A dead balloon is a dead balloon

In the deep of the ocean, where the only reaching light is that of the angler fish, the layers  of oddities could compete with the cubistest (read “most cubist”) of arts. Colours are grey if at all visible and their display is chaotic at best. Within the disorder though exists a peaceful harmony behind which is hiding the agony of lonely hearts.

It came to this of course when one hand after the other let go of the rope holding them tight by the neck… in the end, some dreams within flew away either outgrown or just forgotten… and the balloons joined the parade of disillusion.The ones that popped were those that went all the way rope in hand towards the same dreams… ultimately though, they die… happy.

You see a balloon is not just a balloon for it contains dreams. I did not invent that though. Ending up in the wrong hands a dream is just a silly balloon, but in the hands of the 100 years old child the balloon is the ultimate treasured fantasies… for nightmares, you see, are just unpleasant dreams and as long as you hold on to your balloon, your life will get richer… in good or ill…

You’ll know when to let go… when its head gets so big that there is nothing else to do than to release your grasp. It will pop eventually and sink in the deep of an ocean or a lake… at peace with its fellow balloons, it will feel the heavy weight of the lonely hearts endlessly floating on wind drafts… never allowed to touch ground. Yes, a dead balloon is a dead balloon…

… but a dead balloon is not a dead dream…

————————————–

© Claire Perez Ekman 

All rights reserved – Copyrights 2012

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eek | Forgotten Wisdoms

Source: Jonas Ekman

Myths and legends do not tell lies and fantasies,
Nor do they rely – or trust – people’s superstitions:
Naught other than the will of the evil within -
Fearing stories have already led them astray.

They cast aside the all-knowing and pedantry
Shining a light on the natural ties that bind;
Yet fall in oblivious dismay and prejudice
When the wise men discards them all as pure folly.

Seeking the truth behind beauty of heart and soul,
- Unfailing to aid those in pain and suffering -
The witches’ hunt spread its unforgiving flames,
Religiously burning down their flesh and bones.

False and wicked truths of men have sprouted and arisen,
Spread their venom infecting the purest of hearts

They made the Gods fight endlessly over a name
Leaving the oracle at the gates of the world,
Thus the wise men declaring they had conquered Death
As science reasoned against the invisible magic
Of all thoughts and wisdom that were myths and legends

But the eye of the seer vanished behind the scythe,
Slicing thy destiny thou have taken for granted.

True to their nature, they have foretold and seen
What lies ahead the light footsteps of their children
As the oracle once said to the forefathers
The Gods will yet again prevail upon this Earth.

© Claire Perez Ekman
2011-2012

Picking the brain of the poet

Inspiration is not always a God’s sent, nor a muse’s touch… Inspiration needs to be provoked and worked up; it is like a muscle and sometimes it takes more than just a few daydreams or stroke of genius.

I have explained before that I like writing while listening to music… most of the times soundtracks… well, not today. Today, I was in want of inspiration and could not find it anywhere, so I looked where I should have from the start… I looked at my husband’s digital art, turned words in my head for about an hour until the first verse was laid on my notebook:

“It was the Gods that prevailed”.

The verse was too short, for some reasons I wanted to write twelve feet verses… so I turned the page and came up with this instead:

“Myths and legends do not tell lies or fantasies
they do not trust…”

I liked the sound of it – except for the unfinished second verse – but I did not know what it would all be about, I nonetheless built around the first verse until it began to mean something intelligible.

Yes, yes… but what does it mean?

The thing is that I do not fancy explaining what I – the artist – meant because it takes away your own fantasy as a reader. Even more so, when the main subject of the poem is the need to explain everything so that mysteries, dreams and imagination completely disappear from mankind. There are no secrets behind what I write; I deplore mankind’s abuse of power and its way of turning good into evil every other day.

This poem has a lot to do with the expression “what if…” Indeed, what if myths and legends that are populating our world’s literature were true… what if superstitions were true warnings for stupid habits that go against nature… what if small truths were trusted once again…

eek | Trance

Source: Jonas Ekman

Wilderness sneaking around
Savage to itself… uncontrollable
Civilisation mixed with rituals
Misplaced knowledge of what was
Yet… still is.

