Doodle Week: Garden variety

It's Doodle Week Day 3 and the theme today is Doodle Garden. This is a genetically modified, fruity vegetable hybrid. It's designed to withstand all Doodle Bug infestations. It may not taste very good, but it ships great.

Doodle Week: Nebulous

The theme for Doodle Week's Day Two is Outer Space. Astronomy isn't one of my strengths, so I offer up a crude rendering of a galaxy. Be fair warned: If you stare long enough at the center, you may lapse into a trance.

Doodle Week: Larval stage

Day One of Doodle Week dawns with the theme Doodle Bug buzzing around the blogosphere, and I kick start my week of contributions with everyone's favorite larva: the caterpillar.

Sketchy plans

As the badge in my sidebar so colorfully announces, Doodle Week II begins next Monday. That means I'll be revving up the blog with daily posts very shortly. I'll also sprinkle the latest chapters of my short story Belly into the mix, so don't let your eyeballs stray far from this space.

To get you in a properly artsy mood, here's another illustration I created for Hanna's poetry book. It's called "Virgole di lacrime" (Commas of tears).

A thick-stemmed bloom turning

This didn't turn out quite the way I wanted, but the show must go on ...

In this Iris Garden

Continuing on with my next installment of comment-inspired titles (see the original post), I've written a poem based on the phrase "In the Garden of Iris" (slightly modified to suit my rhythmic purposes). It was suggested by Angel, the amazing poet and artist behind the site Here and Now 4 Angel. I'll post a companion drawing for it later.

In this iris garden
By Francis Scudellari

In this iris garden,
An uninvited guest
Not wanting, to intrude
I risk a sidelong glance

At the eager pupils,
Orderly arrayed round,
Budding blue-capped beauties'
Prayerful heads tilted

Upward to drink air thick
With instructions of love,
Selfless do's pouring forth
From a mistress aglow

Her tendered messages,
Felt but never spoken,
Chuteless slide lightly down
On rainbows' liquid backs

Till reverie re-moved
By nosy, nudging wind,
A thick-stemmed bloom turning,
Reflects my tactless gaze

And, self-aware I tip-
Toe a trail away, leave
Faint prints, one day retraced
For more eavesdropped lessons

Drips a crooked path

Belly: Chapter Two

After a much longer than expected delay, here's chapter two of my short story "Belly" (read Chapter One if you missed it). It's still very much a work in progress, so I appreciate all feed back.

Further back, and forward
By Francis Scudellari

"Where does a circle begin and end?"

"Wherever we choose to slice it ..."

"What if I place the blade randomly … here?"

"Go ahead … you'll see. We'll capture something important."

The train leaves the station and Jonah's stomach knots. A trailing memory of suggestive whispers causes Jonah to shift uneasily on the vinyl-covered cushion. Their words were spoken abruptly. The full conversation floated by in the short time it took him to find his accustomed seat.

Needing distraction, Jonah thumbs through the indexed list of songs displayed on the sleek, white device with a recall more agile than his own. A small pointer travels the recollected streams of sappy ballads and bouncy anthems. The blunt arrow settles on a track he hopes will mask the lingering echoes of those voices that slipped in uninvited on his morning train.

Jonah presses play and this time the expected words are piped through his inserted ear phones: "I was born in a cross-fire hurricane …"

Jonah drums his fingers to the catchy beat. The dull thud of his flesh against the briefcase's faux leather shell is strangely soothing. The rhythmic vibrations carry up his arm and down his leg. Before, so lulled, his once obedient thoughts would have steered him on a meandering but sure course toward slumber. Now, recently turned mutinous, these same thoughts scatter to unruly corners. Unmanned and tempest-tossed, their containing vessel is set adrift over uncharted, black depths.

After a few short verses, the calming fog of music is pushed aside, and the hallucinatory dialogue's dark-tinged drone looms again on a shortening horizon. Elusive shadows, impossible to grasp, flit across his mind's eye. Words stacked on top of words swirl in a gathering swarm that Jonah can only glimpse as a blur of rapid movement.

The hiss of stale heat pours from a vent below the seat. A drop of sweat trickles down from Jonah's left temple. It drips a crooked path across his cheek and soaks into his well-starched collar.

Jonah, cramped and ill-at-ease, loosens his red silk neck tie. Beige, geometric shapes spin hypnotically from its center. Still restless, he cracks the window. The gush of icy air gives him a moment's relief, but it can't chase away one lingering question: "What will I see and hear today?"

Jonah is certain that his brain is being hacked.

Muted tongues

This is the first in a series of illustrations I promised to Hanna for a self-published poetry book she is planning to release in the fall. If I seem periodically absent from the blog over the next few weeks, it's because I'm diligently working to create more of these drawings (among other things).

A Guest Post: The Sequel

Ever a man of my words, here's an excerpt from my latest poem Television, which is being hosted on Jena Isle's Gewgaw Writings site.

Careless he falls into ritual pose
Do dropped, down before this mothering knot;
Her gathering brown limbs, machine-carved smooth
In hollow, molded arc, to cradle him;

If that first stanza has you seated on edge, be sure to visit Gewgaw Writings to read the full poem.

My bauble of a guest post

The very talented and prolific Jena Isle asked me to do a guest post on her Gewgaw Writings site. In keeping with my usual two-step process, I've created a new drawing and a companion poem that she's graciously agreed to feature over two days.

You may have noticed the tease of a detail from the drawing at left. To see the full piece, please visit Gewgaw Writings, which also includes a very flattering profile of yours truly. While you're there, be sure to check out the first five chapters of Jena's compelling story Umma Ayam Sinsana (Where Are You Now?).

Stay tuned for the accompanying verse, which I'll preview here with an excerpt once it's available on Jena's blog.

Squeezing The Toothpaste

Continuing my very recent series of comment-inspired posts (see Interactive Exercise and A cryptic script: My answered exercise), today I riff on the title Squeezing the Toothpaste suggested by Mark at neOnbubble.

