DREAMMAKER
In
him, we sanguinely invest,
Our
hopes, our untreated vulnerabilities,
He
carries so much, for all of us-
A
glistening ballad of lilac wine,
He is
robed in gold, winged and entombed, by our dreams,
That
we have guilelessly bestowed on him,
Without
uncertainties, or second thoughts.
He
could do with us whatever he wants, or wills, on a whim, with our trust-
He
has all the harnessing power,
He
can replicate us into profusion, or make us disappear into Tahitian pearl
fragments,
Into
dust.
Despite
him holding all the keys, the shamrock, the shackles, we still look up to him!
Searching…
For a
place to leave our benign dreams,
And
he rises, supernal, incorporeal and shining,
Luminescent,
Effervescent,
Ethereal!
He
grows, prospers, blooms and mushrooms-
Holding
boundless space for us all.
Yet
we none of us are equipped or able to concede to ourselves,
That
he, our dreammaker, is a total fraud ...
(An ekphrastic poem after ‘The Star Maker’, a 1995 film, directed by
Giuseppe Tornatore)
in
the city, there are multiple ways to connect and find presence
blunt force
a
brisk morning walk facing the lemon sun,
trauma
an
oat matcha latte with a friend
fawn
listening
to the trill of a blue tit clinging to a filigree tree at the park
hyperarousal
reading
in the tunnels of the train
disengagement
family
brunches, shashuka, mimosa, a cinnamon bun,
intergenerational shame
Visiting
the national portrait gallery
identity confusion
Going
home to a loved one
disunion
While visiting nana as a child, I used to watch her fleshy, jellied
arms, toiling and drumming splittercore beats into pastry, in the midday heat.
Her home was open sands, candid waters, outstretched hands, pretty shadows, the
earth’s crust, and love worn faces tanning on the
porch. Each summer living colour would outshine my monochrome. Hushed and
quiet, we would crowd atop each other like ice cream spoons. Hot breath on our
necks, words in soft whispers, our tummies bubbled and burned.
A
pinch of sea salt,
Red
peppers grill on flames.
A
wish to return.
Aromatic
mangoes, and a golden fistful of pulpy heliophiles, enjoy the tempestuous
popsicle squeeze of the swell. Their ripples of laughter fill the esplanade, as
high helium in birthday balloons. Secrets and seaweed are brought as gifts to
the shoreline, while my head is syncopated jazz, and his bony hands atonal
driftwood.
Broken
glass, low tide,
Sand-soaked
palms, hold small seashells,
Sudden loneliness…
Living scarlet colour contains a spiderweb of graphology. A kaleidoscope
of situations, people purgatories and thoughts. Secrets, bills, lies, birthday
cards. Visa applications, love letters, late letters and divorce papers.
Sealed, stamped, pressed, concealed in brown or fresh cream envelopes.
The
postman comes twice,
His
arms are long and wiry,
He
holds all the words.
Carmella
de Keyser is a prize-winning British poet, known for explorations of identity,
and the liminal spaces of human experience. Founder of the Harlow Circle
of Poetry Stanza, judge for the Harlow Poetry Open, she has two published
chapbooks, and three books are forthcoming, from Hedgehog Press, Alien Buddha
Press, Parlyaree Press and the Seventh Quarry Press.
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