picture in picture (20171010)

i look at a photograph
a woman with short, curly hair
stands in front of a window
holding her phone up
as if she is taking a picture

i half close my eyes
aqueous images
parade across my vision
all specimens for inspection
under a microscope

one transforms into a jet
slides from right to left
top to bottom

it looks like she is taking a photo
while a plane descends erratically
behind her back
the crash inevitable

i take a mental picture of her
her hair is short and curly
the window in front of her
is closed
she is trapped between
a plane
and a plane
pressed between dimensions

her picture
is a picture of a window
that is closed

her hair is curly
it descends erratically
inevitably crashing
against the nape of her neck

she is a specimen for inspection
under a microscope

the message is the medium (poem 20160519)


ignored by meandering seabirds
thrusting beaks into retreating waves
the bottle sat sealed

the occupant
a cylinder of paper rolled
into a tight tube
the way a child would
form a makeshift telescope

no ethereal genie ready to escape
in a plume of silver smoke
no trio of wishes to be granted
by pulling the cork

only paper

paper and words written inside
so that the tube must be unrolled
and held up to the light

do not forget
do not forget
but please
do not remember


Jane Dougherty Writes
Poetry challenge #31: Message in a bottle

Poem 20150405

Day five’s challenge from #NaPoWriMo:

Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it!

Ok, here’s the original, lifted from the Poetry Foundation’s website. Picked at random, as in, i had my eyes closed.

I would not paint — a picture — (348)
I would not paint — a picture —
I’d rather be the One
It’s bright impossibility
To dwell — delicious — on —
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare — celestial — stir —
Evokes so sweet a torment —
Such sumptuous — Despair —

I would not talk, like Cornets —
I’d rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings —
And out, and easy on —
Through Villages of Ether —
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal —
The pier to my Pontoon —

Nor would I be a Poet —
It’s finer — Own the Ear —
Enamored — impotent — content —
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts — of Melody!

Now, mine:

i would not paint a portrait
i mean, what’s the point
i don’t have the skills
to capture a living spark in oils
and anyway
my hands shake whenever you come near me
and my pictures look like they were done
by a child
not paying attention

i’d rather be the one to be painted
why not want that for myself
it’s a bright impossibility
that will never really
be mine
but to dwell delicious on the idea
is a fine taste in my mouth

i wonder how the fingers will feel
holding the brush
mixing the palette
wielding the knife
cutting through layers of paint
cutting through layers of me
scraping the canvas
to get to the bottom of things
to get to the bottom of me

to tear open the sky and glimpse
that rare celestial clockwork
a sweet torment
a sumptuous despair