Inverted Interrobang

Inverted Interrobang
Location
Venezuela
Birthday
December 14
Bio
video / poesía / bilingüe

MY RECENT POSTS

Inverted Interrobang's Links

Salon.com
JULY 5, 2012 3:20AM

Spinnaker Moon ~ (encore)

Rate: 18 Flag

 

image copyright w gentieu

woke today

in the laziness of the day,

with such melancholy in my heart, 

as if I were far...  far out to sea,

blissfully sailing in my sleep,

and practicing in my dreams

the slow reawakening of synapses —

full mercy for what I may have to do,

as I pull the string loose that anchors me here, 

with stardust struck to the charismatic fragrance of dusk,

beneath a spinnaker moon,

and a flattened out ferris wheel of sky —

silenced and alone,

I stand facing an audience that cheers,

from throats that know not

what cancer they are composed of, 

and with language only, I pretend to light my cigarette

suck and flick an ash,

staring up hopelessly at the doomed,

black onyx openings and crystalline specks,  

at the unsettling in-squint of the eyes,

and solipsistic morphemes

that bellow in anguish,

 

through the interstellar glory holes 

 

of mouths and minds — 

 

expressed and consumed, 

I am sailing blissfully in my sleep,

across the ocean’s deep velvety abdomen,

which has a knee bent furtively outward,

pressing it into the gurgle of water, 

until there is nothing, but the tiniest painful whimper,

circling vigilant and unseen, like a ghostly night bird,  

and the flowing, obsequious, intoxicating aroma

of hair fallen before its vacuous eyes,

and the slippery salty sputum,

pure and alabaster

seeping   

 

Spinnaker Moon©2010 w.gentieu

Your tags:

TIP:

Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Recipient's email address:
Personal message (optional):

Your email address:

Comments

Type your comment below:
I needed to find the sailing words, but I knew this was a dream (though awake) about reaching, being carried by the wind before I read them, the journey to the meaning of spinnaker was fascinating and gave even more portent to the poem. I wondered if waking in this state was like feeling the ocean after a day in the waves, right before you fall asleep at night. I somehow hope you don't "have" to do anything but course downward and let the sail bloom.
vela luna llena
tan bella
así plena
amante del viento, del mar, and every sailor ~

thank you for the lift, compa ~

mercy
nanatehay, those are beautiful lines. What was the name of that post?
II just wanted to pass along the video is banned here or some such nonsense however the Waterboys can be found on utube, nice.
in the cafe with 4 minutes left
everything is blurred........................

I´ll be tacking back toward
shore soon

climbing and falling waves
...something more legible from me waits for tomorrow

but until, just in case , from memory! waterboys ~ "this is the sea"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pU00jvfCUJk

(Why is the OSposting/embed html dialogue box not letting me copy or paste anymore, anyone?Spamatozoa?)

Loving everyone's comments, I'll be back to respond, sorry I can't tonight.

¡Saludos, buenas noches ~ amigos y amigas!
encore = repost

*************************
-if poets came with user's manuals... or no?

-how I do (&I) appreciate the few of you here...

*******************************

(sort of a bent leg exegesis, fractured, ha!)


I guess there are things that have followed me,
persistently, through all my peripatetic
nomadism

persisted certain entities,
accompanying me through all my life

...the life.

scraps of language, phrases too.
(materia prima)

appear and stay for a while
...or don't.

I think I've learned to "own" some things
in a certain way

different than the average
1st world child

I suppose (but perhaps, that's a conceit...)
possibly.

animist, I've never "owned" a chair
just sat on them

artful bicycle, a painter, always portrayed
them as a symbol of capture...
constraint,

so beautiful... her genius,
never (I) was one to hold the back of her chair,

nor slide it out from under her.
unsung tho chairs are, also,
with the stored energy
of all the lives and
the arms who
craft them
lifting us
up &
off

the ground. (animist)

I love what of them
I can't possess

time creates them
and wears them away from me.

"woke today..." a scrap of paper, treasured,
scratched in pencil 35 (?) years ago,
awaking dream rita, & a sleeping
reality... in bloom, like a concusion, in bloom

assembled with other scraps of my life, sailing along, often alone... with the mar llena y luna plena catch dos y dos thousands and thousands of glorious miles of earth's Bleue the hours of salty skin,

one sleeps. one must
but one isn't dead sleeping

one goes on feeling, a change in the wind
in the tone it plays on the wire rigging.

the gurgle of water in one's ear
in the hull's drum

these are realities of memory
deeply submerged
in me.

free and drowning in the process
nana

ahogandome en el vaso de agua
with all the water my mouth could hold... palms upturned
like circling birds/ over an empty spot
on the sea’s surface/ where an abandoned bouy forlornly floats/
and the manless boat sails away, spinnaker still set...

the sheets running free.

once, Art somewhere in mid-ocean I awoke (again)
and stepped out into pupil crushing blackness, tomb quiet

and falling face first into the cockpit floor, I bashed my nose,
w/whisky soul song sour and absinthe vertigo,

and I was in the water suddenly (where I definitely shouldn't be!)
sinking, sinking, sinking, but not drowning... curiously

above me was the boats belly it seemed, and the keel,
like an enormous swollen tongue, wagging back and forth,

but I wasn't, upside down, nor overboard,
just confused, the water was ink black with green luminous specks of
phosphorescence that stretched to the horizon three-sixty...

the night sky was ebony, no moon, no nothing,
all the stars, crashed down in the sea.

