Death by Serpent

"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety."
Antony & Cleopatra, William Shaekspeare

Death of Cleopatra
Kerry O'Connor

Haunted by relics of bygone age,
slabs of stone, hand-hewn, a painted frieze against the wall

All that endeavour and detritus,
it is ground to a fine dust beneath the heel of time.

What were we to each other more than
spark to dry tinder? We consumed ourselves

Twin flames in the eyes of Ouroboros,
until we choked on the dismal ashes of defeat.

Now history has traced my eyes,
with black kohl, and placed two serpents in my hands.

I see cracks in mortal foundations
but know not how to make order out of anarchy.



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This poem began as a companion piece to my illustration of Cleopatra, but was quite hastily written, without much thought for form or meter. Sanaa's last prompt in The Imaginary Garden, to write poetry in the Landay form, sent me back to my poem, which I restructured using the guidelines. I much prefer this version and shall return to the form again because it is very user friendly.

My original free verse poem:


I am haunted by relics
of a bygone age
slabs of stone, hand-hewn,
painted frieze against a wall,
all that endeavour
and the detritus it is ground to
beneath the heel of time.
What were we to each other
more than spark to dry tinder?
Twin flames in the eyes of Ouroboros,
we consumed ourselves
until we choked on the ashes of defeat.
Now history will trace kohl around my eyes,
place serpents in my hands.
I see cracks in mortal foundations
but know not how to mend.



Historical Blurb

Cleopatra VII was the last Pharaoh of the Ptolemaic Dynasty, 69 - 30 BCE.
Lover of both Julius Caesar and Mark Antony, whom she married in 32 BCE, Cleopatra was a major influence on world affairs during her lifetime. As joint rulers of Egypt, they were defeated at the Battle of Actium, by Octavian. Mark Antony fell upon his sword. When Cleopatra learnt that Octavian planned to lead her in triumphal march through the streets of Rome, she committed suicide rather than surrender, traditionally by asps smuggled into her chamber in a basket of figs.

The Illusion of Poetry

Kerry O'Connor
Notebook Poetry
@skyloverpoetry

I am an optical illusion.
This is me, witch of the first star.

This star of the first illusion,
an optical witch is me. I am.

I am an illusion of the first star.
Optical witch, this is me.

An optical illusion, I am this witch:
star of the first is me.

This optical star is an illusion
of the first witch. Am I me?

I am the first star. This witch
of an optical illusion is me.



Written for Kim's amazing challenge: The Uncertainty of the Poet.

Medusa

A Portrait in Contemplation

The Seamstress
@catschappach
Used With Permission

I’ve attempted to make up my mind:
to settle on one ideal above
a dozen practicalities…
but each thought slides away
which was, even now, on the tip of my tongue.

I am the seamstress of my misfortune:
the designer of this bespoke
snakeskin suit…
my hands, the implements of chaos,
have woven an obtuse pattern of scales.

Even the Spring is unseasonable:
thorns are growing through
sharper than needles…
and self-healing is but another
way of unravelling my imprecise stitches.

A woman is ever conscious of her womb:
knows the possibilities birthed
by slippery carnality…
What constricts may not kill
but this sly smile hides my certain fangs.


Art FLASH!  features the surreal art of Cat Scappach.