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.
Psychedelic 😵💫 World by Rikki La Rouge
Psychedelic World is my first poetry book before Scenery of Society which would come years later. With this book I tried to get it published I sent it to all of the major publishers out there for example penguin publishing. There are two versions one is in English and the other one is written in Spanish. I did the illustrations for the work myself and it is true to the book being that it is a psychedelic drawing. I can’t explain the meaning of the drawing other than that it’s just cool and a snapshot of the machinations of my mind.
By Revista XCI by Rikki La Rouge 11 months ago in Poets
Mother’s Sun
10/30/25 I think of Claire Keegan when the leaves turn yellow. I think she would want it that way. I think of you when the wind hurts my ears. I think of you when the sun hits my face and when the homeless man at the bus stop blesses me for looking in his direction. He shows me his teeth and tells me God bless you, God bless you, the sun is on us, God bless you. He shows me his cross made up of eight seashells, tells me it’s his mother, traces horizontally, Sea to Sea. He tells me we’re all going through something and it will all be okay, tells me his mother died two years ago at ninety-eight, God bless you, God bless you. I bless him in return, with God, with the last dollar I have, with the tears that run down my neck. He says he’s not doing well, this will come back to me ten times, thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope he finds the sea and it blesses him forever. I hope the sun and the yellow leaves find him wherever he goes. I hope you think of me when the trees turn golden brown and start to fall like lost love letters. I hope you think of me forever. I would want it that way.
By Olivia Dodge11 months ago in Poets
Through the Keyhole
I pressed my eye against the brass keyhole and met a silence that almost spoke. Dust floated in its private universe, spinning slow galaxies in the light. At first, I saw nothing; only absence, like a dream already waking. But then the shapes began to breathe: a chair, a coat, a forgotten mirror. And in that mirror; me, younger, unguarded, still believing every door would open if I only knocked long enough. The keyhole narrowed my world to one trembling circle of truth. It framed what I’d lost; not people, not things,but versions of myself I’d locked away for being too tender, too trusting, too alive. I wanted to reach through, to whisper to that ghost of me: Don’t rush to grow hard. Don’t trade wonder for armor. The world won’t hand you keys, but sometimes, that’s mercy; because what’s hidden teaches you to see. When I finally stepped back, the door seemed smaller. The keyhole, infinite. And I understood: we are all peering through our own small openings, seeking glimpses of who we were before the lock was ever turned. the hardest truths about who we are aren’t found in grand revelations, but in small glimpses; like peering through the keyhole of our own memory. This poem reflects that quiet search for the self.
By Barry Michael11 months ago in Poets
