surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Gold Rose
I stood outside watching her. She was standing over the tree, using her left arm to lean closer over the edge of the large arm she was standing on. Her brown curly hair, sundress with beautiful flowers and the small tattoo of an anchor on the back of her calf.
By Aiden Klimov5 years ago in Poets
My Favourite Triangle
I’m holding in my palms a small cup of tea, well it’s a bowl, and small bowl of warm tea, it’s a little too warm, it’s a hot cup of tea, that is a little too hot, I’m sitting holding my tea and watching it lose its steam, I'm watching it evaporate, but it’s not really evaporating, I’m watching it lose itself without really losing itself, I’m holding this bowl of tea, and waiting for it cool, I’m waiting in that watching kind of way, waiting for my hands to take all its warmth, for the tea to stop losing itself, and as I wait, wishing for it to cool, in a gentle wishing way, not really a true wishing, but in a ‘what will be’ kind of way, I look at the painting in front of me and I see a figure appear, I see my mother appear, I have never seen her as such, but as I stare at this painting waiting for my tea to cool, waiting in that non-wishing wishing kind of way, I see my mother, I see her cheekbones, her smile, those tender eyes, I see a sternness, a body that refuses its eyes, I see her in the dress she used to wear, I see her waiting, I see her waiting in a sad kind of way, a waiting with a wishing, but not knowing what she is wishing for, a wishing in a bewildered kind of way, and I see the moonlight shine upon her face, and her eyes remain, lighting themselves with their own light, but her body is deceased, and the moonlight is giving its light, the moonlight is giving its company, and I’m sitting holding this bowl that is still slightly steaming, and I’m looking at the tea, and I’m wishing to taste the tea, this tea I bought last week in that new shop that opened down the road, the one opposite the bakery, and I'm looking at my mother, who looks kind of lost, lost in a grounded kind of way, and I feel she is struggling to breathe, but she has such good posture, such good posture for breath, but I see she is only breathing in moonlight, she is only breathing light, because light is more important than oxygen, because light is our being, not our needing, but she has been starved of light, and breathing in a breathing kind of way is only secondary to breathing in a luminating kind of way, and I feel she is lost, I feel she is lost in a wishing, but her wishing is also lost in itself, and I see the moonlight bounce off her face, and she has such a beautiful face, such a clean face, so pristine, pristine in a morbid and somewhat beautiful kind of way, and I hear an owl outside of the window, and I think it is probably a barn owl, and I am not sure if the owl is in the painting or outside of my living room, and I think the tea must be that perfect warmth to drink now, and so I lift the cup, well its a bowl really, its one of those Japanese bowl type of cups, and I lift it to my lips, and I feel the warm water touch my lips, and I feel a soft joy, like my lips have a knowing, and I pour it into my mouth, and I swirl it around, and I feel the water coax my tongue, well it’s really tea, but tea is mostly water, I feel the water swirl around my mouth, and I kind of taste the moonlight, I kind of feel my skin become moonlight, and I hear the owl, and the owl is in the moonlight, and I swallow the tea, I swallow the water infused with tea, and I feel the moonlight wash down my throat, and I feel it clean my body, I hear the hooting and the moonlight clean my body, I hear the trickling of water, I hear it trickle past my ears as if it were a fountain, and I see the picture of my mother, that is now lighter now that it is glowing, now that it is made of more than forgotten mud, I see her gleaming, I see her enjoy her losing, I see her clean, clean in a breathing kind of way, clean in a way that makes you want to be close to her, and I feel the tea sit in my belly, I feel it looking for the places it wishes to go, and in some way I know the tea is looking for my mother, and in a wishful kind of way, I wish the tea would find my mother, because she is moonlight, and every moon is a little drier than it needs to be, I wish my mother would find her tea, that she would have its knowing, and I look at the painting and I see a blue triangle, and next to it two lines almost touching.
By Ilyas Kassam5 years ago in Poets
A Fever Dream
I died. A long time ago. So why do I still crave the pain of the living? I sit lifeless at the edge. The edge of the bed where you first said you loved me. The edge of my seat when I still think you could still save me. The edge of the sea where we first swam together. The edge of desire when you look at where I used to be.
By Fred Bickle5 years ago in Poets
I'd Rather Be Rare than a Mass Commodity
Odd... Otherworldly... Mysterious... Mystifying... Supernatural... Unreal... The moon encompasses such an aura that in and of itself the absolute captivation of those searching for more than just the surface are drawn to its dark side. The moon is something that can only shine when it reflects light. It is always present, but rarely seen. And for all of its mystifying energy it still brings comfort to those that choose to swim deep.
By Kimberly Deluca5 years ago in Poets
