Category Archives: Poems

Victorian Occultism and the Art of Synesthesia | The Public Domain Review

Somehow it makes sense that Donovan, the musical muse whose song “Mellow Yellow” and the scents his music seems to evoke me in me?  Like lavender and the use of his music for Yardley soap go together. The ideas of the spiritual realm of ectoplasm and Madame Blavatsky’s wish to embrace to a degree Indian mysticism.  It starts to all make sense that the Beatles were the first to explore publicly the delicious juxtaposition of sitars, chanting and their auric fields in music.

But, I had no idea that synesthesia went back this far.  The illness of synesthesia seems to be a wonderful one, albeit no doubt quite overwhelming!  The ability to smell thoughts or see the colors of scents.  An illness os excessive sensory perception.  I often wondered if I have this disease!  But, no one has said just yet that Mar’s seems to be made of  of chile and mole chocolate lava as a planet!

What then does jupiter taste like if the moon is made of blue gorgonzola cheese?  I guess it tastes sweet. Just my guess. Like violet British “Chowards” candy. Be careful if you bite into the planet Saturn, for it might bite you back indeed!   

Thought-Forms, a strange, beguiling, frequently pretentious, utterly original book first published in 1901, emerged from this ferment of late-Victorian mysticism. It was written by Annie Besant and Charles Leadbeater, erstwhile members of the London Theosophical Society alongside Yeats, and it features a stunning sequence of images that illustrate the book’s central argument: emotions, sounds, ideas and events manifest as visual auras.

The book’s grand ambitions are evident from the first page. “To paint in earth’s dull colours the forms clothed in the living light of other worlds,” Besant laments, “is a hard and thankless task.” She insists that the images in the book “are not imaginary forms, prepared as some dreamer thinks that they ought to appear.” Rather, “they are representations of forms actually observed as thrown off by ordinary men and women.” And she hopes that they will make the reader “realise the nature and power of his thoughts, acting as a stimulus to the noble, a curb on the base.” This grandiloquence was typical: fin de siècle occult leaders produced some of the most baroque writing in literary history, the purplest of purple prose.

Yet what are we saying, exactly, when we call black words on a white page “purple”?

These sorts of underlying associations between words, colors and sounds were precisely what motivated Thought-Forms. In other words, the book was about synesthesia. The illustration of the music of Mendelssohn reproduced above, for instance, depicts yellow, red, blue and green lines rising out of a church. This, Leadbeater and Besant explain, “signifies the movement of one of the parts of the melody, the four moving approximately together denoting the treble, alto, tenor and bass respectively.” Moreover, “the scalloped edging surrounding the whole is the result of various flourishes and arpeggios, and the floating crescents in the centre represent isolated or staccato chords.” Color and sound had become commingled.

“The music of Gounod” – Source.

Yet Leadbeater and Besant intended not only to visualize sound, but to demonstrate their distinctive psychic gifts: the ability to detect spiritual “vibrations” of ideas, emotions and sounds as visual forms. This, in other words, was a sort of spiritual synesthesia, as much a religious act as a neurological one.

via Victorian Occultism and the Art of Synesthesia | The Public Domain Review.


Ivy on the Path: Rosmertas Altar


Bronzed flowers on the vine
harvest soaking in the brine
Rosmerta of mead and heather wine
Abundance feast upon the shrine
Great Provider, oh divine
Little Rhyme for Rosmerta, by Angelina Nelson-J

Ivy on the Path: Rosmertas Altar.


Diagnosis: Ecume des jours

What does “The Froth of Days” “Mood Indigo” and “A Streetcar named desire” have in common?  The tinge of hope.  The splendor of  dreaming violets, with a racing scent speeding into the periwinkle skies.  The welcoming pleasure within a garden of silken fleurs du sucre vanille.

When I saw an enchanting yet slightly perturbed wisp of melancholy in a photo called Ecume des jours?  I began to discover the book by Boris Vian called “The Froth of Daydreams”   In this photo titled  “Ecume des jours”  I was wont to ponder this photo collage of an Asian woman as the main feature in a collage dream like state, where flora and fauna was superimposed as her mind-cranial sacral area of her head.

