~*mira ellen putnam*~

who am i

~*mira ellen putnam*~

Here is always this blue and oval island,
Floating on the bottom
Discretely red,
Which is flowered and inhabited by beasts,
all occupied themselves.

There only,
In the last carpet,
The island rises a little,
As if it had become lighter.

She always wears a shape,
A Woman,
In different clothes, but always the same.

Sometimes there is beside her a smaller figure,
A Following:
who are on the island
who are part of the action.
on the left a lion,
and on the right, in clear, the unicorn;
They carry the same banners rising high above them.

Have you seen? Do you want to start with the first?

She feeds the hawk.
The bird is on his gloved hand, moves.
She looks at him and, at the same time, gives her something, plunges her hand into a cup the servant brings her.

On the right, down, on his train, stands a small silky-haired dog who raises his head and hopes he will be remembered. The animals stand with heraldic pride. The arms of their mistress are repeated on their mantles that a beautiful clip floats.

The woman is deeply absorbed in herself.
Pensive, she chooses the color of the next carnation while knotting the previous one.

Behind her, on a bench, is a basket of roses.
But it is useless: this time it is carnations that are necessary. The lion does not take part; but on the right the unicorn understands.

What happened?
Why does the little bunny jump up there, why do we see him jumping right away?
Everything is so troubled.
The lion has nothing to do.
She herself holds the banner, or clings to it?
With the other hand she touched the horn of the unicorn.
Is it mourning?
Can mourning stay upright?
And can a mourning dress be as mute as this?
It's faded in some places.

The island is expanding.
A tent is erected.
Damask blue and flamed with gold.
The animals open it and,
Almost simple in her princely garment,
She advances.
Open a small case:
and now she draws out a chain, a heavy and wonderful jewel that was still locked.

The little dog is sitting near her, elevated, in a place that has been spared.

And did you discover the verse at the top of the tent? You can read: "At my sole wish."

March 31, 2019

You go down to the freshness
In the wet smell of the earth.
There are statues of the Apostles,
friezes, capitals, votive crowns,
A rose of gold.
You take the stairs,
You go into the shadows,
And that's it,
There they are.

They are six.
It's red, blue, yellow, green,
Especially red.
A red that takes your eyes.
They are women on islands:
A great feminine loneliness -
A solitude that looks enchanted.

They are there, all six,
And through this red, this blue, this yellow,
These faces and these archipelagos,
How you jump in the eyes, in an opulent way,
This is the poetry.

You do not really understand what it is,
All that red,
These women's gestures.
Delicacies fly everywhere,
And your head is spinning.
You feel that you will have hours,
Whole days to taste this luxury.
You are looking for the right distance to watch them.

An orange tree, an oak tree,
A pine tree, a bush of holly.
And flowers: roses, forget-me-nots,
Hyacinths, daisies,
Columbines, campanulas,
Thoughts, cares, carnations,
Daisies, violets,
Form a garden of colors.

How open to this abundance?
The descriptions will not be enough.
If you really want to meet them - get in touch -
You will have to go on an adventure
And live the treasure personally.

It is the folds that open desire.
They are the ones who relaunch it.
A very light wind lights up in the night.
The ripples begin.
They seek nothing,
Nothing but the pursuit of themselves
And that wind that makes them exist through time.

A delicate gesture is enough
To invent the body that makes it possible.
Make yourself open to secrecy.
The slit through which your eye embarks
Reveals nothing.
Back and forth folds pass in front of you
Like a flaming hair.
It is the tissue that throbs
And becomes before your eyes a world.

It is said that desire dies to satisfy itself.
It's the contrary.
Desire widens in proportion to its enjoyment.

He opens himself,
More and more,
To what opens in him.

Desire is a success of the body.
It offers him the language of his own fever;
But it is a happy fever.

The great force of desire is modest.
Modesty is its finest intensity,
The one that preserves the violence of desire
And restores its strength.

What do you need to desire-
To join your desire?
A melodic preparation?
A good night's sleep?
A clear blue sky?
A fruitful chance?
A dense and fresh conversation?
Of a body that offers itself?
Of a body that escapes?
A glow in a curtain?
A drop of blood that beads?
The smell of rosemary?

A solitude is made of meetings.
There is one who meets the music,
The one that meets the birds.
The one that meets the flowers.
This meeting give body to the lady.
And, thus, joins her to her own treasure
Which is called desire.