It's an unusual phrase to build a poem around, so I decided to try something different and write a haiku. As an extra bonus, I also created a companion drawing that better captures my conception of a squeezed tube of paste.

A coiled plastic snake
Desperately squeezed till flat
Splatters its venom

Writers Offering Our Finest - 13 June 2008 Edition

I've submitted last week's post "Belly: Chapter One" to be part of this week's WOOF. There are four other featured pieces by some very talented writers. Please check them out using the links below. I promise to get the next chapter of "Belly" up soon.

PlotDog Press WOOF

Presenting the finest of the writer’s blogs by the bloggers who write them. Highlighting the top 5 posts as chosen by the June 13, 2008 WOOF Contest participants. Want to join the next WOOF? Submit a link to your best writing post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

Top 5 Picks:

About Writing/Grammar
Kimota (Jonathan Crossfield) - "Grammar Wars"
Catherine @ Sharp Words - "Do Dreams Influence Your Writing?"

Poetry
Jennifer M Scott - "One More Time"

Flash Fiction / Fiction
Jennifer M Scott - "Last Request"
Francis Scudellari - "Belly: Chapter One"

BROUGHT TO YOU BY PLOTDOG PRESS FEATURING:
A Novel Approach Series: "A Prologue to a Prologue"

Chained

I'm sure this drawing will elicit some interesting interpretations, so have at it.

Terminal sigh

As promised in my A Cryptic Script post two weeks ago, this is the first of a planned series of comment-inspired poems. The title was suggested by Hanna, with a very slight change — not to mention my own mangled interpretation of the phrase.

Terminal sigh
By Francis Scudellari

Mortally minded, his own skull
He bloodless cracks, painfully pries;
With fleshy fingered forceps pulls
Splintered thoughts, fragmented feeling;
Disconnected, forgotten bits
Re-moves to neatly etched pathways;
Liquid memories suctions off,
Coiling feeds through light, fibrous tubes;
Essence transfused: flesh to ether,
Life's flow dripping off in slow leaks;
A mist of dream-refracting drops
He exhales: his terminal sigh

Eye of limpid blue

Belly: Chapter One

Today, I begin my second serialized short story. It's an extensive re-write of a piece I first attempted many years ago. The story and character at the core of it have sat dormant but never left me, waiting for the proper moment to re-emerge. I believe that moment has come. All feedback is appreciated and will be amply rewarded with my undying gratitude.

Prologue: A Circular Journey Repeated
by Francis Scudellari

Jonah Tannin's too heavy head jumps skyward as if tugged by a puppeteer's ungraceful twitch. The force of the commuter train's unexpected stop punches his jaw backward; it pulls his mind from the murky depths of a dreamless sleep.

Eyes of limpid blue, framed by new-pried, black-lashed lids, strain against the sudden flood of pallid, yellow light. Ears, rudely reconnected, receive the crashing waves sent out as the mechanical beast slowly regains its stride: screech, rattle, and rumble. Nostrils, at first flared to gulp the fueling air, now spit back the pungent smell of perspiration mixed with wet wool.

"What time is it?"

Jonah's left arm, too long wedged against the wall, refuses the command to lift up. The right hand, eager to revive its mate, quickly heeds the master's call and leaps the lapped divide to massage the deadened flesh. Blood gradually returns and brings with it the prick of tiny needles. Jonah clenches the waking fingers into a tight fist and then stretches them outward. He repeats this exercise -- grasp, release, and grasp again at nothing -- until the dull ache subsides and the stubborn arm rises to its proper position.

His mind starts to catch up with his senses. Words, an idea, and old feelings follow in lockstep with the sighted abstraction of two silver strips spread like open scissors against the plain white disk.

"Seven o'clock again, but that can't be."

Time's usually steady gait had limped to a halt and then reversed path back to the moment icy winds ushered Jonah onto this circular route. Jonah taps the glass crystal, but it offers no sign of life.

He peers out the frosted train window, but his vision can't pierce the confounding darkness that blankets the world outside. The uniform, black cover conceals from him the objects whose outlines reveal clues to his place in this ever-repeated journey.

"It doesn't matter."

A willing captive, Jonah nestles back into his accustomed spot in the belly of the speeding beast. Suspended inanimate within its vibrating walls, he lets the wash of artificial light and heat coax him back to unconsciousness. The troubling city sprawled out below him fades further into the early winter morning. His once sharp calling recedes to the indistinct mumble of words spoken far away in a forgotten tongue.

Overcome again by sleep, Jonah's shoulders slump down and his head nods forward. His controlling strings are severed anew.

Eight questions: An unauthorized autobiography

I was tagged with a meme by Jane Doe at Insanity Personified. It's a pretty simple exercise: answer eight questions. So, here it goes ...


1) What was the best moment of your life?

I have a shocking confession to make. I am in fact a Tralfamadorian, and I don't really get the human conception of time that divides existence into past, present and future. To answer the question more directly, all I can say is that the best moment in my life will occur in approximately 1,661 days as measured from your today. I don't want to spoil the "future" for the rest of you, so I'll just leave it at that.

2) If you could pick a superpower what would it be?

I've actually been working pretty hard the past few years to cultivate one very specific power. I can best describe it as inter-dimensional travel, or a type of omnipresence. I'm not sure, however, if that's something one of the popular superheroes can do. It might be more the purview of minor deities, fictive computer operating systems, and Las Vegas magicians.

3) If there was one thing you could do, with no limits of any kind, what would it be?

I'd travel, hence the need to work on the superpower of question 2.

4) What's the weirdest dream you've ever had?

The dream that I'll always remember, and that I hope to one day write more about, occurred when I was a wee lad with a mind full of strange and scary ideas (the only change now being I'm not so wee). I'll give you the broadest sketch of the plot as I want to keep your appetite whetted for a possible future post. It involved the discovery that I had a colony of tiny insects living inside my body. The little buggers threatened to take control of my motor skills, like tiny little puppet masters.