I shall try to describe it?  Inside of this almost park which was cropped into her hair was the man whom wandered within a garden mirrored all betwixt the parts which made up her silhouette.  (If I could I would post it here, but I do not have permission from the artist.) As if women were trying to discover and recover her true nature. Don’t we all feel a bit Frankenstein?

It got my mind to wander into this novel called “The Froth of Days”  The title of the photo I meandered onto, on FB by a person named Astral Vibes.  I really love the poetic sensuality all encompassed in the title.  Alas?  What is the thread like Hawaiian leis of orchids which link these 3 themes above. “The Froth of Days” “Mood Indigo” and “A Streetcar named desire”  ?



Does anyone ever reminisce about Vivian Leigh in A Streetcar named desire, when she says things like ” I depend upon the kindness of strangers” in her genteel fragile imaginary paradigm. How she may be busted flat in Baton Rouge but she can muster up a dull copper penny for a Chinese lantern made of paper to shield herself from the brutal bright, raw piercing light of a mere barbaric bulb.


As if Stanley himself were that animal like villain, brutish bare and incongruous bulb, which she must curry favor with to no avail.  She feels more comfortable in the secrets of the shadows.  Of course we adore Marlon Brando strangely in his obscene yet clothed masculinity.  There shall never be another king whom became a man as he.  Alas, he is the sun itself in all it’s unabashed inferno.


It’s uncharted and inflamed pure madness itself which drew Icarus to burn its winged dream. Be wary of too much light impure.  Perhaps the perfect women is 1/2 Blanche and 1/2  Stella? Stella which means stars.  The sun is the brightest star and if not for the pink moon of night?  All teal tinged froth azure, would become singed, and all flowers burned.


Stanley: That’s pearls, Stella, ropes of ‘em. What is your sister – a deep sea diver?

The indirect shade, so forgiving.  So lush. The underlying mood and sincerity of those whom are ill is what Blanche speaks of, evokes a sapphire mood indigo.  Mood Indigo, the languid and bittersweet blue with its absence of light.  The absence of glaring and burning golden fire.  Flowers seem to burst either in the magic of dawn after a the earth has its mystical sleep?  Or, at twilight when in a grand flourish gust of music buds begin to blossom.  The sweetness of the earths imagination. Perhaps flowers are the kindest strangers whom always invite one to ponder beauty.

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When I think of Mood Indigo, it is one mood where we begin in a doldrums of  doubt.  Perhaps a hope dashed?  A love unrequited.  Then for a moment, the heart takes a vacation from its heartache and begins to daydream?  Here perhaps begins the recipe for escape.  Dreams chase the tail of the Cheshire cat, yet we need the sparkling glimmer of inspiration to spark us onto new passions? If we have enough faith we might pounce upon one of our daydreams to make them real.  This brings me to this novel called “The Froth of Days”  described here: 

