Long Dali Poems
Long Dali Poems. Below are the most popular long Dali by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dali poems by poem length and keyword.
Standing in front of this enormous masterpiece,
Seeing his life story as the layers release.
I wasn’t warned to expect a wonder so rare.
I guess I expected a melting clock here or there.
Venus di Milo inspired his hallucinating toreador.
Dali features her likeness fourteen times or more.
Three of the statuesque figures are full life size.
The painting is over twelve feet high, quite a surprise.
For his toreador with all the masculine strength of Spain.
He chose a goddess of feminine beauty not in vane.
Encompassed in her body is the face of the toreador.
His cream shirt and the button to hold it, as placed before.
The toreador’s green tie fits neatly into place.
Flies marching in straight lines, his hat they retrace.
A splash of color and patterns depict his suit of lights,
The bull exploding through his cape is in our sights.
A Dalmatian dog, its head down to the ground.
Is in what would seem light flickering all around.
And a tiny portrait of Dali as a boy is to the dog’s right.
Dali’s wife is in a cameo top left, she hates the bull fight.
His whole painting is the bull fighting arena to engage.
The magnificent toreador is resplendent in center stage.
The color and flow of the scene being artfully set.
Such hallucinations and even more to be found yet.
Venus is so cold and sedate, the flamboyant toreador.
Swishing his giant cape masterfully the crowd adore.
He shows the banderillos used to taunt the bull.
Blood shows as blue and the bullfight is here to its full.
Could it be ironic a swarm of Girona flies once deterred a fight.
Yet as strong as the bull is, it can do nothing to escape its plight?
An Internet Handshake
She reluctantly closed the book,
locking the painting back inside her mind,
then a sudden frisson of emotion,
another surreal-reveal moment,
and her smile was flint; lips unmoving
as slices of memory were being served…cold.
The relationship began with an Internet handshake
and a few engaging discoveries about each other.
It developed weekly, daily via the telephone,
stretching from Whitefish, Montana to Dover in Kent.
Initially, they felt distanced from each other
but soon they were emotionally in the next room.
A month later, in London, they met,
a spill of nervousness, a thrill of emotions
and that night jazz developed their relationship,
an allegro rhythm which rose to a presto beat
and then ‘hey presto’ they were moving in together.
He, a job in London; she followed, as did their marriage.
The months hustled by, the clock ticked relentlessly
but their allegro rhythm slackened, slowed to adagio.
Then gradually he began to control, to criticize
and, on one occasion, even bully with bruises.
It pleasured him, darkened him, reminded him
and slowly he began to feast on it.
But he hadn’t noticed that someone else had moved in!
The artist, Salvador Dali, had slipped into her imagination
and had decided to settle, to stay, to simmer.
So now the surreal had entered their relationship
but what he did note was the tickling cough again
and the spit of pain, occasionally scoring his stomach.
Preparing the evening meal, she felt for the perfumed bottle
caressing its curved edges she flushed with excitement,
soon she was adding seasoned drops of Aqua Tofana,
those special ingredients: arsenic, lead and belladonna
and she slyly sed at the irony of the situation.
He thought HE was the power and SHE knew he wasn’t!
Very soon now she was to be a widow…..a black one
but she knew she wouldn’t cry, she’d been disconnected,
and after all, she was now an expert in death.
She thought once again of the book, the painting,
the Salvador Dali image - Death Outside the Head
and then of the enduring journey of her subconscious.
Ian Souter Nov, 2024
Like ‘Nevermore’ sketched into water by Salvador Dali
Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
Or Michaelangelo his genius wild, cutting a lady less forlorn
With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
Oddyseus’ raft might have hurried home
Had it not been for the Sirens’ mercurial foam
Everyman distracted, with each passing year
And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
Or gaining knowable time season upon season
Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid
When fools or king’s would rush in where others feared
Bombs fired all round and their people were seared
In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron’s clowns
In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows’ night
In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight
Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
From what source the endless folly
With each generation aimless proceeding
And substantial hope forever receding
How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
And no real horizon to fill one’s soul tomorrow
Each city above ground falling in on itself
A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow
Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
While some chanced Paris instead
Without casting runes or checking their head
To hence or from where it could not matter
On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
None could fathom true nature’s curse, or pay it any mind
THROUGH THE STORM...