5) What's the weirdest thing about you?

See the answer to question one. Next best weirdness: I cut my own hair.

6) What's your favorite self made philosophy?

I don't claim to have ever had an original thought, let alone a self-made philosophy, but I do hold dear an amalgam of strange borrowed ideas. One such concept is that we humans are unavoidably barreling ahead toward a technological singularity that will either prove to be the precipitate of our eventual downfall or the first step down a new evolutionary path.

7) What (if any) question has been the most annoying unanswered question of your life?

This one.

8) Why do you blog?

I blog to interact with the world, and I've been happy to discover that the world has an ample supply of smart, funny and creative bloggers willing to engage me in a continuing conversation. Speaking of which, I'll do my usual universal tag: if you're reading this and would like to play along, you're it.

A cryptic script: My answered exercise

It's time to reveal the inspiration behind my last drawing (see Interactive Exercise to catch up). I did my best to pick an obscure subject in order to provoke a wide range of responses, and the comments didn't disappoint. In fact, I like many of the suggested titles better than my own.

A couple weeks ago I received a very curious piece of mail. It arrived in a wax-sealed envelope, and consisted of a single small sheet with a message composed in an ancient script. Only after some Internet-based research was I able to identify the computer-generated font as a cuneiform alphabet. After several fruitless hours spent trying to translate it, I discovered by reading a few other blogs that it was most likely part of a promotion for an upcoming HBO series.

The drawing was my attempt to replicate in typically fractured style one of the letters found on that mysterious missive (you can see images of the four-different mailings that went out on this site named after the Japanese word for blood ... the one I received is on the far right). As it turned out, the words held much more sway over my imagination while their likely meaning and origin remained unkown, and I think that speaks on some level to the power of art, language and myth. I haven't pursued the mailing's meaning any further out of a desire to maintain some sense of lingering uncertainty.

I really appreciate all of the very creative titles offered up, and to show my gratitude I'll be writing a series of poems inspired by each participant's take on the drawing's meaning (with a fitting attribution and dedication to their authors). To get the ball rolling, here's the piece I built around the phrase initially on my mind.

A cryptic script

By Francis Scudellari

A cryptic script
By unknown hand
Knowingly penned

Aged symbols dusted,
New-pulled from yawning gaps
Of a bookish slumber

Inky smooth, slithering lines capped
With ever hungry heads, feeding
On preyed-upon partners' trailed ends

Intricately cut keys
Unchained, distance-scattered
From forgetting's locked vault

Treasured meaning
Now only found
In not knowing

Interactive Exercise

My last drawing (A votive extinguished) provoked some interesting interpretations, so Jena from Gewgaw Writings suggested that I let my readers name this next effort. Here's your chance to come up with a fitting moniker for my latest multi-colored, amorphous slab. After you've all had a go, I'll post the story behind the sketch, and we can compare my inspiration to your responses.

An apology, an update, and a poem

I apologize for the long lapse between posts, but sometimes real life and work can make greater demands on my time ... and from a financial perspective, that's a good thing.

Also, I've finally taken the plunge and bought my own domain. My hope is to turn the soon-to-be-unveiled, self-named site into a repository for my various creative endeavors. Once it's ready, this blog may revert to its original form as a place for personal essays and social commentary, but stay tuned.

In the mean time, here's the much-awaited (I hope) companion poem to the last drawing.

A ragged suitor

By Francis Scudellari

A ragged suitor dragged, by time not love,
To this altar, his waning flame carried
In crack-cupped hand, a shaky, blue-veined shield
Raised up against stillness dispelling drafts

A lack-clad minister re-called, he casts
Meager light into deep-throated darkness,
Among flickered shadows glimpses, not god,
Not man, an untried path hidden between

Unprotected, preyed on by sudden gust,
Musty air mingling with his own moist breath,
A last exhaled sigh, his votive extinguished,
Acrid black curls drift up from bent, singed wick

Trickled stream of pink wax, glacial flow, fills
Crevices of reflex-clutched hands, preserves,
In translucent shell, the now spent casing
His soul discards as, burned off, it leaps free

A votive extinguished

Very basically, this drawing is of a hand grasping a candle. Both dripping, the flesh and wax intermingle. All possible prayers have been spoken, and perhaps heard. Their separate flames are extinguished in one breath, and they harden into a single form.

Basking in my blogged biography

My dear friend and fellow thinker/artist/writer/blogger Hanna has done me the inestimable honor of presenting a short retrospective of my life and work on her site. For those of you who, like me, prefer to boil everything down to the bare essentials, this is the perfect way to get acquainted. It's a kind of Cliffs Notes to yours truly.

Get up to speed here: Ti presento un amico americano

Of course, you'll need to be able to read Italian to understand it, but I'm here to help translate anything you can't on your own ... just leave the troublesome passage in this post's comments. I'll return to my regular programming once I've finished basking in the glow of your attention.

Bodkin Between: Strange inspirations

It's been a while since I posted a poem, and this one may reveal the desperation of my sometimes searches for inspiration. The title comes from a reCAPTCHA prompt — one of those annoying but necessary little anti-spambot devices used to moderate blog comments. I actually like reCAPTCHA because it doubles as a way to leverage human eyes to help decipher bits of text computers have difficulty scanning.

The phrase in question — Bodkin Between — struck my fancy because of its Shakespearean overtones ("bare bodkin" appears in Hamlet's most famous soliloquy). I used the conceit of a heart as an indecisive dagger to build this verse. It obviously owes a small debt to the bard's great tragedy, although I hope you won't hold it up for inspection against the blinding light of those classic lines.

