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Saturday, June 27, 2015
The Poetry of Jaye Tomas: From the Upcoming 'Carnevale'
Jaye Tomas has be a "scribbler" all of her life, but the Internet provided a way to more easily share it. Creating Chimera Poetry (blog & facebook page) has been an incredible experience. The fact that anyone reads what she writes is a constant source of amazement and gratitude to her. Her biggest obsession is books and her reading tastes are eclectic to say the least: Tolkien, Lovecraft, Gaiman, Plath, Ellison, Christie, Aaronovitch, Yeats, Blake, King, Barker, Straub, Lopez, Maugham, Poznansky .....to name a very few. Originally from the windy suburbs of Chicago she now resides in the UK. Lately she has been casting her eyes in the direction of Italy, but hasn't completely settled on that.....yet. It may be back to the USA, it may be Edinburgh, it may be Gallifrey..... the beauty of the story is in the journey, not the arrival.
Jaye: [Some new poetry. Here are some samples.] These will all be in the new book (hopefully) arriving in A Store Near You in Summer 2015.
Anthony: What's the book called?
Jaye: The title is 'Carnevale' by Jaye Tomas and will be available in Amazon pretty much world wide :)
Anthony: Well, keep us informed on the latest. Jaye: I will provide a link to it as soon as it is live. I also attached the artwork for the book, done by the exceedingly talented Sorell (https://www.facebook.com/sorell.art).
Thank you once again Anthony. I very much appreciate the support and the chance to be seen.
Anthony: My pleasure and my readers' pleasure as well, I'm sure. And now a preview look at the:
Poetry from CARNEVALE
by Jaye Tomas:
dance with me through the streets of beaded windows
and wine washed cobbles.
Tie a string of sorrowful songs into your hair and let them flutter as the wind
washes us with spice and gold spinnings
catching on the pearls of your mask
and shining like dragonfly wings.
A night of magic and a day of wonder
with jugglers of butter yellow suns
and a waltz never played before
because at its merest tone
the weeping would overrun the rivers.
But still we dance
my Columbine and I.
Little dove in the starlit alley with the incense wrapping you like a
burnt sugar cocoon.
a stage for you to shine like the moon
like the secret chamber of an oyster shell.
These sinister diamonds
all in velvet spread out like a carpet
of finest Persian to tempt your touch
to tease your flashing feet,
and we flicker in the rosy dawn.
We unravel the clouds and weave them into teardrop portents to drop like
crystal balls in the gypsies tent.
I will play for you a mandolin of sighing zephyrs,
colorstained winds and skies that do not flicker,
do not lighten
but only deepen
infused in ancient and delicious sin.
A day of bones
a day of bones
and breaking sticks and stones…
A day of lying undetected
under hot sand and bleaching.
A day of being still
and being hungry and hunted
for in the sand you feel the secondhand warmth
but can’t ever see it golding across your face.
Can’t grasp the light that your eyes crave like a drug,
the trembling fall of brightness tumbling like motes through the sifted air,
is lost in the rasp
and in the motion denied…
and the bones stay still
in sin and in secret.
and the rods and cones run their machinery overtime
to keep the color locked tight within,
and the bones lock
to keep the trembling at bay.
Burrowing in all soft and fat
for the sand dollaring,
the hardening of your inner and outer self.
While the curtain calls for retribution not redemption in your rerunning dreams.
For in the simplest and most dispassionate of truths
there is no white charger,
the flying monkeys are out of control,
your knights are trembling with you in other, separate burrows,
and the day plods by….
Your cocoon gently strangling as you helplessly watch the sand settle in more tightly around you
and your bones accept this with resignation
and any brief and random thought of emerging
smothers itself in self preservation.
A day of bones,
a day of bones,
a day of breaking,
of sticks and stones.
Tell me how to read the secrets etched like runes upon your bones
the story written in the lines of your face
the palimpsest of your hands.
Tell me the mysteries in your abyss,
those submerged in the deepest pools
dammed in your mind
locked behind doors of iron and molten nightmares.
Tell me why pretending is a drug to you
why it caresses and intoxicates you and you bury your name and need in it.
Why you scrawl over and over again
on scraps of paper blown through the streets,
forget my scars shining like a river in the deepening light...
Forget the touch of me
that taints and burns.
Turn your heart and soul away, walk with no faltering
or else I may grab and hold on and lose us both...."
Tell me how you were made,
what dark and shadowed madman breathed over you
Did the composing hurt?
Were you brought forth in pain and
in the sweating, shuddering birthpangs of an otherworld changeling?
I want to learn your source
the very Nile you sprung from.
Tell me how to read,
Tell me how find the key
to unlock your wrapped and rusted chains
and set you free.