Low Lying Clouds In a Pearl Colored Skye~

~"In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine." — Milan Kundera (The Unbearable Lightness of Being)

There was a field outside of Pápa

that coaxed the clouds to ground;

my journey into the sea of poppies was completely unintentional

that late winter day

I was not supposed to find such beauty, for

Wednesdays were usually meant for monsters

but really, they could show up anyday

 

Poppies never bloom in winter

girls are not supposed to bleed so young

joy was as ornery as a stallion about to be broken

and tomorrow did somersaults into yesterdays

until time was a bloated flower

ready to scatter and reseed;

this is how I lived my youngest days

any wonder, I am madder than a hatter in a Belle jar?

 

The day I found the field

rich with a hundred thousand red poppies

seducing clouds out of the skye

I also found the Russian soldier, out of his army coat

looking like any man enjoying a fine day;

but I knew, even so young, that there were no such things

as ‘any man’

and so my approach was wary

curiosity shoved with little fists pressed against floating ribs

 

What a lot of people forget

is that I am not a pigeon made for comfy holes

I was born in a world of mythology stuffed and well kept

under glass in father’s manse

I saluted Lenin and sang his songs

and marched with the rest of the town on May Day

past padlocked churches

to the building with the shiny star

pledge allegiance to communism

here, here!

and cheers

with apricot brandy

 

The soldier recognized my ambiance

over a broad shoulder

a line between his brows

“Your father will be angry. You’re far from home, little girl.”

they all knew father

each one bought

carried in his pocket

but there, that day I hardly heard him

for the scent of dying was thick

the coating of blood on his leather gloves, fresh

and, noticed by little girl mind

cast the somnolent poppies

into a sullen hush

under pearl clouds

 

I once ran into Gypsy Town

hidden like a tarnished brooch at the Northern throat of Papa

night crucified inside shiny black eyes

candles and torches burning the winter out of the air

that’s where I stumbled upon Maria

and the generational secrets

that are as mundane and every day as any man born to sin

with the only difference being

how close to home they murder innocence

 

Blue eyes glancing off red poppies

the dead girl beside the soldier

so white in her naked display

her throat an open dream left unfulfilled;

she was a singer

he was her lover

her killer

in that town

in that year

of 1968

the two were interchangeable

that love thing

that thrill kill thing

 

We left the dead girl in the field

the poppies sighed

was it relief?

I think so

and the soldier was kind enough to remove his bloody gloves

before he took my hand

and walked me under clouds

back to the monsters of Bone Woods

 

My body holds a lot of secrets

My cells contain the scrolls of the inhumane condition

Like poppies

Under the clouds of my pearl bones

 

 

 

copyright:2011vssmd/amusemusepress

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Author's Note

for Kerry's Sunday challenge #2 http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/KERRY%27S-Sunday-Challenge-%232/13815/

Reviews

[LilyT]

Yes, we forget that behind your beauty is the history of a flesh and blood woman who has endured the greatest fires.

What a lot of people forget
is that I am not a pigeon made for comfy holes
I was born in a world of mythology stuffed and well kept
under glass in father’s manse
I saluted Lenin and sang his songs
and marched with the rest of the town on May Day
past padlocked churches
to the building with the shiny star
pledge allegiance to communism
here, here!
and cheers
with apricot brandy


Selene, you sure know how to really get into a heart.

[David W Moore III]

you say things flippantly as if they were nothing. what a lot of people forget is that my heart is a giant ruby that shattered under the hammers blow, would come out just as easily as the time of day. it's as endearing as it is heartbreaking. it would be fascinating if there wasn't a heart beating behind it. (actually you are fascinating, but that's another story!) and i'm not sure i can see the line where mythology ends and reality starts near you. you are, at the same time fragile and strong, brittle and resilient, broken and reformed. and in all that, you are somewhat larger than life. (at least in the virtual world, in real life you probably pick your nose or something. tell me please, that you have some horrible faults hidden behind the pixels!)

[JelliFyshKissUs]

I don't know whether to be in awe of the mystical ability you have to pen such a real story in prismatic hues or to lie your cheek on my bosom and grant some comfort for these monstrous realities that sting behind you lids. Poppies have never been so bloody, so inflamed, so red. But with every breath from your throat they darken and soak through the page. You have my deepest sympathies for the bulbous scars of permanence you carry on your skin. And you have my deepest admiration for wearing them with pride. Deeply moved, dovely.

[Brad]

this whole peice bleeds with reality...

"Blue eyes glancing off red poppies
the dead girl beside the soldier
so white in her naked display
her throat an open dream left unfulfilled;
she was a singer
he was her lover
her killer"

i swear to gad that one made me shiver...

[FireWoman]

These are the stories that I see flashing through my mind as a thought of you bounces into my head. Kaleidoscope memories squeeze through the Coke bottle effect of Pandora to bloom into the book of you. As with each picture of you, I immediately go to the eyes, they tell all with unbelievable grace.

You have the almost extra terrestrial gift of revealing scars in a nonchalant manner, as that was just how it was, no more, no less. Incredible writing!

[Neva Flores Smith - Cha..]

Deeply moving piece, this ghost speaks out still...........

[Bard Constantine]

As ever your experiences with the darker aspects of the human condition are the stuff of fables, especially with the way that you weave your history in such mythological prose. Shivers of dread lie between the lines, darkness gathering in every word...

[Desert Dreamer]

I am deeply moved by this writing...disturbing and yet enlightening somehow.

[Robin]

your story - timeless , ageless , infinite in depth , the lives you have led in your life , this .. a surreal chapter of imagination painted upon the canvas of memories ..

"any wonder I am madder than a hatter in a Belle jar? " beauty in your "madness" and the allusion ..

[Allen Smuckler]

What a vivid, beautiful, disturbingly poignant picture you painted with your words....mesmerizing, really...I really couldn't tell if it was a poem or the beginning chapter to a novel...Either way it worked superbly...
Excellent write, Selena
Allen

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

This had the sadness of memories buried deep within the soul. A distant time remembered and re-lived as thought it were only yesterday. To grow up so young, be forced away from innocence and into the harsh understanding of how cruel people really are. The beautiful notes of nature acted as a great contrast to the human elements.