Poeme de Diana Thorensen

Lightbearers of the Pink Flame

The crystal-pink light
Flows like the pliant Loire
For the fledglings nesting
In bountiful Grollean grapes

Lilac sunsets scream for
Cerebral Angevin wines
Brimming with raspberry
Reflections and rose petals

The delicate yet tangy cherry
Rips through spacememory
Filaments to sweep over
Nanking, Gettysburg, Verdun

Thousands roll out of creamy
Textured waves of death and
Hug each other regardless of
Banners, uniforms, misdeeds

Nothing escapes a waterfall
Of blazing neuromorphic light
That shimmers in crystal caves
The empty space of atoms

Is shining with the sun of
Understanding; forgiveness is
Flying with the wings of cosmic
Victory and the brushwood

Aroma of summer red berries
This miracle solvent of pink
Hibiscus flowers finally returns
To the sandstone soil of Anjou

Dying in Laurel Canyon

Everything is sickness and weakness with Ingmar Bergman.
(Charles Bronson)

In this hamlet, Death is a warm oven:
It has always been open like space
No trace is left of amethyst clarity
And the labored breath still lives on
Inside the Dyonisic offerings of flowers

Blue life lines and brittle blue walls,
All tragically festooned with sun-lit
Palladian words. Neptune reigns here.
A touch of the streets once spiked
The blood for a student Bel Air prince

Until a vigilante shooting star fed
Him warm tea instead of mother’s milk
How do you say blue in Lithuanian?
And can Houdini conjure the mesmerizing
Bright pink of a cold beetroot soup?

Time is a slippered murderer clad
In soft and noiseless emu feathers
Ever shifting dunes of morphine dreams
Sidestep the peaceful lull of Baltic waves

Or was it those sea witch voices?

Harmonized and crystallized, the music called

Forth the purple splendor of old gods

Who relish the vaulted blood of Ben-Hur

On All Hallow’s Eve…

The pain of living in a Roman war galley

Is metastasizing through the blue house

No sun gods come with healing water

Enter Death with a fistful of ale; the fluid

Camera cuts with the hissing and the teasing

Of monosyllables: now the young must die

Author Notes:

Inspired by my husband’s story of meeting Jason McCallum before his suicide. The house he died in was bought by his second father, Charles Bronson. It was heavily decorated in blue.

As a child, Bronson grew up speaking Lithuanian and Russian.

Ramon Novarro was murdered in Laurel Canyon in 1968. He starred in Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ, a 1925 American silent epic adventure-drama film.

On Becoming a Tree Dryad during Wet Season

O river, what are you?

The dark green intaglio
Of a sky serpent hissing
Beside a basalt menagerie
Of ghostly biomorphs
…and rocks thrilling with memories

The rain season is dissolving
My comet-laden bones in
A hierophany of silky water again

The river is disgorging fire eggs
Life out of death inside a pyramid eye
Summer and winter
Both resplendent
While donning Ptah’s lapis lazuli cap

I yearn to grow my tree arms into
A solitary boulder
Facing northward lavender hills
Suffused by lunar radiance at night

I’m vanishing into the lattice-work of time
Or broken shards of  Ionic volute spirals
Against the backdrop of silvery mica mist
My Daphne voice will be heard
In occasional high winds whistling
Through the deep silences
Vaster than dotted lines of God

Mad Song of a Vestal

(Dedicated to Eve Lorgen. Thank you for the light)

Red poppies, red poppies! Slave, carry them away at once
My brother, my brother, what have you done

Ah, how hideous every red flower is
Their murderous roots buried my Sibylline whispers forever
My brother, my brother, what have you done

Tarquinius rides out of every red chrysanthemum at midnight
He’s a tiger bright Helios and I’m burned to a cinder like Semele
My brother, my brother, what have you done

Our terracotta warm Etruscan villa is now burning with red orchids
I see bleeding roses everywhere: a gashing Orcus wound on every wall
My brother, my brother, what have you done

His crimson martial cloak and iron helmet with feathers
Still blaze with battlefield sunsets and bull’s stardust blood
My brother, my brother, what have you done

His touch is a searing red anemone in April as the Ram rises in the sky
His kisses are blinding bright marigolds which bloom all summer long
My brother, my brother, what have you done

He says we are to love each other like gods do
Vesta, Vesta, Vesta, hide me in a pure white shroud by a quiet spring
My brother, my brother, what have you done