Bodkin Between
By Francis Scudellari

His heart borne as bated bodkin between,
Its once sharp edge, from youthful age hammered,
Dully cutting ever inward, kept close,
Not bared, buried in leathery layers

Awaiting a proper moment to strike
Out words, act, whether for anger or love,
From thickened air, carve himself a likeness,
But pausing, fear-full of blood stains, his knife

Rather stabs a path in pointed retreat,
Disused, each passing day withdraws deeper
Till embedded beyond his prying reach,
He casts without only his daggered stares

Dull cutting

This is a drawing that I may revisit. It didn't turn out quite the way I wanted. As you might be able to tell by the title's hint, it was inspired by a pair of scissors. It evolved into a squid-like creature.

Bloggers Unite For Human Rights: Get Up, Stand Up

Today, the social networking site BlogCatalog asks its members to participate in a blogosphere-wide event called Bloggers Unite for Human Rights.

Never one to refuse a blog challenge, especially one with a goal of building social awareness, I'll toss my conscious thoughts into the mix. I'm a bit out of practice with prosaic posts, so forgive me in advance for what may prove a long-winded and meandering screed.

This blog began its life as a device for me to use the act of writing to make sense of the varied cultural stimuli regularly cascading down on me. As I came to realize that others out there in the ether were doing a much better job of critically analyzing contemporary art, media and world events, I switched my focus to more personal writing, poetry and then drawing.

Reverting back to my blog's origins in order to serve today's cause, there are two streams of images haunting my mind as I type this. The first is the humanitarian crisis in Darfur. A local hangout, the Heartland Café, recently hosted an amazing touring exhibit entitled "The Children of Darfur" that features the work of renowned photographer Ron Haviv. It's impossible not to be moved by these revealing shots of the harrowed but defiant faces of West Darfur's youth as they go about their daily lives.

Unfortunately, I can't find any information on the web that indicates where this is headed next. I did find an older article detailing the show's opening at the UN headquarters: UNICEF launches photo exhibition dedicated to children of Darfur . And this one about its stop in New Orleans this past April: Amnesty International Brings 'The Children of Darfur' Photo Tour to New Orleans.

To keep apprised of all the latest developments regarding Darfur, be sure to regularly visit my friend Cooper's blog Darfur: An Unforgivable Hell on Earth. It's a great place for information and concrete ways to help solve the crisis, through both charitable assistance and political activism.

The second inconvenient monster gnawing at my conscience right now is the film When the Levees Broke, Spike Lee's amazing documentary about Hurricane Katrina. This is a must see for anyone who has fallen back into the complacency of believing, a few scant years removed from that disaster, that humanitarian crises can't happen here in the land of plenty. I see no evidence that we as a nation have done anything to redress the criminal neglect of the poor and disenfranchised left floating for days on those fetid floodwaters. Nor have we made any attempt to ensure that it never happens again.

And that brings me to the final point of this human-rights themed ramble: Building awareness is great, but it's only the first step in the journey toward real change. A planet full of aware individuals won't solve the many and persistent problems facing humanity. Awareness needs to be combined with political will and grass-roots organizing. After we inform ourselves, we need to share that information and collectively act on it. That's how social movements are born.

Another past feature of this blog was the posting of favorite song lyrics. Fully embracing the spectrum of its former being, I leave you with the video and words from a great Reggae call to action.



Get up, stand up
(Bob Marley / Peter Tosh)

Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight!

Preacher man, don't tell me,
Heaven is under the earth.
I know you don't know
What life is really worth.
It's not all that glitters is gold;
Half the story has never been told:
So now you see the light
Stand up for your rights

Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight!

Most people think,
Great God will come from the sky,
Take away everything
And make everybody feel high.
But if you know what life is worth,
You will look for yours on earth:
And now you see the light,
You stand up for your rights

Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight! (Life is your right!)
Get up, stand up! (So we can't give up the fight!)
Stand up for your rights! (Lord, lord!)
Get up, stand up! (Keep on struggling on!)
Don't give up the fight! (yeah!)

We sick an tired of the bs games -
Dyin' 'n goin' to heaven in-a Jesus name
We know when we understand:
Almighty God is a living man.
You can fool some people sometimes,
But you cant fool all the people all the time.
So now we see the light (what you gonna do? ),
We gonna stand up for our rights! (yeah, yeah, yeah!)

So you better:
Get up, stand up!
Stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up!
Don't give up the fight!

Doodle Week: Facing Madness

Doodle Week comes to a maddening close with the theme doodle mad. My drawing is a depiction of literal disorder, which is the state in which my thoughts inevitably find themselves. A special thanks to Claire and Laura for organizing Doodle Week and giving me a chance to share my peculiar brand of unbalanced indulgence with a wider audience.

Doodle Week: Figured Abstraction

The theme for Doodle Week's Day 6 is doodle abstract. Typically my abstracts start with a figure that I break down into unrecognizable twists and blobs. For example, the following drawing started out life as a dagger before succumbing to the inevitable deconstruction.

Doodle Week: Flight of Fancy

Doodle Week Day 5 dawns and I'm tasked with doodling a daydream. My imaginings often involve flight — real and metaphorical — so I offer up this drawing of a fantastic wing. I don't know if it will actually get me off the ground, but I'll look cool wearing it.

Doodle Week: Flowery

It's Doodle Week Day 4, and that necessitates a flowery drawing.

Doodle Week: Pet Project

For the Doodle Week Day 3 theme of doodle animal, I chose to sketch my pet pug Albert. Not that Albert would ever pose, but he let me examine his expressions long enough to capture that special look of sadness mixed with indignation. I'm not sure what happened to his right paw, but it seems to have swelled up on the journey between real life and my brain. Oh, and he's not really blue.

We interrupt these doodles: Check out my guest post

L.S. King invited me to do a guest post on her N*tranced blog about my most recent techno-fascination: The Technological Singularity. Here's a short excerpt ...