I stood at the back of the boat that sailed forward ever purposefully,
facing aft watching a fat (tire) plume of electric green phosphorescent light, shooting out from the boats wake maybe two hundred feet astern...

sweet melancholy, the sweetest melancholy ever
just thinking about the rippling curve of the cave from which we emerge

and set to life with a lift and surge on a cool breeze,
blowing words on windy days, breaking sweat in stifling humidity

never doing it justice, but never really lamenting Scarlett or never enough...

¿sabes... sabes que en el río como en la vida, hay corriente oculto, verdad? Deborah straight lines that just touch the curves, tangentially

powerfully, quietly, and mangrove roots to reach out for us, hopefully
but that was the river... two rivers whose waters met and mingled, married briefly...

and what is born from the water will always, eventually, return to life in the sea.

...that is the paradox melancholical femme no? this stone submerged, floating in space? that fish on the dock gasping for breath, drowning in air, as we aswim...

are too, immersed, in all of this, endlessly inscrutable fricassee...


¡Saludos, damas y cabelleros!¡Gente muy fina!
encore = repost

*************************
-if poets came with user's manuals... or no?

-how I do (&I) appreciate the few of you here...

*******************************

(sort of a bent leg exegesis, fractured, ha!)


I guess there are things that have followed me,
persistently, through all my peripatetic
nomadism

persisted certain entities,
accompanying me through all my life

...the life.

scraps of language, phrases too.
(materia prima)

appear and stay for a while
...or don't.

I think I've learned to "own" some things
in a certain way

different than the average
1st world child

I suppose (but perhaps, that's a conceit...)
possibly.

animist, I've never "owned" a chair
just sat on them

artful bicycle, a painter, always portrayed
them as a symbol of capture...
constraint,

so beautiful... her genius,
never (I) was one to hold the back of her chair,

nor slide it out from under her.
unsung tho chairs are, also,
with the stored energy
of all the lives and
the arms who
craft them
lifting us
up &
off

the ground. (animist)

I love what of them
I can't possess

time creates them
and wears them away from me.

"woke today..." a scrap of paper, treasured,
scratched in pencil 35 (?) years ago,
awaking dream rita, & a sleeping
reality... in bloom, like a concussion, in bloom

assembled with other scraps of my life, sailing along, often alone... with the mar llena y luna plena catch dos y dos thousands and thousands of glorious miles of earth's Bleue the hours of salty skin,

one sleeps. one must
but one isn't dead sleeping,

one goes on feeling, a change in the wind’s
tone as it plays on the wire rigging.

the gurgle of water in one's ear
in the hull's drum

these are realities of memory
deeply submerged
in me.

free and drowning in the process
nana

ahogandome en un vaso de agua

all the liquid my mouth could hold... palms upturned
like circling birds/ over an empty spot
on the sea’s surface/ where an abandoned bouy forlornly floats/
and the manless boat sails away,

spinnaker set, the sheets running free....

once, Art somewhere in mid-ocean I awoke (again)
and stepped out into pupil crushing blackness, tomb quiet,

and falling face first into the cockpit floor, I bashed my nose,
w/whisky soul song sour and absinthe vertigo,

and I was in the water suddenly (where I definitely shouldn't be!)
sinking, sinking, sinking, but not drowning... curiously

above me was the boats belly it seemed, and the keel,
like an enormous swollen tongue, wagging back and forth,

but I wasn't, upside down, nor overboard,
just confused, the water was ink black with green luminous specks of
phosphorescence that stretched to the horizon three-sixty...

the night sky was ebony, no moon, no nothing,
all the stars, crashed down in the sea.

I stood at the back of the boat that sailed forward ever purposefully,
facing aft watching a fat (tire) plume of electric green phosphorescent light, shooting out from the boats wake maybe two hundred feet astern...

sweet melancholy, the sweetest melancholy ever
just thinking about the rippling curve of the cave from which we emerge

and set to life with a lift and surge on a cool breeze,
blowing words on windy days, breaking sweat in stifling humidity

never doing it justice, but never really lamenting Scarlett or never enough...

¿sabes... sabes que en el río como en la vida, hay corriente oculto, verdad? Deborah straight lines that just touch the curves, tangentially

powerfully, quietly, and mangrove roots to reach out for us, hopefully
but that was the river... two rivers whose waters met and mingled, married briefly...

and what is born from the water will always, eventually, return to life in the sea.

...that is the paradox melancholical femme no? this stone submerged, floating in space? that fish on the dock gasping for breath, drowning in air, as we aswim...

are too, immersed, in all of this, endlessly inscrutable fricassee...


¡Saludos, damas y cabelleros!¡Gente muy fina!
encore = repost

*************************
-if poets came with user's manuals... or no?

-how I do (&I) appreciate the few of you here...

