Séraphine de Senlis | A Poem by Titania Starr

Séraphine Louis, L'arbre de Pararadis

Séraphine Louis, L’arbre de Pararadis, Ripolin sur toile, vers 1928-30…….image via Wiki



Séraphine de Senlis


(Seraphine Louis 1864 -1942. French Painter)


Paintings grew out of you like trees.

In glowing light on your knees

You painted each leaf tending over it,

Perfecting it, giving it life,

Singing as you worked, as you painted,

As you planted each tree into the canvas.


The leaves were alive. They had eyes.

They had blood in their veins.

I saw them fluttering about the room,

My room, a century later like butterflies.

Red leaves like feather or flame

Flying through the air birds or fire.


The evenings were yours.

Mixing the alchemic paints,

Turning river reeds and field grasses

Into eye-catching green,

The algae pigment leaves budding

Before your eyes, and those of our Virgin.


Leaves floated from the easel, like in a wind.

My eyes wept. The candles burned.

Hymns splashed from your mouth

Onto the canvas. Into the paints.

The trees grew with the sound of song;

The angels heard it, the trumpets sounded.


From your daytime walks you brought back

The countryside in your eye.

You re-planted each flower in paint;

The white flower like a candle’s halo

Or a saint’s glow. Flowers

Blue with petals like Mary’s garments.


You painted and planted a harvest.

Then the light dimmed, and song ended.

Your thoughts seemed to snap, like twigs.

All the leaves that burned red,

Shone red, now drained of blood.

Your paradisal trees stood shrouded.


© Titania Starr 2010


From A to B. A Poem by Robin Ouzman Hislop

From chaos to drift,
the inhuman landscape,
snatches of music,
ensnared in the fiction,
the inescapable illusion of our being.
The dream returns,
half remembered, half forgotten,
False flick, false form, but falseness close to kin,
From the rubble of artifice,
The wreckage of the day long gone,
But things must go their own way
Reborn as myth from the commotion its left,
Beyond our control,
Where humans must enact their fate
From chaos to drift.
From A to B
stomping between being
it is what it is not
& is not what it is,

the big arsed hairless baboon
from what it’s left to what it will be
A to B the myth of it’s morality,
the memory of what it’s forgotten,
what it should be, at play with the day.
A to B, in the transit shift of the scene,
closes the world where we belong,
without belonging in it all,
at that point beyond fiction,
the nothingness which is everything.
Notes towards a supreme fiction. Wallace Stevens.(italics mine)
Being and Nothingness. John Paul Sartre.(italics mine)


Poetry Life & Times

The Dream Poem and…

He Looked Around

He looked around
as if in a dream
knowing insignificance
and feeling it.
The water still runs
and the sky is still blue but
all of the people in all of the cars in all of the cities
are in his dream,
waiting in line,
dreaming, looking out, walking, running, being.

He throws these words on this page.
These words are dreaming words
on a dreaming page.

On the street in the rain.
The water falls and rushes noisily.

The poet floats like a forgotten leaf
toward the drain.

Eyes by Janet Kuypers | Read by Michael Lee Johnson

eyes poem by Janet Kuypers


Janet Kuypers
started 4/4/15, finished 4/6/15

Growing up,
boys didn’t like me,
kids made fun of me.

I was raised to think
that I was a plain girl,
easily overlooked.

I’d look at my eyes,
the same eyes my dad
thought made me

always look sad,
and wanted to think
that the song

“Brown Eyed Girl”
could have been
about me.

How silly of me.

I should know better.

And maybe that is why

I’ve always loved
blue eyes.
Eyes not like mine.


The eye is a fascinating thing,
it’s beautiful to study,
especially yours…

If I were a biologist,
I’d take high-res photos
of that eye of yours,

maybe magnify it as large
as I could, so I could study it
like a slide under a microscope.

I would search for meaning
in those mesmerizing patches
and shades of that unique blue.


They say science
can explain all,
so maybe it can explain

why I’m so in love
with your eyes, or why
I’m so in love with you.


Eyes are our windows
to the outside world, but
they’re also portals inward,

giving us mere mortals
fleeting glimpses
to who you are inside.

I think our colored irises
floating on an ocean of white,
punctuated with a pupil

were designed that way
so we could follow
each other’s gazes closely.

I’m watching you.

You probably see that.

I hope you’ll watch me too.

Because scientists
have studied the crypts,
pigment dots and furrows

of the eye, and scientists
are now figuring out
that the eye really is

the window to the soul.

So, maybe I was
on the right track

by loving your eyes,
and never wanting
to lose sight of them again.