Both Vinge's bleak and Kurzweil's rosy interpretations are predicated on the "universal law" that knowledge undergoes exponential growth. Some dispute that, but it's hard to argue against the widespread feeling that we're being propelled into uncharted waters by a seemingly constant flow of innovations. As more and more advances occur, and apparently disparate fields (biology, genetics, robotics, artificial intelligence, nanotechnology, etc.) begin to converge, we could reach a tipping point after which rapid-paced changes cascade down on us.

If you'd like to take a break from the doodling, please check it out. And in keeping with Doodle Week, she even included my self-portrait doodle with the article.

Doodle Week: Monstrosities

It's day two of Doodle Week and the suggested theme is "doodle monster." I'm quite fond of drawing strange creatures, so I did a bonus sketch for the occasion. I think they're both pretty good natured monsters, but the first has a pretty ravenous appetite.

Doodle Week: Self Portrait

Doodle Week has officially begun, and here is my initial contribution in keeping with the first day's theme of "doodle you." It's not a very accurate or flattering self-portrait, but I'm still fond of it.

Firmly rooted

By Francis Scudellari

Firmly rooted, she hugs once wormy earth
A fine-creased face buried in pitch black soil
With twirled trunk of a tongue unfurled to taste
Minerals absorbed since first youth's feasting

Twelve twisted limbs intermingle, enfold,
Form fibrous knots, heaped in full-spread circle,
Each fingertip burrows toward droplets,
Tantalus fruit, seeming drawn to new depths

Her underbelly a clutch of gnarled veins
Red, blue, beating with unseasoned cycles,
Robust rhythms learned centuries ago,
Become broken, now faded to murmurs

Her slate-gray back of hardened bark, sharp ridged,
Exposed till parched, scaly, randomly splotched,
Pocked by lichens, leaching precious moisture,
A constant creeping coat that gives no warmth

Green fur filling intricate crevices,
Overtaking memory's hollow stores,
Nooks carved out with accumulated years,
Notched markers of a past too soon forgot

Her self-contained web finally ebbing
With each gulped breath, spirited essence launched
Into saturated sky, our progress,
Time's precipitate retreat to new life

Rooted

Incomplete figure (the poem)

By Francis Scudellari

An incomplete figure, he stands
Before, self-mocking mannequin
Un-wholly cobbled together,
Invented in-human partner

Steel wire ribs ringed round hollow core,
Naked half-shape silhouetted
On confined walls, soul company
Oft-visited in cramped workshop

Its minded floor strewn with stray parts,
Pulled from dusted shelves, odd pieces
That he attaches, appraises,
Then soon sad discards; starts over

Curve of an arm, pointed elbow
Elegant fingers, marble knee,
Countless recalled countenances,
Un-inventoried memories

Passerby's smile, friend's crinkled nose,
The glint of re-imagined eyes
He projects on glassy oval,
Spins through mismatched combinations

This blank slate never sparked to life,
He new wipes clean, till it mirrors
Now creased face, twin dying portals
Leading down to his own gnawed gap

Incomplete figure

Neither monster nor man

This one is a bit of a departure for me in several ways. It's a hybrid of a few different images and themes that have been traipsing through my mind. As always, feedback is much appreciated ...

By Francis Scudellari

Neither monster nor man, passive he lies
With contented smile, seeming suspended
Surrounded by wretched cloud, his spewing
Fleshed machine built to feed, and little else

A strange form, perhaps freakish, at first sight,
But well-suited for his self-made purpose
Pale, accustomed to emitted darkness,
Thick flaps over sockets where eyes once probed

Spider arms extend, gangly receptors
Arcing fists spread with bowed, bony fingers
Weeping, weedy hairs draped from spongy knobs
Knotted webs to catch wandering morsels

Clockwork raking movements, rapid, oft blurred
One appendage folds in, then another
His tongue protrudes from gaped jaws, slurps odd bits
Raised from fetid depths by scalding up-drafts

Translucent skin reveals inner workings
The slow snaking progress of encased sludge
Converted waste, soon deposited coiled
Piles where kernels, passed through whole, are nurtured

Extreme, tangled blossoms sprout in due time
Brightly painted, baleful blooms raised to seed
His children dire, dangled on twisted stalks,
Populate a world made in his image

Tangled blossoms

Time-weighted words

By Francis Scudellari

Time-weighted words trail off,
Questions strung out …
Who's dangled on hooked lines,
Thought's push pulled taut
Endless how's break,
Plumbed possibility
Scatters, drops-in
Shimmering bits of if
Spectacled snow
Floats down to sightless sea
Where dusted, detritus
Silently mixed
At murky depths, my why's
Collected then
Too-sifted now, a what
Best left buried

Broken lines

Dark vision

By Francis Scudellari

I hover in ether,
A ghostly hand's caress
Curious, tentative
Touch thick-calloused surface
An outré encrusted
World only vaguely felt

Ghastly apparition
In circled route, tear-dropped
Foreboding I follow
Leaden cumulate waves,
Dark-rippled sunshine's ooze,
Sludge slow-spilled from above

Taint slathered tongue taunting
Tests its new-found morsel
Undulating, rolls it
Relishing swallows it
Down knobby throat pushed to
Brown luminescent maw

There, in spectral bath fouled,
Fleshy features eaten
By miasmal juices
Till smooth-worn, bony
Pebble left adrift, still
Un-wrested, I wake up

Dark sunshine's ooze

Morning shower, Part two

By Francis Scudellari

II.

Within translucent, sheet-transfixed,
Sharp-splashed, conscious-dispersed,
I fall back, twist
Down ephemeral paths, transform
Glimpsed, to passive statue,
Limestone slow-carved

Ego erodes to toppling, my
Loose particles, granted
Their passing wish,
Dissolve, fine sediment carried
A-way to frothy flows
Churned milky brown

Coursing mixed with countless others
Diverted from fed streams,
Change transported
In widening channel, till new
Delta deposited,
We nourish seeds

Morning shower, Part one

By Francis Scudellari

I.

