Tag Archives: Arna Baartz

White

wind is breathing shadows

reflecting opposition to outside pushing

my eyes are still and rest upon this vision

my heart signals birds

pulsing forward

I am puppeteering trees

and laughter is

a swelling dance

exhalation turns the page

and here we begin,

with feather

white

and

ink

DSC00130_2

see more art? >> http://www.artofkundalini.com

SPECTRUM 2015!

I don’t know how many of you are into personal development, emotional exploration etc but for those that are I am REALLY happy to announce that I am among 25 (amazzzing) teachers to be strutting our stuff at Spectrum 2015!

it is 6 months online creative and wellness extravaganza.

I have heard very inspirational whisperings about the teachers in the line up and will be exploring it all myself as well as teaching my Mini Workshop ‘Art To Self’ come and have a look x 

click here > SPECTRUM 2015

unnamed-4

Final Part – Death of A Poet ~ Mary Anne Baartz

A robot now, she tidies the house. The walls egg her on. Once everything is in order she is ready to obey the urgent commands of the whispering walls. She opens the oven door. Plumps up a soft cloth and lays down her head, turning the gas full on. As she closes her eyes she learns for herself there is only herself, there is no other.

He finds her death-raw, switches off the gas and lets the words fall. The queen writhes on the bed upstairs expelling the poem he planted in her womb. He weeps. It is not just anyone who can kill genius. He preciously guards these words in the bell-jar inside. They bounce and pound, resounding forever against the tall glass walls.

There is sadness in his eyes but no surprise. She’d foretold the role she chose in the only novel she ever wrote. His friends gather around. They crack open their ribs and offer their hearts but it’s too late. She has won. There is no heart juice strong enough to stop the peach from rotting.

Still, he won’t give in without a fight. She has no right to destroy his joy. He picks himself up and dusts himself off.

He removes her and replaces her with the queen disguised as a gypsy woman washed in Jewish hopelessness. The grandmothers weep. They watch helplessly as the queen reels him in as surely as the American cheese of before. Once more he falls in love with himself. His words sing their own tune and he dives head-first into the lagoon they make, refusing to notice the undertow. Below the crystal calm weeds spread their tentacles that tickle his chest. He pretends to glory in their teasing. Down, down, down, he buries the gas-blown corpse of the first well beneath them.

The new poem he pours into the queen’s womb fruits into a daughter. The Queen of Sorrow uses her child to reinforce the walls of her house of cards. She blames the first for all the others. The hungry ones clamber around his knees, greedy to taste the peach, their ears large and hot from listening, eyes glistening – they sniff the lava scent of his deep despair and seething fury. They are there fuelling the queen’s moaning. They teach her the word hysteria means disease of the womb and she blames his poem.

The little girl arranges the soft toys around her doll’s cot, face down, feet away so they can’t see mummy doll lying in the cot clasping baby doll very closely, their glass eyes tightly shut.

The queen’s body and that of his daughter lie lifelessly on the daybed the unlit gas jets turned on. And so the house of cards tumbles down. Again his eyes show sadness but no surprise.

Poems fall from his fingers like teardrops. Poet Laureate sits on his head. They ask him why he has attracted these damaged women into his life, a poet with such insight. He answers that this has never once crossed his mind. But his volume of words put the lie to this reply… peach blossoms… grapes on the vine… a deer gambolling through the woods… a little boy cries…  Unleashed, they flicker and flutter and erupt, clustering in abnormal cells that grow and swell, a gangrenous stew of words which consume him whole.

Art By Michael Baartz see more here

Family 001

The Goodbye

My response to Rilke’s Duino Elegies ~ Number 10

His baby weighs nothing

floating on bony palms

Practicing sacrifice

A grimacing prayer

Thin breathless arms soft with natures last flourish

the stroking of hair

A habit of care

No hope and rapidly fading

Superficial

Life

We frame our fascinated tongue in gilded verbs

We bring out the colours with chemistry

Changing compounds and celebrating the moon

The baby is full like an orange

But the grey skin juxtaposed is peeling back now

The thin leftover body is heaving

corrosion is heaven too

1979635_651841168216765_951400058_n

more art? http://www.artofkundalini.com

Now Here

My response to Rilke’s Duino Elegies

curled in a little ball

pretending

will not save us from the torturous puling of splinters

‘I know NOTHING’

pretending, just in case,

giving meaning to the pure page

……….a clever decoy to fein concern over things more permanent than ourselves!

spreading our neck over that which is willing to reveal itself

and highlight our

sneaky preference for forgetting

we send our projections,

minions leaving clues

a stupid game

it is IN us it IS us it is US nowhere is the treasure and we draw in the mud

black patches over eyes we stumble on hillocks and circle the x

we suckle on the nipple of ignorance

disgusted

by the passive

generous now

convinced of it’s emptiness

brainwashed

under hot lights and pricked by

magic

spinning

wheels

The ultimate is happiness

a satisfaction that no man allows himself to be seen to believe

it is more impressive to chase our daggy tails

than accept the

stringless

floating

Nowhere

IMG_3448

Madame Blavatski

see more art~ http://www.artofkundalini.com

Some Mute Beast

My response to Rilke’s Duino Elegies number 8

Reaching again, stalking this thirst

for who I am, we are

splitting in parts,

raw light leaking

but blind and believing in

sweet

enduring

allowing

death

public slaying

guarded by pulsing spectre

keen eye follows

flickerings

by bee or ant

marching chaotic to unseen nothing

but not because it isn’t there

to nowhere

but not because it isn’t there

only hidden in syrup and crusty flesh

…. nectar lies puddled on the shore, caged in hopeless thought

but the tapping and seeking

silently thrusting

and

tumbling beasts

spiralling downward

wooly rainbows

skein unwinding

through wells of damp

information

landing

repeatedly

10525779_775163079217906_472661411219007914_n