Conversations Overheard in A Virtual Spirit Tent
(A Dadaist Pantoum)
The modern pantoum is a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first. A Dadaist Pantoum incorporates extra stanzas of varying length that will repeat some of the lines from the other stanzas. Additional prose poem/dialogue elements are interspersed with the stanzas.
No, now lost here the rout,
like that sound, Bats will gather –
This property of owls, wings whooshing,
sand – on their laughter’s echo – sits.
Bats in driven photographic Acts,
like stored echoes in the art of icicles,
Each on their own
find meaning,
then sent outward –
this too brings rejection of some things.
Like that sound, Bats will gather –
a rapt audience waiting for meaning.
Sand – on their laughter’s echo – sits
in stillness – waves lap the shore.
“Who, yes, I was … so … so to speak, on the spot.”
“What! I was completely sent.”
“Who shares the art, reflects what I’ve done hotly.”
“What of His Art ? …….. he lost the most important and powerful patron so far. Although it was already known outside Italy,….. and it seems that it was so, even before you left.”
A rapt audience, waiting for meaning,
watches desperate boats reaching towards shore.
In stillness, waves lap the shore
With tears of dead mothers.
Like stored echoes in the art of icicles,
Generations carved from bone and brine
then sent outward –
this too brings rejection of some things.
Watches, desperate boats reaching towards shore –
Pleas call for humanity’s caress,
With the tears of dead mothers –
Sent outward, Each on their own.
“But, what is this property of owls’ wings ? This property is not decreased by the transition of time or the period of free passage over rough waters.
When does this desperate market of lives and families end ? Before or after the photographers have left for other sensational sights ?”
“They refused quickly, spiels of public gaze. Greedy media eyes stood, haunting the ridges, lined up along the dense dark bushes facing the rocky trail.”
“Yes, those Bats will dive for photographic echoes, shopping for lucrative moments to sell on a free information market, break the lull in the season, and make their careers. They call it financially sustainable art working with political necessity.”
“Since when is this the only end of the photograph?”
Pleas call for humanity’s caress,
when all the trees tear up their roots,
Sent outward, Each on their own.
Generations carved from bone and brine.
Generations carved from bone and brine,
test their resolve against sighs for yesterday.
This too brings rejection of some things.
This is the only option, a flea market of souls.
When all the trees tear up their roots,
what country remains ?
Generations, carved from bone and brine,
now depart, desperate leaves take flight.
“And so, … wherever, … but it was empty still, strictly an alternative, to make a direct style, that fell on me.”
“So, Go to the light colour, such as setting … where and when, truth must be presented plainly.”
What country remains ?
Is there life in the common ?
Now depart ! Desperate leaves take flight
for this, this is the only option.
Test their resolve against sighs for yesterday
with barriers of fearful excuses.
This is the only option, a flea market of souls,
a child’s bones for table legs.
Is there life in the common ?
Here the rocky dense bush,
for this, this is the only option,
Dark streets lined with bats.
“You know, she refused an overview of that rapid game. She remembered when her children played.”
“You continue on your way …… so good a day, today. Search for the mood of this season, then you can look to the free market. Before you go, remember, that is not only the most important painting of the important work. We shall share the Commission position.”
The sign was in bold letters, “Photography! Mural Now”. He entered the Bat Dive Shop with trepidation, his purpose as uncertain as an ultrasound image on a rainy day. That alluring career of the free market future was waiting. A Just Cheque, his soul stood at the door.
The Photographer, that was another style, another voice in the corner of his life. Overhead he saw the flowers painting the old hometown. He had received a commission for an altar painting of Servite Monks rowing the Boat of Salvation. He called it “To know before You go!” . In his pocket, the number of that telephone alibi was like a reflector lamp waiting to divert suspicion. Looking around he saw various metal plates.
“Is this just the end of the whole tree?”
“It is, therefore, it is time for the art of Ovid. This season, it is possible and the free market opens the way to success, if not freedom. In particular,….. I have used the resources to paint some of the flowers.”
“Quickly then, because the photo can be white.”
“What? I was completely sent !”
“And that is the only option, or go to the flea market.”
“Where …? What country remains ? It will be tight or indirectly fall on me to do so.”
“They said the tide was low.”
“Such as the Creation, in light and colour … everywhere.
Gives that charm to the day … still … I went too easily to see the cause.”
“Life there in the Fall – down by the grey wall of the sea, perhaps this year they will find a home……..”
Here the rocky dense bush,
Such a creation, in the light, colour …
Dark streets lined with bats,
everywhere, catching time.
With barriers of fearful excuses,
like stored echoes in the art of icicles,
a child’s bones for table legs
brings rejection of some things.
Such a creation, in the light, colour,
like sand – on their laughter’s echo – sits.
Everywhere, catching time,
No, now lost here the rout.