I find myself
Lingering longer, lured
By snaking water's steamy hiss
Closed-lid led from
Time, tempted thoughts a-drift,
Do drops, drained with cascading warmth

Re-called, perhaps
To gestational bath
A pre-personal memory
Tethered within
Maternal mind, free-floats
Cocooned, promise still borne, unspoiled

Or back further,
In cellular yearning
Immersed, primordial being
Washed, by dying
Stars' divine spark upward
Evolving, a chained reaction

Like limestone slowly carved

Two hands, for one moment

By Francis Scudellari

Two hands, for one moment,
Infinite joined, seamed pair;
Thumb to cupped palm laid, probes
Tentative small circles,
Then bold-reached forays; Maps
Thought-familiar surface,
Smooth to light touch, but pressed
Harder, finely textured --
Cobweb-lined memory
Etched on gentle rises;

Traces entranced deep-cut
Crevices -- age-worn, branched
Pathways to red-pulsed warmth
Concealed tantalizing
Close within; Draws forward
Lured by new-formed pocket;
Nestles in found comfort,
Shut off, oblivious
Till time's pulled influence,
Inevitable, intrudes

Two hands

An orchid borrowed

This drawing is my visual tribute to the poem L'Orchidea by Hanna Filo at Amori, Poesie, Arte, Chat. Below you can read the provocative verse in both the original Italian and an English translation, to which I contributed.

L'Orchidea (Lettera d'amore)
by Hanna Filo

Essere una donna, sentirsi donna... si.
Frammenti di pensiero, nemmeno una parola.
Compiere una fantasia ha le sue forme. Orlo di terra da cui liquida cado.Vieni, insegnami il tuo modo, riempi gli anfratti altrimenti vuoti. Vieni e resta e non morire dentro di me. Sollievo alle braccia non più vuote, ma che tendono, cingono troppo, oltre la forma e suono.
Catturo sotto le palpebre e sigillo tuo sguardo più bello.
Nessun mio bacio senza di te esiste, ne nessun Klimt, Boudelaire ne Mozart l'han saputo.
Paradiso precipitato, rovesciato...
E perché sapere?
Via i nomi che compongono mondo. Non più tocchi, ma colpi delle note alte, arcuate. Fronde plaudenti, il flash tra diademi dei pini sull'attenti. Non deve aver un nome il mio sussurro che grido, non serve gridare, se disparve l'incanto.
La protuberanza pungente, custodita dentro, racchiusa in una forma breve ma intensa, ove il tuo glande incandescente, saggia e bacia la segreta come una cieca talpa devota.
Erutta!
Stillami dentro il tuo nome - che trabocchi! Lasciami inonda.
Riscuoti la cresta e bruchi e farfalle.
Sollevato sul gomito, guardami ora. Per aprirmi gli occhi, il modo c'è.
E lasciami così-un dipinto su erba, sotto aghi del pino che mente mio nome.
Non sono più quella di prima, ne mai sarò.
Senza la figura verticale, che mondo attenda!
E lasciami li, celebre icona, consacrata e degna -
Impollinata tua Orchidea

The Orchid (A love letter)
by Hanna Filo

To be a woman, feel oneself a woman... yes.
Thought fragments, not even a word.
There are ways to fulfill a fantasy. Brim of the earth from which like liquid I spill. Come, teach me your way, fill the clefts otherwise empty.
Come, stay and do not perish inside me. Relief in arms no longer void, but as they stretch, they surround too much, beyond shape and sound.
Captured under my eyelids, I seal your glance so beautiful
Not one kiss of mine, without you, exists. No one, not Klimt, Boudelaire, nor Mozart have known one.
Paradise fallen, overturned...
And why know?
The hell with the nouns that compose this world. You no longer touch, but strike high notes, bowed. 'PLauded fronds, a flash between crowns of pine trees standing at attention.
No need to name my whisper that I shout. No use shouting, if it breaks the spell.
The stinging bulge, kept inside, locked in, brief yet intense, where your glowing glans tests and kisses the dungeon like a blind, devout mole.
Erupt!
Drip your name inside of me: you're overflowing! Let me be flooded.
You shake the peak, caterpillars and butterflies.
Raised up on your elbow, watch me now. To open up my eyes, there's a way.
And leave me so - a painting laid on grass, under pine needles that lie about my name.
I'm no longer her from before, nor ever will be.
Without standing upright, as the world waits!
And leave me there, famous icon, anointed and worthy -
Pollinated, your orchid

In-significance ... musing

By Francis Scudellari

Musing
My mind stumbles
On "in-significance"

A word,
Or phrase thin-glued
By that troubling black bit

Dash slapped
Hyphen, speaking
Proper, stuck (in-)between

Loosely
(Dis)connecting,
(N)ever decided choice:

Give gapped
Pause, separate
In, truth tricked to comfort

Or space
Collapse, tether
Out-lined lack, naught meaning

In-Significance

Conversations long ago ebbed

By Francis Scudellari

Conversations
Long-ago ebbed
To unknowing,
Stagnant, preserved
In murky depths,
New roiled rise up;
With sudden sense
Flashed memory --
A touch, a smell --
Her voice floods back

Mixed-up flows fresh
In white-noise washed;
Many merged strands,
Tangled phrases
Slowly sifted;
Minded pools drained,
Rippling inward,
Spiraling down;
Sad trickled words --
Intermittent

Drops -- in silence
Negated; I
Desperately
Reply, recall
Full-throated shout
Thrust into time-
Thickened sludge, where
Weighted, waking
Pulled, it trails off …
Unheard echoes

Untamed growth

Unable to conjure

By Francis Scudellari

Unable to conjure
Spirit from lifeless clay;
To coax light trapped behind
Deathly mask's pale shell; Hard,
Inflexible set since
Firing flame flickered out