*******************************

(sort of a bent leg exegesis, fractured, ha!)


I guess there are things that have followed me,
persistently, through all my peripatetic
nomadism

persisted certain entities,
accompanying me through all my life

...the life.

scraps of language, phrases too.
(materia prima)

appear and stay for a while
...or don't.

I think I've learned to "own" some things
in a certain way

different than the average
1st world child

I suppose (but perhaps, that's a conceit...)
possibly.

animist, I've never "owned" a chair
just sat on them

artful bicycle, a painter, always portrayed
them as a symbol of capture...
constraint,

so beautiful... her genius,
never (I) was one to hold the back of her chair,

nor slide it out from under her.
unsung tho chairs are, also,
with the stored energy
of all the lives and
the arms who
craft them
lifting us
up &
off

the ground. (animist)

I love what of them
I can't possess

time creates them
and wears them away from me.

"woke today..." a scrap of paper, treasured,
scratched in pencil 35 (?) years ago,
awaking dream rita, & a sleeping
reality... in bloom, like a concussion, in bloom

assembled with other scraps of my life, sailing along, often alone... with the mar llena y luna plena catch dos y dos thousands and thousands of glorious miles of earth's Bleue the hours of salty skin,

one sleeps. one must
but one isn't dead sleeping,

one goes on feeling, a change in the wind’s
tone as it plays on the wire rigging.

the gurgle of water in one's ear
in the hull's drum

these are realities of memory
deeply submerged
in me.

free and drowning in the process
nana

ahogandome en un vaso de agua

all the liquid my mouth could hold... palms upturned
like circling birds/ over an empty spot
on the sea’s surface/ where an abandoned bouy forlornly floats/
and the manless boat sails away,

spinnaker set, the sheets running free....

once, Art somewhere in mid-ocean I awoke (again)
and stepped out into pupil crushing blackness, tomb quiet,

and falling face first into the cockpit floor, I bashed my nose,
w/whisky soul song sour and absinthe vertigo,

and I was in the water suddenly (where I definitely shouldn't be!)
sinking, sinking, sinking, but not drowning... curiously

above me was the boats belly it seemed, and the keel,
like an enormous swollen tongue, waggling back and forth,

but I wasn't, upside down, nor overboard,
just confused, the water was ink black with green luminous specks of
phosphorescence that stretched to the horizon three-sixty...

the night sky was ebony, no moon, no nothing,
all the stars, crashed down in the sea.

I stood at the back of the boat that sailed forward ever purposefully,
facing aft watching a fat (tire) plume of electric green phosphorescent light, shooting out from the boats wake maybe two hundred feet astern...

sweet melancholy, the sweetest melancholy ever
just thinking about the rippling curve of the cave from which we emerge

and set to life with a lift and surge on a cool breeze,
blowing words on windy days, breaking sweat in stifling humidity

never doing it justice, but never really lamenting Scarlett or never enough...

¿sabes... sabes que en el río como en la vida, hay corriente oculto, verdad? Deborah straight lines that just touch the curves, tangentially

powerfully, quietly, and mangrove roots to reach out for us, hopefully
but that was the river... two rivers whose waters met and mingled, married briefly...

and what is born from the water will always, eventually, return to life in the sea.

...that is the paradox melancholical femme no? this stone submerged, floating in space? that fish on the deck gasping for breath, drowning in air, as we aswim...

are too, immersed, in all of this, endlessly inscrutable fricassee...


¡Saludos, damas y caballeros!¡Gente muy fina!
Loving this comment/prose/poem as much/more (possible?)
my name in a poem.
wondrous this morning, early before the heat. still in the sheets and reading your poems, a dream indeed.
ay rita... poetisa
muy buenos días del sur

where we are in a calmachicha
after la lluvia

with a warm coffee
& your comment
was what got
me going ~
llena boca
corazón rota
(but healed, for now)
sunlight, moonlight caught and held in skin
until sleep (and words)
finally come back to save me

pupil crushing darkness
maybe the only key to being able to see
floating phosphorescence on hidden currents
clinging to curves that only briefly grace the straight lines
E.E.: I'm heartened to have another double vowel with which to explore los barrancos y arroyos of the earth, sea, and mind.

Thank you.


S.S.: Thanks. I'm glad you liked the image.

Lunchlady 2: You're very kind, thank you, they have a similar effect on me, sometimes we write to cure ourselves, you know... as no one else can.

double2: Compenetración es lo que tenemos compa', como la sal y agua salada... ¿Por donde anda ahora, este sacerdote... ?
Brazen: Not sure how much, especially in those waking ones... Thank you.

anna1liese: you were meant to be on this journey, I've no doubt... our sea... everyone's sea... we must keep her clean, and alive...
i may, dear palouse
i just may

saludos poet! ~
L: hello, very gracious of you, and I thank you.
This takes me away, takes my breath away, stuns me with its beauty and depth. Must return for more.
maria: ¡gracias y bienvenida! and visit again, whenever it pleases you.
Comments are now closed.

Inverted Interrobang's Favorites

  1. No relations made yet.