SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Issue
Nine
DIANA RICKARD
Leonora
Leonora stood in the
moonlight
amid serpent-like trees
and we stood frozen
frightened of her green orb
and her tail.
Inside we sorted through
handbags like large birds
took an inventory
of our many possessions.
This was the last day
so close to fire
to a heart dark as the sea.
We divided the eggs
and looked at each other
like strangers
while Leonora waited
with woodsy patience.
I did not want to forget this
but there was a dense vision
inside me
and I knew I would succumb.
How old were we
all those years ago?
What happened to my persona,
to that specific November
breeze, to the soft grass
of my own psychic territory?
amid serpent-like trees
and we stood frozen
frightened of her green orb
and her tail.
Inside we sorted through
handbags like large birds
took an inventory
of our many possessions.
This was the last day
so close to fire
to a heart dark as the sea.
We divided the eggs
and looked at each other
like strangers
while Leonora waited
with woodsy patience.
I did not want to forget this
but there was a dense vision
inside me
and I knew I would succumb.
How old were we
all those years ago?
What happened to my persona,
to that specific November
breeze, to the soft grass
of my own psychic territory?
Meret
The
utopian dream of androgyny packs negative space
with an ugly mustard, straw twigs of hair like my hair.
Whatever you do, do not have babies.
Do not paint six indistinct shapes, playdough
tied to a chain, a giant dust bunny
a suffocating lint cloud.
The anatomy of vocal emptiness is a pastel
stroller behind wire, rumble of branches,
leaves, blurring trunk, chicken-feet limbs that tip on grass
and the belly is a place of rest, a malleable mound
hugging deep sounds and slow moves like the belly of the earth.
I'm a maggot in the face of beauty.
They can't count me. The utopian dream
is a thick charcoal line
and an unmistakable fallopian tube.
My head is teeming with angels, Fiorucci kitsch
curls above spotted attire, flag
of white trees and flimsy pantaloons.
Mud horizon, mud ground, mud hill
oppress tiny people, dark with primordial
woodsy fear. I'm a single lamb
in a bleak landscape flecked
with the cruelty of war and even more mud.
The comedy of death at night
a jumble of bright bones, slithering
silverfish. My eye is moony
and beguiles. It beholds spring,
an April near to me in the creeping shade
just beyond, fashioned with knotty nests,
dented, coiled greens.
with an ugly mustard, straw twigs of hair like my hair.
Whatever you do, do not have babies.
Do not paint six indistinct shapes, playdough
tied to a chain, a giant dust bunny
a suffocating lint cloud.
The anatomy of vocal emptiness is a pastel
stroller behind wire, rumble of branches,
leaves, blurring trunk, chicken-feet limbs that tip on grass
and the belly is a place of rest, a malleable mound
hugging deep sounds and slow moves like the belly of the earth.
I'm a maggot in the face of beauty.
They can't count me. The utopian dream
is a thick charcoal line
and an unmistakable fallopian tube.
My head is teeming with angels, Fiorucci kitsch
curls above spotted attire, flag
of white trees and flimsy pantaloons.
Mud horizon, mud ground, mud hill
oppress tiny people, dark with primordial
woodsy fear. I'm a single lamb
in a bleak landscape flecked
with the cruelty of war and even more mud.
The comedy of death at night
a jumble of bright bones, slithering
silverfish. My eye is moony
and beguiles. It beholds spring,
an April near to me in the creeping shade
just beyond, fashioned with knotty nests,
dented, coiled greens.
Diana Rickard lives in Brooklyn, New York. She is Associate Professor at Borough of Manhattan Community College, CUNY. Her recent poems appear in Across the Margin, The Outrider Review, Mayday, and Streetnotes.