In-curled wisps of black smoke;
To raise fatigued soul, years
Pressed against bounded walls;
Accepting accustomed;
Thick-edged surface fixing
Inherited sense of

Impossibility;
I refashion, purposed
One-way portals invert;
Out-turn once received waves;
Colored particle streams
Bend, mind prisms project

Fanciful forms chiseled
On fragile facing rock;
Subtle shaded displays
Mimicking life enough
Lost essence, envious,
Energetic leaps free

Fanciful form chiseled

A haphazard sower

By Francis Scudellari

A haphazard sower
By trade, I am
Fore years (re)-collecting
With greedy hands--
Stretched, (im)-pulsed receptors--
Capriciously
Clasping seeds, on breeze borne;
So many missed
Trying, yet repeated
O'er time, enough
Caught, details in-word writ,
Samples heart-pressed

Out of e'er, safely kept
Abiding till
Filled to bursting, I reach
Within, shuffle
My minded book, unbind
These chance-chosen
Pages random pick, pluck;
Whimsy torn to(o)
Abstract bits, casting off
On trusted wind
Scatter-shot confetti
Swirled widely

Where crushed in fertile soil
By seasoned wheels,
Each turn around cracking
Dormant-laid husks,
Then-kernels take root, grow
Plentiful, push
Through crumbled surfaces
Our gathering
Future-fed harvest, just
Now imagined,
My fragmented self, whole
Again, (re)-born

My fragmented self

Variations on a book meme (bilingual)

I have been twice tagged with book-related memes by two fellow devotees to the art of virtual writing.

First, Patricia at Jane's Writing passed along the Page 123 Book Meme. Here are the rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

And here's the relevant passage from the top book on my nightstand pile -- No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy:

I know they's a lots of things in a family history that just plain aint so. Any family. The stories gets passed on and the truth gets passed over.

Next, Hanna from Amori, Poesie Arte, Chat called me out for the Page 161 Meme with the single charge of "selecting a book, opening it on page 161 and choosing a complete sentence." To honor Hanna's native tongue, I'll switch to Alberto Moravia's Il Conformista (The Conformist), which was a little lower in said pile:

Allora, improvvisamente, Marcello capì perché la vista della donna gli aveva ispirato quel doloroso sentimento di rammarico: in realtà, come si accorse, egli non voleva che ella facesse il piacere dell'agente e vederla subirne l'abbraccio l'aveva fatto soffrire come di fronte ad una profanazione intollerabile.

And here's my probably faulty translation (I'm sure Hanna will correct me in the comments):

Then, suddenly, Mercello understood why the sight of the woman had inspired that painful feeling of regret: in reality, as he realized, he didn't want her to have pleased the agent, and to see her subjected to his embrace made Marcello suffer as if facing an intolerable desecration.

Since both of these memes have been circulating for a while, I'll resort to my all-too-frequent tactic of the anonymous tag. If you (yeah you reading this) haven't done either of these yet and would like to, please have at them.

A-lone houred drift

By Francis Scudellari

A-lone houred drift
In accustomed lying,
I reluctant,
My conscious let go (of)
Self-feeding streams,
Current broken, thought-less
Diversion starved,
A slow flickering flame
Lost in-lapsing,
One last dying spasm
Fore it slips off
To not-being's black vault

Then, now, after
Un-timed lingering pause,
A sudden flash,
Life sparked by memory
Or divine breath (?)
(Re)-birthed in forms random,
Borrowed landscapes
Painted, impulse colored
Droplets, exhaled
Long ago, new-weighted
Cascade down, flood
Chaos-nurturing seas

Sleep's crested waves,
Arrhythmic rise, fall, push
Minded toward
Illogic's free embrace,
Pull from this heart,
A face, e'er locked, (a)-way
Till doubts edge ebbs
And (re)-seeded dreams flow,
Cedes I am, then
Quick-cut carried awake,
Her trailing voice
(Re)-calls my name, spoke once

Sleep's crested waves

Second sight: Random beauty

I tried to combine two purposes in this poem. First, I wanted to marry words to my Second Sight drawing. Second, I hoped to incorporate the weekly theme of Random Beauty proposed at Jane's Inspirations (I've needed external musing lately). The verse went through many incarnations before I finally came up with this ...

Random beauty

By Francis Scudellari

From youth,
My ever minded eyes
Mistook order
For truth; lured from chaos,
Followed
In-word
Cautions, learned not-living,
Chased flickering
Signs, brilliance-mixed shadows,
Feigning
Substance;
Pulsed flows -- electric thought,
Liquid feeling --
In-formed false, direction-
Tricked sense,
Scripted
Pathways for love, silent
Caring buried;
Divinely borne deceit
Pulling

Till life,
Clouded by distorting lens,
Made thick with time,
Awakens to blindness,
And I
Cast off
The jaded glass; sight-less
See shattered bits
Sprayed like moments; glimpse
Random
Beauty
In mirrored shards, scattered
As seeds; sowing
Tender epiphanies,
Stemmed hopes
Bursting
Through cracked surfaces, buds
Intertwined, sprout
Leafy, coincident
Futures

Second sight

This face ...

By Francis Scudellari

This face:
Familiar, yet
Unknown;
Blurred by distance,
Layered
Memory; lines
Smoothed out,
Smudged, then re-shaped;
Mute lips,
Eager eyes, morph
Harden;
Emptiness makes
New masks
To be shattered;
Vainly
Reassembling
A past
That never was
Always,
Only wished for

Self portrait, with tongue in cheek

Two eyes, conclusion

By Francis Scudellari

III.
Two eyes, a-part
Wholly transfixed, wander
Lost each, other
Focused a-head, seeing past.
One peers back, clocks
Months, days, hours: surfaced since.
One future grasps
Loosely imagined next.
A thin their links
Both, present over-looked.