Understanding beyond grasp;
In a trance, get a glimpse
Of an existence or coexistence
That could be…

Untameable spirits of a world
Burning in our fists, fading even
As we stare forcibly to get closer,
Yet grow apart a little more
For every step we take…

Transcendent truth,
Of a long lost harmony.

© Claire Perez Ekman
2010-2012

# 5 – On the edge

Image: Againstar / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This is the end of it all,
Standing on the edge,
Crushed and misjudged,
I am ready to jump
Although my story
Isn’t finished yet.

I have looked through
Lines of wonderings;
And sought your
Lines of thoughts.

In front of the mirror
That are your eyes
Endless puzzles did I set up,
For us to solve.

I hate that thing
That you do:
Shake your head
Roll your eyes…

I believed we’d go on,
Hand in hand
And all the way,
Through the bumps
And the chaos.

Though all the way
You do not wish
To go with me.

Who cares really if yet
Our story isn’t done?
I am ready to jump
Crushed and misjudged
On the edge I stand.

This is my end
As I roll down
In the trash can.

© Claire Perez Ekman
2011-2012

Birth of a poem

I usually set out to write while listening to music: mostly soundtracks because there are no lyrics that can distract me. Music does not, however, set the mood of anything I write… at least not as far as poems are concerned. It does nonetheless help me set a filter-net for the triage of my sentences, expressions and words. This is how “On the Edge” came to paper and what it ultimately means. I do hope you have read it before peeking on the “making of”…

I was sitting on my bed, headphones on and music was starting to work its magic; notebook and pencil in hand, I was ready to write… the only problem was: what? I stared at the blank page, the cosy room with its friendly shadows on my walls… thinking: “what should I write about?”… Thinking: “In the deep of the night,”… Thinking: “dig deeper!” Nothing was coming. I shrugged my shoulders and closed my eyes, but I ultimately saw what I was planning to do the next day, which was absolutely no use at all. I opened my eyes again and I thought: “Standing on the edge”. I said to myself: “Alright, let’s try with this for a while.”

Naturally came to mind the picture of a woman standing on the edge of a cliff. She had her back turned on me. She looked pretty peaceful, for what I could observe, not even distressed and I wondered what she was doing there. I had absolutely no clue. She had long black hair dancing in the air; the light around her was that of a coming dawn maybe. It was definitely not night. I was staring and I really thought she would turn to me, but instead, I noticed her outfit: it looked like some kind of flannel, the wind made it float gracefully around her…I think it was a dress of words.

As soon as I realised that, her decor faded and so did she. I was now looking at a light brown desk in the middle of a very well-lit room, although each time I tried to see what was around, darkness blurred my vision. I focused on the desk… It was messy, with crumpled papers everywhere; pencils, notebooks and books occupied the entire surface; I wonder now how I actually could have seen the colour of that desk… but obviously, it belonged to a writer – mine maybe, I could not say. My eyes finally settled on a crushed ball of paper, “On the edge” of the desk and looking upon an already full trash-can.

Now I think you’d do well to read the poem again ^_^

eek | Bare to Crimson

Source: Jonas Ekman

From one life to another
Wild hunger
From survival
to freedom…

The colour mix
Matters no more
From bare
to crimson…

For artistic souls
Turn a blind eye
to the ever colourful
Beauty…

Of a life and another
Sketch from bare to crimson
Wilderness and freedom
Impossible to ever match.

© Claire Perez Ekman
2010-2012

eek | Abandon

Source: Jonas Ekman

Nothing to cuddle
But rifles and grenades;
From birth straight to war…

They know neither love
or tenderness…
Shedding tears of rage,
They fear nothing and kill
like one would breathe…

Thus as the fight ends,
Those who remain
silently dig their graves
While their new-found innocence
Lead their steps to playgrounds
of landmine fields…

’till they take up arms again.

© Claire Perez Ekman
2010-2012

eek | Circus of Gods

Source: Jonas Ekman

In the masquerade of their games
They rearrange the cosmos in mazes…
A star for every human being
Whirling and twirling with one another
In the never ending quests set for them…

They gather for doom and demise…
Carelessly betting on the best show
Struggle and misery divert them exceedingly,
While a minute of spotlight becomes
Meaningless to either party.

In the astral arena,
The clowns and tamed beasts
Walk-step under the tamer’s whip
To enter the Circus of Gods.

© Claire Perez Ekman
2010-2012