Froth on the Daydream
Book by Boris Vian
Froth on the Daydream is a 1947 novel by the French author Boris Vian. It tells the story of a man who marries a woman, who develops an illness that can only be treated by surrounding her with flowers. Wikipedia
Flowers are the stuff of angels.  Warm yet never scorching.  A bridge of hope in their inviting rejuvenating nature.  I would love to see this film and be healed with flowers.  Roses remind me that in the dense, damp, musky earth, so gravity leaden with geologic granite and fibrous bark of trees? That there is music which the melancholy planet speaks.  There is suddenly a counter force which defies the mundane. Suddenly there is poetry in spite of the  existentialist rancor of stony abyss. Roses!  Spring itself defies all logic. What is it that suddenly renews our little planet with chirping sudden blossoms and greenery supreme. Spring is nature falling in love. It dares to rise above hopelessness. About logic. All that was old is again renewed.  For me this is the froth of days.  Just as the most weary soul is suddenly revived by a 4 o’clock cappuccino.  The magic of meringue. The uplifting roar of caffeine. Those bewitching spells of molecules which send the spirit to rise above the mundane.  It is for this reason that I have devoted my life to the  the grande dame,  “Lady Camellia.”  Chanel grew enchanted by camellias as did Dumas.  In the secrets of the blossoms?  All the fairies know the humble yet powerful elixir of the camellias, which is Camellia Sinesis.  Camellia Sinesis of all the cultivars in the plethora of these round many radiating petals so perfectly curved is the most humble of all.  The ugly duckling in fact of their kind, which alone like Cinderella majestically becomes the life flowing healing within its leaves and blossoms.
It is where water and sky are sipped and we are suddenly revived. How brave is hope within a rose?  How daring it is to appear in the most scoundrel of vacant rubbish lots.  In Mexico, the virgin Mary is reputed to have shown her divinity by causing roses to grow in the most barren land, in order to prove that there is always powerful unseen forces at work upon Mother earth. I can’t wait to see this movie Ecume Des Jours but I shall buy the book as well. To be under the spell of which only beautiful blossoms can break the calcification of a hardened heart.  We witness perhaps God’s alchemical healing. Flowers are the rainbows of the earth after frightful storms.
  Most fearful matters of life according to Zen is merely transformation and celebration or resistance to change and the trail of thorns it entails.  If we refuse to add the creme of tartar of wisdom or the sparkles of salty wit in soda?  These most basic ingredients in life make the Willy Wonka Chocolate factory bubble. If we go to sleep each night with hate?  We are not a garden where fragrant little bells of ivory Muguet lilies can grow, but a twisted bramble inside of acidic honks, squeaks and squawks. It’s as if not following mother natures recipes in stubborn foolishness we become lead balloons!
Then the little squirrels and winged creatures can sense our metallic bitterness and scamper away to where the sun and the moon waltz.  I too am sick with the disease of which only flowers can cure.

Some how? There is no space, but only love betwixt the ocean and the sky.
The flood of clouds as effervescent as seltzery music. The horizon makes an algebraic impossible equation. The two azure atmospheric phenomenons of oceans and skies are one. There is no space in between the cerulean bodies except an eclipse of  froth like frosting.  Such spinning is the levity of love. It’s as if the angels have been baking and the mixologists potions stirring.

Théâtre Rambouillet Ecume des jours.

Edgar Allen Poe

Rain after Life, Life after Rain with you are explosions of life


Si annuncia con una brezza. L’aria diventa densa e piu’ fresca. I colori si scuriscono. E poi l’umidita’. Che si scioglie sul corpo. Ai lembi della maglietta. Rossa. Si adagia un colore plumbeo. Cade. Cade da chi sa quanti chilometri. Un viaggio lunghissimo strato dopo strato.


Poi sono catenelle. Liquide. E il primo piacere. In verita’ prima per un attimo brevissimo e’ come la visione di una lama, un sorriso sapendo che non esiste o forse il guizzo di uno specchio. Perche’ e’ la sensazione di un piccolo freddo. E poi quel piacere che ti corre incontro cambiando il cielo.


Salto giu’ dal camion ridendo e inzuppandomi. E mi godo quell’acqua che mi investe, mi affronta, mi circonda, mi rende tavolozza d’acquerelli. Doccia naturale, spalti elfici, mare rovesciato, fiume verticale. Vita.


Guardo trasognato i miei tatuaggi che diventano lucidi, smaltati resi vivaci improvvisamente. Un fumetto che si riprende le sue storie incurante del suo corso. Il verde smeraldo dei prati si specchia sulla mia pelle e ogni corso sembra mescolato. Vividezza d’amore. Bosco adamantino di flutti veraci.


Un esercito nero si staglia all’orizzonte confondendomi i sensi. So che voglio affrontarlo da solo. Volero’ sapendo di venir spazzato via e poi di nuovo adagiato dopo essere stato attraversato da bastioni d’acqua. Le macchine si fermano, lucine rosse di paura, io scendo e nuoto e sento e mi batto e avanzo e danzo con le perline liquide.


