this morning, as the sun was coming up.

Repeated History

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Marc Chagall, Death

Repeated History

In this place,
the mothers speak a bitter, blooded language,
their whispers of why carry through forests
and over mountains to the cool blue seas
they can only picture

but imagine following clouds
in sublime harmony, as if the air breathed
hope

at night they listen for the moon’s song
as she recalls light–

it is there
somewhere in time,
above, beneath, around, floating like
the fiddler’s tune, leading them to sanctuary
in a bright bird-dawn.

The Oracle’s Original set gave me words of doom and violence (but also the moon, fiddle, and light), while the nature set, gave me words of peaceful beauty. Both sets gave me “if.” I thought of Ukraine as I began writing, but also what is going on all over the world as authoritarian rule is growing, and how such things have happened over and over again.

Unanswered Questions

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Marc Chagall, “The Fiddler,” 1912

Unanswered Questions

If hearts can feel joy,
why do theirs not wish it for all?
Tiny objects full of fear, they trust fake wizards,
sing of better times in out-of-tune voices,
and wait endlessly for their gardens to bloom.

Like a dream,
the fiddler plays and the rain stops—
is he man or god?
If the moon shines through the mist,
and the sun lights the sky at dawn, does it matter?

Imagine a bee buried in a frosted world,
would it wake to buzz through fertile fields
in some ever-after cycle of bright blue, gold, and green
to hear the grass rustle and birds sing—
what if?

The Oracle kept giving me stanzas that were separate but not different enough to be a Cadralor. I think these three stanzas work together though.

Behold Peace There

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Marc Chagall, Death

Behold Peace There

Look! There, the blooded death ships sail.
Cry. Recall in dream whispers the mother-roses
once languid, once luscious, now storm-blown
by withering winds—

but sea-gowned blue, the earth revolves,
above, the moon sings,
and the fiddler sprays the night sky
in echoes of the stars,

an exhale—we hear when–
the breath of time
circles with if.

My poem from the Oracle. It’s a collaboration, but the title comes directly from the her.

Say How Spring Soars

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Marc Chagall, La Guerre

Say how spring soars pink-winged
after the storm,
and moonlight whispers dreams
of if
we could or never did,
we urged the sky, believed the lies

of roses. The forest screams
under clouds of rust,

and we must boil water
again
there are no more gardens or birds–
here the red-breasted man flies
and then is still

beneath the blue, endless as time
recalling the diamond sparkle above
is long dead, yet seen and heard,
like the fiddle’s aching notes, a reminder
of sorrow and beauty,
when spring sang in pastel notes of joy
and raised green tendrils to embrace the world.

My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. Yesterday we had a beautiful spring day. Now it’s raining, and we’re expecting some snow and strong wind gusts. Right now a mockingbird is singing outside my window. And the war in Ukraine continues.🌻 There are many organizations trying to get assistance to Ukraine. Please help, if you can. Here is one list. Here is a link to a book of poetry put together by Annick Yerem available for a donation.