Strange fruits no longer hang
from trees; they’re boxed and stored:
seeds left behind lie rotting in blood soaked streets.
Yet we have overcome the poverty of spirit
and still march in solidarity with a world imbued
with the blankets of fear and bleak confusion of purpose.
Today, the circadian rhythms of time weave us together
breaking bartered bleak silence of moral purpose
eviscerated by deceit: crusades and jihads are not the lessons
of the Shamans, Gandhi, Martin and Malcolm (Imam); nor what the Dali
and Pope would wish upon the human race. No! Let's not be victims
of the acid of despair; neither of the venom of those who say they don’t care:
Rest assured Brothers and Sister of the world, the time of martyrs
will not be bastardized; the blooded juice of strange fruits
will not be comprised; nor their seeds eradicated.
While sitting, standing, shouting and marching
along the river banks of history, there's no dam of injustice
the blood flowing waters of liberty cannot and will not overcome.
Though our feet be tired and our souls be weary,
let the world continue the prophet's march...marching
through the howling winds of pain---the jostling storms
of adversity...our faith stamping out the whirlwind of despair;
our bruised hearts stirring up warm breezes of spiraling hope:
nourishing bleeding wombs of peace, love and unity.
HER WONDERFUL MOTHER NATURE
Once upon her entering and exiting
Her comings and goings
Groceries, gym or mall
Mother Nature made the mirrors love her
All-knowing reflection,
No adjustments needed...
Please...not one correction
Causing confusion, she's unflawed
Everywhere, in every room, claiming, stealing all attention
Gorgeous green eyed-snake women start hissing,
Salivating, half-dog half-men, jaws stuck, stalled
Remember her...Oh, don't they all?
She and I, sometimes engage in
A carefully unscripted conversation
And so from mine own imagination...I will share
She leaves the world, with rare...souvenirs
Letting us know she was near
A trace of her intimidating yet inviting, invisible scent
Where her valuable diamond time was spent
But none free to spare
A lost, left behind, strand of hair
A walking razor
Her shadow click-clacks in,
Legs, classily crossed ladylike, saddled that lucky chair
Sipped only a pair of cocktails,
Her figure a musical note, a cursive signature,
Her FORM flows, dips smooth and full
Stunning, so easily capturing us all
Her smile, does accurately spell
The wonderful definition of the word Beautiful...
Look her up in the dictionary my friend
For she is a non-fictional woman
Strong-her world has gravitational pull you apart
Aquarius without a speck of ugliness
In February she effortlessly
Valentines a fool's heart
Can never look messily
That is quite improbably, an impossibility
Surreally painted together perfectly
Like a Dali nude canvass on art,
Breathing...responding...moving
Wonderful Mother Nature, knew exactly what she was doing
Marvelously done, on her part.
REALITIES ?
I feel like an image in a Salvador Dali, painting.
Dripping off the edges of a surrealistic reality.
The Dream, - She has left me behind - a nightmare.
My spirit in an altered state of reality.
Reality melting all around, within me.
My life's clock ticking away, running out of time.
I find myself among those wretched Souls,
Screaming Souls, huddled together in mass misery
Clawing, reaching up in a desperate attempt to escape
The hell fires of Dante's Inferno.
Hands of my clock, limp, impotent, melting.
Time runs off their tips like tear drops,
Into the dark depths of eternal Dreams.
Dreams, that have her own realities.
Reality has no Dream, for me.
B. J. "A" 2
October 10th 2010
Health brings freedom to live
intentionally
resplendently
maturely
resonantly
integrally
regeneratively
compassionately
resiliently
kindly.
Freedom is personal,
but also social,
political
but also economic,
ecological
but also theological.
Health requires freedom from addiction
to beliefs:
Some people are born to rule
and own Earth,
while others are born to be serfs
and slaves,
laborers
and frightened/angry addicts.
Some people are born
to be born again,
while others are born
to be unredeemed,
idol worshipers,
poor,
sinners.
Some straight males are born to be White
Evangelical Supremacists,
while others are born
to be Other.
Some people are born to extract
from healthy Earth
as they choose to expand personal
and corporate materialistic "wealth".
Others are born to be entertained by,
and sometimes envious of,
these violent stories
of capitalistic rape
and plunder.