Non dovrebbe smettere mai, per permettermi di andare oltre lo stato amniotico, per inoltrarmi nel sogno di realta’, per viaggiare ancora nello strato che lava e lava e lava il mondo intero.


E poi e’ solo musica. Liquida

a batallion of peonies shoot pollen at bees



    Full metal flowers. Ventitre gradi.
    E’ primavera e invece e’ estate. Mi sono scottato. Dentro il sangue. Brucia questo caldo incendiando i colori e io ne sono trafitto. Non so da che parte girarmi. Mi strugge la sabbia sotto i piedi. Mi schiaffeggiano i potenti cespugli di ginestre giallo pieno lungo i bordi delle strade. I papaveri amarantati stesi come braci ardenti nei campi. Gli occhi mi fanno male per tanta bellezza. Vorrei gridare oppure ridere e invece mi tuffo nell’acqua.


    Posso berlo tutto il mare?


    E’ una droga. Inebbriante, cosi’ tossica. E’ questo profumo che mi costringe a dovermi contenere. E’ la mia vita passata che preme contro la pelle che conserva la memoria di certi gesti fatti in spiaggia. Il rastrello di metallo alla sera come un rito mentre si tolgono le impronte, le ultime dei bagnanti. E poi finalmente soli, il sole che cala come la fetta di limone nel rhum, il mare che si acquieta, il silenzio, qualche formina di bambino smarrito dopo una lunga giornata iniziata quasi all’alba. In fondo il bagnino e’ un eremita, un guerriero di un esercito formato da ronin. Ci trovavamo a volte a correre lungo la battigia dopo il lavoro, squadre speciali dell’elemento acqueo, come custode il cielo.


    Perdonatemi se vi parlo ancora del mare, non riesco a capacitarmi che hanno vietato le arbanelle di acciughe, vorrei fare il pescatore da grande. Mi aspetta un gozzo. Lo rendero’ unico. Trasportera’ fiori da una baia all’altra affinche’ le donne possano piangere. Ma di gioia e tenerezza. E un giorno verra’ una brezza leggera, profumera’ di fiori di zucca fritti e sugherelli, ci prendera’ per mano e ci fara’ volare sopra distese di violette.


    Sta marciando l’estate con passo fermo e deciso verso i nostri cuori.




    Full metal flowers. Twenty-three degrees.
    It ‘s spring and instead’ summer. I burned. Inside the blood. Burn this burning hot colors and I am pierced. I do not know which way to turn. Consumes me the sand beneath your feet. I slap the powerful full yellow gorse bushes along the roadsides. Poppies amarantati spread like hot coals in the fields. My eyes hurt for so much beauty. I want to cry or laugh, and instead I dive into the water.


    I can drink all the sea?


    It ‘a drug. Intoxicating, so ‘toxic. And ‘this scent that makes me having to hold. It ‘s my past life that is pressed against the skin that keeps the memory of certain gestures made beach.The rake of metal in the evening as a ritual while removing the fingerprints, the last of the swimmers. And then just finally, the sun sinking like a slice of lemon in the rum, the sea calms down, silence, some shaper of missing child after a long day began almost dawn. At the end of the lifeguard and ‘a hermit, a warrior of an army made up of ronin. We were sometimes running along the beach after work, special teams element vapor, as guardian of the sky.


    Forgive me if I speak yet of the sea, I can not comprehend that have banned arbanelle of anchovies, I would like to be a fisherman to be great. I expect a goiter. I’ll sink ‘single. Will transport ‘flowers from one bay to another so that’ women can cry. But with joy and tenderness. And one day will be ‘a light breeze, smell nice’ of fried zucchini flowers and sugherelli, we will take ‘hand and we will do’ fly over stretches of violets.


    Summer is marching with firm and decisive step towards our hearts.


Thanks for the magic Verdoux or Jaromil Jires

for more wonderful images see source at link below. Thanking also Astro Vibes for introduction to Valerie!


Binary Ane Brun

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