Typewriter Poetry: Soul of the Mask, Masquerade Ball Providence

I set up a typewriter table, buddied with artist Aura Lunae at this elegant night of music and art:

Here we are! I sold some zine broadsheets of my new-this-year Cabaret Poem, and my bespoke experiment was titled Soul of the Mask (pose for poetry). People could pose for me their masquerade persona, and I typed them a single poetic line to capture the energy of the moment.

Following, some of the poetry embodied on this night:

Poem: Beauty Spell

Beauty Spell

I once kissed a chameleon’s tail, curled
gently into a soft fiddlehead spiral,
hanging from the thin arm of a bush. It
blushed and ran (or walked quickly) away,
then turned around and watched me. I
brought dead bugs to it once or twice.
I liked its mitten hands.
I have not done it a second time.

[e.l.elasigue / Eva L. Elasigue CC-BY 4.0 Creative Commons]

Poem: Let Me Be Your Ocean, Bold Surfer

Let Me Be Your Ocean, Bold Surfer

I have an idea: you be you,
and I can be the ocean.
Come to me, get excited to see me
Cherish your favorite spots
and take good care of them,
Love me knowing you
can’t keep others from me
Pay close attention to my details
and get me at the right moment.
Bring your friends to see me,
party with me day into night
Respect me when you want me,
like I hold your life
Feel me soft, warm, hard, cold, taste me.
Get into my depths, feel my movement –
add to me your exhilaration,
your courage and smooth grace
Let me give you glory,
make you smile, laugh, scream, and sigh,
then surrender to my complete embrace.
Sit in awe of my beauty when I’m at peace.
Leave me longingly,
when you can’t take any more,
already thinking about the next time
you can do it all again, anew.

[e.l.elasigue / Eva L. Elasigue CC-BY 4.0 Creative Commons]

Tune in closely to hear it amidst the hubbub at the cervecería:

Award: Poem, Stars Framed in Adobe Clay

My poem, “Stars Framed in Adobe Clay”, took a Second Prize in the San Juan County Fair 2018. Yes, the county fair was in August, but I guess I had to wait for the check to arrive. Three Big Ones for a 12-line poem makes me think that at 25-cents a line, I could be equivalent with Walt Whitman’s rate once upon a time, maybe even Wilde or the Brownings! I may fly this to a friendly publication.

IMG_0760

With my novelist line Eva L. Elasigue being pronounced “eva el-el-a-SEE-geh” and my poet line e.l.elasigue reading “ee-el-el-aSEEgeh”, you have permission to try calling me L.L.

Poem: The Process

THE PROCESS

1

I noticed the trail of a snake in the
sand.
I followed it, and it led to water.

Sometimes it feels as if I’m the
only one.
Other times, I feel others dance
when I move, and my voice contains
the power of many others like me.

2

Now I know for sure I’m not alone –
breathless, like just the sight of you
means I’m rescued,
like I’m not the only one left who
came to this world.
If there are two of us to meet,
then I am real, and there are more.

3

Then comes a telling of ourselves:
an occasion for laughter,
the excitement of being together,
the knowledge of all we must do
lightened
just by a glimpse of someone
else
who sees the same thing.

4

Like the dawn through the rain,
at the very moment of the tide’s turn –
a light that reveals the exact same
mountainside with renewed clarity,
as though it sprang forth, somehow,
from my very self standing there,
heart bursting, and wishing.

5

There’s a way home that can be
found,
one foot upon the prow of our vessel.
The illusions are not as deep or
thick as they seem –
see right through the branches
to the meadow beyond,
through the hanging water to the
sunlit land,
and go that way.

6

Now that we are gathered, it’s time:
to swing the lights in procession
to guide others to us, feeling alone
and unknown as we once were – to
raise our voices, so that their own
can resound with the power of
many
others like them.

7

Our own separate paths are still our
own to walk,
those that brought us together in
one place,
those to continue, that take us away
from each other –
but never alone again, thenceforth
having
been together, though through our own
shadowed valleys we carry the
newly shared flame.

8

All we learn, all we bring, from all of us,
is all we have to give. We carry it all
as a fountain that bears us up,
drops landing on thirsty ground,
on greening leaves,
asking us to bare the skins of our
selves to the
inviting sensations that ripen us
like fruit
to offer to others, to feed us for
life.

9

There are flowers in bloom
surrounding me –
in eyes and voices, in the air and
under
my fingers. Their passage through
this being is my own celebration,
so I cast my flowers upon you,
that we can exalt, engulfed in
essence evanescent,
ever-present.

CC-BY 2017 e.l.elasigue

Eva's Poem 2

[broadside artwork by Taylor Seamount, written in the poet’s hand]

This poem is a result of The Octarine Eyes, a pre-release co-creative project for the Subaqueous album, Shatter Spell, released 11/8/2017. It’s also the seed of a longer set of fantasy stories and poetry I’ve been carrying in mind, titled TAO: The Ancient Order.

“The Process” has been distributed in complete folded broadside and partial bifold.

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Creative Commons License
The Process by e.l.elasigue is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://evalisaelasigue.wordpress.com/2017/11/15/poem-the-process/.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://primalspiral.wordpress.com/.

Poem: My Place Is Not Prepared For Me

 

My place is not prepared for me.
Instead I am to carve it from stone with my fists.
My place is not prepared for me.
I must hollow it out of my own belly,
and it must house all.
The road is not ready, the path must be cut,
the hand doesn’t reach, the rope isn’t tied.
I must find my own hand holds.
The legs I walk on are my own,
the feet that tire will be my own,
to hold this piece of sky in my eyes,
for the moment that both persist.

 

e.l.elasigue 2017 (2015)

Poem: Star Dust Scarabs

Star Dust Scarabs

Scarabs cycling star matter from the abyssal ceiling
Light from beneath recognized from above,
a fine spread of spectrum stewarded into continuance
by appointed soldiers of being above, below around outside

To arch, overarch, and cross every path, one can orient
by the trajectory, windspread, ruffles and currential sweeps.
It comes so close at times, suddenly in your clothes,
changing temperatures, opening channels in floods.

Reaching sideways on a level of conviviality,
stacking layers of warmth in joyous combustion
the population’s voices ever arising, staying

 

 

e.l.elasigue 2017 CC-BY-4.0

Poem: Dragonfly

hovering at the barriers
switching planes in shimmering parabolas
like the fool who can see the other side of the mountain
from the bottom
sight lays in hundreds of directions
reflections from elsewhere hitting the disco ball
to follow around the floor
a dance of hundreds
fanning, feathering each other in auroric currents
over the bodies & through the tinies

(plain format version)
e.l.elasigue 2017 CC-BY-4.0