Multicultural dreams of inclusive democracy,
expanding throughout all cooperative economic strata,
encompassing all politically engaged genders,
all nations and tribes,
all positive energy systems
to regenerate a global health network
of wealthy freedom
for all interdependent creatures
globally here below,
and those who fly,
and revolve,
and generate light
power
energy,
These are ancient
indigenous dreams
of non-addicted trust,
non-dualistic Truth,
polycultural free-trade outcomes
for EarthDwellers,
EarthPatriots
EarthLovers
EarthSabbath Worshipers.
Regardless of age
gender
race
left-brain dominant enculturation,
colonizing violent history,
capitalism's win/lose supremacist games,
energy's zero-sum secularizing theology,
degenerative ecological fears
and angry
unfree
fossil fuel addiction,
consumer-driven overpopulation,
lack of freedom to sleep safely,
to live healthy outside
in familial communion
with Original Sacred EcoFeminist Earth,
etc.
The Dali Lama,
born to sainthood?
a view I doubt he would support,
says his religion is kindness.
Perhaps his spirituality
resonantly respects EarthMother's kindness
and unkindness--
much easier to do outside
than inside a dimly addictive
unfree temple.
i.
like a genii released from a bottle
I pranced around in my all together
feeling a mirth I never feel during a waking moment
Dali surreal, and eager to begin my fantasy
ii.
spirit guide was being lambasted by my committee
why can you not control that one? They asked
forgetting I am the boss of me
and lithium does not settle me down
iii
dog dreams of happier days
before her arthritis
when she could chase the cat chasing a mouse
she smells the grass in her sleep
iv.
monsterously dark entity tries to interrupt
hoping to lead me down the demonic path
feeling a certainty I am close now
v.
from my perch on the ceiling
I see a body lying on the bed
wondering who is next to my dog
she is almost ready my spirit guide whispers
devil and she begin wrestling over my silver cord
When he died, no one told me,
why would they, I had not seen him in years?
Yet that day, he kept walking in and out
of my mind’s eye.
I wondered why?
“The world ends at 5 O’clock.,"
his voice rang in my ears.
Two tortured Nostradamus parables
fluttered-by like migrating Hooper Cranes.
I recall looking at my watch, and seeing only
the sun turning around a scarab beetle.
I remember asking a running man
how he was timing his race? The runner was
too busy counting to answer.
His words scurried through my head
like white mice. I wondered why?
Then I thought of the nursery rhyme,
and the farmer’s wife and her carving knife;
the blind mice running.
My stone house was ticking like a Mayan calendar.
My chair rocking back and forth like a metronome.
That evening he left my mind empty
even his face was just a clock
in a Salvador Dali painting.
Of course, I never knew he was dead,
I just heard what he said -
and I wondered why?
The sky is a Luciferian estuary
rolling and roaring in crimson flames,
a twisted design of detonated debris,
like splitting sighs
from internal implosions,
raining fragments of the past:
matchbox memories
piercing through suffocating silence
as time tortures the mind
with flashbacks of floating fragility…
O invisible moonlight,
pour me a purple potion
to erase the pain behind
perplexed pupils.
I no longer desire to be
cast in the clamorous clusters,
convicted as the captive ~
a ghost of games
playing on the bones of brokenness,
this cave of shame,
this cell of hellfire,
this emotional shrapnel,
reflecting self-loathing nightmares.
Perhaps I crowned myself
the commander,
leading the devil’s disciples
into a war assembled from fear…
And this heart ~ a metallic maelstrom
mourning in the turmoil of melancholy ~
breaks from the inability
to step beyond wrathful walls
to a landscape of holiness,
to seek the footsteps of pilgrimage.
For I am caught in
the whirling whispers of
spectral regrets,
replicating rectangular ruins,
electrifying the empyrean
with greyed grief
and yellowed yearning.
Pondering ~ am I the blasphemer
in the cross-eyed faces of monsters?
Am I the breath
that trembled ~ disrupting the peace?
Am I the empty spaces
filling the crystalline cracks
between haunting hours,
while darkness devours
treacherous tales
climbing from the
archives of devious agony…
But can love gift this skeletal sorrow
a twilight-kissed cloak of hope?
Will heaven be a witness
to these bleeding carvings
within the tall pillars
of my splintered spirit,
while the dying lamp of life
slowly fades and waves farewell
in faint colors ~ depicting misery
like demons decaying,
shaping a sadistic sanctuary
of malignant madness~
a familiar insanity inked
as a heinous home…