surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
6/12/26
The wind sounds like a door being pried open and left to slam against itself, and I wonder how long it’s been waiting to come out and witness the light gleaming down onto buried lovers– has it only been a day? Enough time to make a decision. A week? Enough to go back on it. I’m shoved into a metaphorical doorframe that keeps me in place until the next gust is up and ready, and I don’t know who’s in charge but they clearly haven’t a clue what really goes on here– it’s a game, not a puzzle. All we’re ever trying to do is contribute to something bigger. That’s all anyone wants. Tying knots with your teeth and shoving bags into clammy hands is just as much a role as pumping the plastic out a day later. I’ll never know what it’s like to be the organ, but maybe I’ll have a chance at it when this guy declares a winner– you can tell he’s getting antsy so it won’t be long now. Don’t worry— the locks aren’t super sturdy, anyway. Just close your eyes until they call your name. I can hear the doors and the wind and I know it only lasts a second. It’s only ever a second.
By Olivia Dodge13 days ago in Poets
The Canvas That Ate the Art
We scraped the cedar, burned the vine, To build an altar, strictly white; A sanctuary, spare and fine, To hold the uncorrupted light. We banished brass and copper pots, And painted out the oak’s warm grain. To cure the world of clumsy spots, We made a temple out of plain. *“A pure blank canvas,”* so we swore, *“Where living paints its own design!”* Yet should a shadow cross the floor, It blurs the sterile, sacred line. A muddy footprint turns profane; A droplet bleeds like mortal sin; We scrub away the summer rain To keep the quiet museum in. Now, breathless in the silent frost, We guard the emptiness we bought, And count the paralyzing cost Of living inside zero-thought: A canvas bleached so clean and bare, So terrified of mark or stain, That nobody may breathe or dare To let the painted life begin.
By Forest Green13 days ago in Poets
