—from Gulf War Collages by Marsha Connell
Beneath a bandage of snow the stones of Masada—
wounded mathematics address a long mountainous road.
Am I dreaming a mirage of islands on the horizon?
Why not sooty chimney stacks or columns of faith?
Fluted pillars lintel the sunset. Icons of the past
take flight.
I struggle with the mechanics of closed systems.
In the collage, a virginal doll fell from a brooding sky.
Names of religion, of stars. Of missiles. The sixth
pillar.
From Tel Aviv, photos of the artist’s daughter in a
gas mask;
an “I am” escapes on the breath of the god of
collateral damage.
I thought of Georgia O'Keeffe in the desert painting the
secrets
of flowers in the curved throat of mountains.
This is my body said the doll as she orbited industrial skies,
the moon is chasing the earth's darkness. This is
my blood.
When the cities were bombed, I dreamed of skiing on
sand.
Who told me to ski the fall-line with harmonic
determination?
We traverse a slope too steep to bear the weight of
the world
in the direction of declination. A leap of faith.
Sand and snow are one thing, but time stutters
and slips like old movies as we watch celluloid fires
on CNN.
They say life passes before the eyes of those resurrected
from death.
In those last infinite seconds, what images did the
mind choose to view?
Drink from the body of memory, the world is a narrow
bridge.
The mountains, stubbled with 6 O'clock shadow.
If we make it out of this one, it'll be a close
shave,
no matter what icons we choose to salvage or bury.
Summer 1991/9/2001
DREAM VESSELS # 8: Masada, FIRST DRAFT
from a collage by Marsha Connell
from a collage by Marsha Connell
The limestone of the acropolis is pitted with age.
Can you imagine the Acropolis under snow?
Like the mountains, purity in the form of crystals,
the lowest common denominator of life.
Crystalline structure, pure mathematics.
Inside the lemon heart of the morning glory
is a chalice of fishes because the doll
who was a virgin, tumbles from a soot-filled sky.
are there really islands on the horizon?
Or did I just dream them?
Why not the sooty chimney stacks
or the columns of the Acropolis?
Fluted pillars holding up a lintel to the sky.
At sunset, the unbelievable weight of the sky
bears down on the Acropolis.
One can hear the class and horns of Athens,
the palpable air, so thick,
one involuntarily struggles with the mechanizations
of a closed automatic systems.
The breath, to inspire, the first I am to rise
on the breath of the gods in order to make monuments to him,
but inside the heart of the flower,
the chalice is filled with the underbellies of fish,
an upside down in a world of air.
I think of Georgia O’Keefe in the desert
slaying dragons and painting the secret life of flowers
in one fell swoop.
But someone once told me to ski the fall-line
because the path down requires harmonic determination.
to traverse from the fall-line was to step out of the main stream.
Tackle the slope head-on, weight of shoulders downhill,
facing the direction of declinations.
Yes, there is a rhythm or dance,
like the curved shadows of mountains
repeated on the curve of a flower,
a smooth throat pulsing with yellow,
and the vessel of fishes, more communal than corporeal.
This is my body said the doll as she orbited the factories,
an unnamed planet, or a satellite following the earth’s curve.
Sometimes I dream of skiing on sand.
Sand and snow are one, but everything is in slow-mo,
like in the old movies.
They say your life passes before your eyes as you drown.
I can’t help but wonder, in those last infinite seconds,
what images the mind chooses to view?
A trip to the Acropolis one summer, a forgotten ragdoll,
the column of smoke from the factory,
the throat of a flower, morning glory and sacrament.
Drink from this memory,
the mountains are stubbled with 5 o’clock shadow,
and we if we make it out of this one, it’ll be a close shave
no matter how many icons we bury, or resurrect.
Summer 1991
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