You threw me on a spice-laden altar like a burnt offering
My hair is aflame with Medusa serpents, my pale skin is peeling off
My brother, my brother, what have you done

There is poisonous red coral tree growing in my swan blood
Vesta, Vesta, Vesta, bury me with a blue sapphire over my heart
My brother, my brother, what have you done

Diane de Poitiers and the Undines

Sadly unnoticed by Gustave Flaubert, a wordsmith
Daydreaming of a moon mistress

The phantom awakes within the gilded artifice
Of Fontainebleau myths and quaintly shaped lakes

Beyond the miasma of Flemish tapestries and flesh
Diane remains an unextirpated perfumed letter

Whose Gothic script completely dissolves
In the labradorescent dance of the waves

Shining undines serenely salute
The first rays of the sun under five airy arches

Entwined initials which don’t know the flow of time
Are watching the river don different masks

Henri sees the light of Diane and all lilies sing
Chenonceau stuccos are altered and diffused

When the chaste Diane wanes and turns dark
Only silvery water remains an unbending champion

Of eternal light in the evergreen spring of soul
Soothing streams bring a sharp finesse of mind

Inside a most sacred chapel of pure devotion
Where even crowned revenants find a way to trust

Author Notes:


Diane de Poitiers loved Chenonceau, she devoted much of her time and money turning Chenonceau into one of the finest royal palaces in France. Her bedroom „The Chamber des Reines” is a delightful blend of style and luxury. The room is dominated by Diane de Poitiers’ bed which is believed to have an ‘extraordinary’ effect on those who lay on it. In his book Along the Loire, Gustave Flaubert described his delight at seeing Diane de Poitier’s bedroom:

„Among the amusing artifacts that you can find in Chenonceau, is the bed of Diane de Poitiers, a canopy bed from the royal concubine, covered with damask. If it was mine, I would not resist lying down once in a while. To sleep in the bed of Diane de Poitiers, even empty, is much more exciting than sleeping in other bed with much more touchable realities. Imagine, if you are part of those who have imagination, the incredible, historical and 16th century voluptuousness, to put your head on the pillow and the mattress of the concubine of Henri II. Oh! How would I like to exchange all the women in the world against the mummy of Cleopatra”

Meritaten and Meketaten

Does one miss the sea after all?
Now that you were all flesh and bone
…finely woven from the Sun…
Swooning westward each day

Did silky onions gleam in the moonlight at Amarna?
Did Maat pierce your rib cage with each sunrise?
Did a Libyan glass scarab blaze like a rod of flame?

The desert rain listened in on your trances
A cauldron of diamond light inside your fortress city
Funny princesses — you were so artistically caged

Did you ever come back from the Milky Way to finally
Sink under the ocean waves, that dear old starry soup?
A Maldives holiday? No? What about Florida?
Or go for lonely walks in some world city and
Sit down with a cappuccino, incognito of course
While listening to a fountain nymph
Anonymity at last: what a celestial life
Every gentle oak dryad still recognizes your rank

What of crystal tipped obelisks and limestone temples?
Such things wash off
Like malachite eye shadow
Or white sand from the beach
Life washes off

Marvellous Magenta Kunzite

Psyche’s heart is a marvellous magenta kunzite
I tried to flee her rosy radiance
Because while I was traveling in the starry realms of Hypnos
Love spilled a black toad on my bow and arrows

I sought a distorted reflection of my soul in the viperous moon light
Selene grimaced
I was lost in a forest of Dali-esque melting clocks
Each mirror reflected my own jackal mask

I saw a glimmer of my heavenly twin
In the green harmony of a water lily pond
Echo got swallowed by a mountain like Sita
Hanuman silenced the noise of the world with his golden mace

The world turned another page, I froze, I became a blue ray
I found myself in the snowy abode of Lord Shiva
Four holy rivers flew from every corner of the earth
The heart of Mt Kailash was a marvellous magenta kunzite

Alexandrite Fires

I’m lost in a glass menagerie of
Rainforest spirals
Sunlight strikes the chiaroscuro
Canvas of figs
And everything explodes with
Fires of green profusion
Djed pillars of enormous
Trees rise inside my spine
Blue butterflies
Pollenate my eyes till
They rot on the damp ground
A green tree frog gives me
Her tomato eyes
Now I shine like a jaguar