February 22nd, 2021. HEART

“Out With The Hearts” by Vian Borchert (acrylic on canvas)

– – –

"Mountain Leaves" by M.A.A. 
 carving scripture on the bark
 the next moment it's gone
 lonely words 
 from a lonely son
  
 Why does it tilt like that? Sky bent, like to cover it from rain.
 Underneath lies a pitch-black hold, communion of hooded folk
 as confused as I. They look at newcomers and ask
 "why does it tilt like that?"
  
 hovering around the glimmering stone, man-made tool,
 what use for those wordings?
 it calls each of us one by one, a pyre in the eyes of a fool,
 what use for those telltales?
 gentle curses at the whims of the steppe winds, 
 what use for those empirics?
 tragedy, I tell you, that it only speaks to us in looks,
 what use for those hooks?
 gossiping hearsay of mountain leaves, 
 how come it's dead, yet it moves?
 mammothing visions of burned stone and scythe, 
 dialog with oneself, as large as life
 as wildly immense, each breath wheezes a sigh
 walls gasping for air in this house of maniacs
 they retreat as I approach, 
 I tell them a few things
  
 This globe too, is but a thing sometimes told. Narrators urgently needed, 
 lest we lose the core. A melted continent stood behind the gates.
 Drank it, hear it, reject the approaching Fall - tell it begone!
  
 is there a world after symbols? what happens when they shatter?
 what can one do to make it all matter?
 only after the end, honor enters the frame
 those poems of a failure, now from a legend's pen
 the greatest magic trick to behold - ramblings turn into wisdom
 when the body's no longer around, fleeing mind’s fiefdom
  
 it pumps blood like it pushes the soul, I've had enough of its stare
 passionate glow, yet smells fowl... old and worn out, 
 flailing like reeds, hidden in plain sight, nothing leaks - 
 no matter how much I feed the machine
 it serves no purpose, yet we all stand around and wait
 expect it to provide some comfort, but tell me,
 what sort of pitiful daemon takes no offering,
 promises affection but merely banishes words
 into hells under the tongue; orders a pause, 
 lasting so long, as if there was more to it?
 I looked at them, and they looked at me
 while hovering around the glimmering stone, 
 what is this, then, and why does it care to be,
 wanting to hear stories but remain alone?
 how come nothing that goes by 
 is foreseen? one replied: 
 well, this too, 
 is but a man-made tool
  
 Ultimately there are only two things to live for:
 curiosity and love. When slipping way, must they be projected
 into something called art. No one tells you to get back from the woods;
 make your stay there pleasant. No beacons nor direction, 
 but exposure and errands. Cover your grounds well,
 beware the old inhabitants of the soul -
 hide your heart from them.
  
 I carve scripture on the bark
 it disappears with the same touch
 but must it hurt so much,
 though? 
“Woods” by M.A.A. Photo by Grace B.

– – –

“A Visit” by Yakov Syskov

– – –

"O Heart Do Stop!" by S.J. Saighead
O heart do stop! I know it's the end
I embrace this sure dark as a good friend. 
My vision is fading, my breath escapes,
My Body embraces what the mind shapes. 
A car on the road or some sudden sound
Will jolt this life from where it's bound.
Each hand is shaked, as though fond of a drop
My heart is sore, always threatening to stop. 
Just leave me to rot in my fort polyester
a shell of a human, taken to fester. 
There is nothing to see, nothing to be found
simply a mind untethered, stranger to the ground.

– – –

– – –

"The Shape of My Heart" by Vian Borchert
 The shape of my heart
 had fallen into a square
 a box of a square 
 since your departure 
 My poor heart was hurting
 I felt it failing
 for a second, I even thought
 I’ll have a heart attack
 from a broken heart
 how can this heart 
 be healing
 from such a shock, a hit to the heart
 How this heart has endured
 the games 
 you played
 and the scissors you took
 to cut up shapes in my heart
 I felt it shredded
 my beating heart
 with every beat
 since we fell apart
 How much this heart 
 has endured
 Yet, in its every bit of a frailing state
 It stood strong
 and always open for love
 this open heart! 

– – –

“Mon Coeur” by Athena

– – –

"Flaming Canopy" by Eric Ryan
 Twisted gold tears through my heart,
 Digits shudder, sapphires dart.
 Those sounds cut steel as out they pour,
 A legion of utterings through red door.
 Sparks roll round in graves of stone
 And ashen cloths on frames of bone.
 When beacon's lit and all was done,
 I juggled your fears 'till rose harsh sun. 

– – –

Next exhibition theme: STYLE

Deadline: Midnight, March 7th

Submit at: artisticdifferencesproject@gmail.com

More information under ‘Submissions’ tab

Published by artisticdifferencescurator

My name is Seán and I am the creator and curator of the Artistic Differences Project. I started this project during the lockdown in Ireland due to COVID-19 in March 2020 as a way to get my friends and I creating during a troubling time. From there the project as gone from strength to strength and now we publish a new exhibition every two weeks.

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