SurVision Magazine

Poem for Ciaran O'Driscoll


Surrealism, being a tower,
found itself in the tower.

Something was sticking out. A flagon
of sense, or a conspiracy
of the snake & the staff.
Harmony is a potion of sanity. Dreams go
non compos mentis.

Motion is the great mist. The way it speaks.
Penetrates. In the greenwoods
of Gnosis, reciprocal vision is crisp,
postnatally patched with some
persevering substance.

The world dismembers disasters.
The moat separates day from night.
The movable bridge is a clown.
The tower yet again
finds itself in a tower.






Hans Bellmer's Dolls


We all come from a doll. Also inside,
puppets, puppies and Easter eggs.
How many spare parts have been thrown in?
Three pelvises, a couple of recycled heads?
The sky is dotted with vestiges of obsession:
the dematerialisation of being, the life-size
presence of the inhuman, a hair veil
over the geometry of perturbance.
Aggressive fingers pleat the pink;
a disembodied eye is the navel.
Let's play doctor in the attic (in the Arctic),
let's invent new desires!
Of course, we'll later curse the course
of non-events.
How much longer will the unpossessible
possess us?
On the beach, our stray libido wakes up
and shakes off its fleas.






Violin


Poet inhabits a shagreen leather coffin.
Dressed in Vivaldi and strung together
with his hollowness, he yearns
for the warmth of the imaginable.

His body is staccato
suppressing legato; each breath,
a flageolet of defiance. Threads of the earth
originate in his shoulder.

Only the nameless dwell in the heart
of non-being. Poets unclaimed by any tribe
breathe their way through the void.
Autumn is in the rainwater of their eyes.






Tony Kitt is from Dublin, Ireland.  His poems have appeared in Oxford Poetry, Poetry Ireland Review, The Prague Revue, Plume, Stride, Otoliths, The American Journal of Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, etc. He won the Maria Edgeworth Poetry Prize in 2003.