Two eyes apart

Two eyes, part two

By Francis Scudellari

II.
One eyed dreaming
Unbound from old sight, flees
Ever wanting
To see all-owed (out). Frees
(In) herself, his
A-gain loosed guide. Stares,
Past steeped, love-locked,
Trip down, split too sudden,
Cast a-side, spill,
Lit distance spiraling

One eyed dreaming ...

Two eyes, part one

By Francis Scudellari

I.
One eyed sadness
Weighted to that spot, stays
Still unable
To look a-way (out). Finds
(In) himself, her
A-lone escort. Watches
Once-taken hands
Slip down, grown too heavy ...
Un-moved. Constant
Hearts drop, pooled time rippling

One-eyed sadness

History reads ... that I love

This poem was inspired by the title of another site's blog post. As often happens, I mis-read the phrase. Rather than the author's intended meaning (recommended historical texts), my twisted bit of consciousness took the word sequence in a completely different direction. It's a strange and bumpy ride, but you can follow where my wandering thoughts went here:

History reads ...

By Francis Scudellari

History reads:
That I love,
Or loved
Once ...

But more, distance re-moved,
From faded pages
Over-turned, to
Re-collect …

Is hard. Cold facts printed; inked on
Paper. Out-lined face, withdrawn
From flip-book memories,
Slight searched, to re-place …

Loving details. Seems
Now lost in too tangled
Stories. Close-knit, feeling full-
Blooded, color-drained as re-called:

Black-and-white.
Subtle touches
Be-loved, past sleeping,
Restless, as re-captured

Then
Becomes
Re-written.
My new fiction …

Winded

Birthright: Final Chapter

By Francis Scudellari

Jacob's Reward

There was a loud knock at Jacob’s door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Jacob sat hidden in the dark. He cowered before an inevitability. Bang. Bang. Bang. Its steady beat echoed throughout the building.

Jacob knew who it was. Jacob knew that he wasn’t going away. Bang. Bang. Bang. The door bulged with each blow; a worn-too-thin wall waiting to burst and release the ever stronger pulsing blood behind. The loudly repeated stresses began to warp the door jamb.

Fearful for his damage deposit, Jacob staggered to his feet. He flipped the light switch behind the couch. He walked unsteadily toward the incessant thundering.

The door squealed as he slowly pulled it toward him. There on the landing stood Edom. Twin licks of flame, his eyes burned with an anger Jacob had never seen. In his left hand, Edom held a rolled up copy of the current Grounds. The moist warmth of his beer-soaked breath brushed against Jacob’s cheeks.

“I warned you Jake. I warned you not to write it.”

Jacob closed his eyes in shame. He bowed his head, silently seeking forgiveness; a presumptuous pardon he knew that he would never receive.

There was a rush of movement in the doorway, and Jacob felt Edom’s thick knuckles strike his gut. The wind in his lungs escaped through his throat in a sudden gust. His knees buckled and Jacob crumpled to the floor. The stereotypical fish out of water, his mouth gasped greedily at the stale air.

“Why don’t you write a story about that, Jake.” Punctuating his words, Edom tossed the newspaper on Jacob’s pale face. He bounced down the stairs and left Jacob on the floor prone -- his knees clutched fast to his chest.

As the air gradually filtered back into his stomach, Jacob rolled on his back. Still, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, he saw a gathering shape. A seeming shift that floated vaguely in the orange lamp light. Her thin, sharp outlined arms reached down to him. Lifting him up closer to her, she breathed renewed life into his trembling body.

Jacob, finding his feet beneath him, walked over to the table. Sitting down at the typewriter, he cracked his knuckles. He stretched his arms over his head and let out a guilty chuckle as he began to type: “A smug smile crept across Joseph’s face as he climbed the musty staircase. His dirty blond hair was a tangled mess.”

Bridged

In in-between spaces

by Francis Scudellari

In in-between spaces,
Neither lingers,
Becomes
Not-yet undone, half-grown
Still, caught up in
Being
But, impatient a-mounts,
Too something, takes
A-stride
Longing, perched-on thresholds
Of next, a-wait
Halted
Change spanned, pulls up behind,
Drops down a-head,
Empty
Fills gapped instance, ever-
Minded, restless
For now

Bound by fate

If, one morrow

By Francis Scudellari

A simple question: If,
One morrow's treading fate
Falls heavy footed down,
What, sake lost, would we leave?

A fatted bloody splotch,
Full-heart blackened, soot stain …
By downpours, not rinsed clean;
E'en one million cycles

Or withered husks, empty
Love drained, desiccated …
By blasted sand cast off;
Dust mites fore-Time's brushed hands

Midnight Wanderings

You may have noticed the new avian-themed badge that is proudly displayed atop my sidebar. It's to mark my membership in a grouping of writers called the Society of Midnight Wanderers.

Conceived by JD at The Uneasy Supplicant and Mike at Mr. Grudge, it's a badge of honor binding those writers whose dedication to their craft takes them on journeys beyond the normal bounds of measured time. You can read a much more eloquent description of the society and its members here. I'm extremely flattered that JD and Mike included me in this.

I've written the following poem to commemorate the occasion, and am looking forward to sharing this badge with the host of wonderful writers and poets whose sites I happen across in my regular nocturnal wanderings through the blogosphere.

Midnight Wander

By Francis Scudellari

I touched, after midnight, wander
Raised from open eyed sleep, beckoned
Forth by icy unknown, digits
Pointing, scratched tips on knobby spine,
Nail-mapped pathways, scribbled ciphers
To guide my self-meand'ring steps

I feel, finger-forward, stumble
Into moonlit mists, mythic shrouds
Wrapping murmur-voiced brooks, watered
Cautions against too light led sight,
My long, lashed lids pulled down close, knit
To cloak seemed truth, trickling above

I kneel, with pair handed cup, down
Spade the black, wormed soil overturn,
Unearth tangled roots, topped plants gone,
Clearing shallow, seed softened bed
Where my thoughts can seep home, returned
To walk, once more in-waking dreams