The Sleeping Muse
    
His muse sleeps on a burnished cheek,
a head become a looking glass,
its brass shines back my hopeful gaze.
My glance slides past the classic plane
of nose, the heavy lids that seal
her from a stranger’s stare and lingers
on her narrow lips, closed too, although
I see from her repose, her mouth must
have been open to Brancusi once.
Bodiless, she rests here after
their sweet hours tempting me to
wonder how he came to court that gloss
but there’s no answer from the muse,
the lady’s face is shut— fermé.

by Wendy T. Carlisle

Wendy Taylor Carlisle lives in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is the author of two books, Reading Berryman to the Dog and Discount Fireworks (both Jacaranda Books). Her most recent chapbook is Persephone on the Metro, (MadHat Press, 2014.) For more information, check her website at www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com.

Time is a River Without Banks, by Marc Chagall, 1930. The title is from Ovid's Metamorphosis.

Your Portrait

at the art gallery, mid-morning,
you stumble in
howling wind, driving rain
that much calculation, that little calling,
pay what you can
say what you must
naked and formerly naked thoughts
the paintings make more sense than your life
you are colourless, uncatalogued,
unsigned, unframed,
not part of a movement or a school
not engaged in madness or pain
not with muse or music of the soul
what will your passing mean
in a minute or a decade or so
what rages outside
weather and history and sad personal foibles
lovers with too many words
lovers approaching wordlessness
all this happening after you heard a voice
requesting justification and verification
for all those years and unsaid thoughts
you, a person without proper documents
without adequate scars or memories
of found and lost relatives
and friends of malformed loyalty
and half-forgotten exploits

there, a painting of you,
how can that be
it is mid-morning
you have entered here under duress
howling wind, driving rain,
the paint as dry as regret and guilt

an art expert nearby
expression of knowledge and cockiness:
“strange, I’ve never seen that portrait before,
time period ancient, colours modern,
what a peculiar amalgam
there is dispute over the artist
debate over authenticity
the signature blurred
yet it does capture something
of a past age’s anonymity and despair”

you turn from the painting,
annoyed with the smallness of the left eye
displeased with the faintness of the right eye
though the sad, forlorn mouth
is close to what you imagine yours 

outside, the skies have cleared
you are nearly dry
and you have enough for a coffee, maybe two

by J.J. Steinfeld

“Your Portrait” from An Affection for Precipices (Serengeti Press, 2006) by J. J. Steinfeld, copyright © 2006 by J. J. Steinfeld, and first published in The Writing Space Journal. Used by permission of the author.

Fiction writer, poet, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published fifteen books, including Our Hero in the Cradle of Confederation (Novel, Pottersfield Press), Should the Word Hell Be Capitalized? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Anton Chekhov Was Never in Charlottetown (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Would You Hide Me? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), An Affection for Precipices (Poetry, Serengeti Press), Misshapenness (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), A Glass Shard and Memory (Stories, Recliner Books), and Identity Dreams and Memory Sounds (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions). A new short story collection, Madhouses in Heaven, Castles in Hell, is forthcoming from Ekstasis Editions.

This Flesh Circus

Behold the colossal headgear, surprised into greatness like any of us, infinity awash in its
tidal lift.

Behold the curls above the face, a parody of certain other faces, calm and bee stung.

Behold the knob of the chin, the olive-standard skin, the body in its scalloped rompers, its
baton in hand.

Behold the cat’s excellent head, his eyes huge, gold-rimmed portholes, his rigid ears,
their shocking-pink interiors.

How perfect a green the green is here, under a topsy-turvy sky sucking up light from the
flawless forest.

It’s all so hopeful

until you consider the translucent wings, curved shadows of legs in water, cups, swords
and coins too near  a flower of flame which is again too near an actual bloom on its
skeletal stem--

but I digress--

and further, farther must admit: in this flesh circus, cartoon nature will resist the water
and a better-situated fish.

by Wendy Taylor Carlisle

Wendy Taylor Carlisle lives in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is the author of two books, Reading Berryman to the Dog and Discount Fireworks (both Jacaranda Books). Her most recent chapbook is Persephone on the Metro, (MadHat Press, 2014.) For more information, check her website at www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com. 

Visit contemporary artist Richard Ahnert at www.ahnertart.com.