Seran Dori @serandori - Tumblr Blog

Coin de jardin avec papillons, 1887 Vincent van Gogh

#vincent van gogh #1887

Garden at Arles, 1888 Vincent van Gogh

#vincent van gogh #1888

classicalcanvas

The Green Vinyard (1888) by Vincent van Gogh

yama-bato

Louis Le Brocquy

Louis le Brocquy HRHA (1916-2012) DUBLINERS - SACKVILLE STREET, 1986

theladyintweed

Louis le Brocquy

The North Gallery After Heavy Rain

He dreams the museum has flooded. Docents pole gondolas through galleries where saints blister under green water. At the bottom of the Impressionist wing, a marble fox and hound are fused snout to tail by calcified silt. She watches from above, pressing her face to the skylight, noting how coins and crucifixes spiral in the same slow drain — devotion and transaction sharing a geometry. Below, a pendulum swings. She thinks: we never agreed on which side means yes. The plaques beneath paintings have all been revised into questions. Even the exit signs flicker ambiguously: depart or become light. He carries two candles that gutter toward each other, following her through galleries, the flames bending like litigants over a map.

#poem #poetry

1five1two

'Full Moon'. Kazuyuki Sutoh.

Domestic Study with Orange and Reversible Light

He cannot sleep now. The ceiling fan divides and redivides the dark. On the windowsill, a moth batters itself against the reflected room, believing another moth contests its claim. Outside, dawn unstitches the horizon with its usual false dilemma: night relinquished to day, as though shadow were not still folded inside every lit thing. He thinks of magnets, their evangelical poles; of lovers who turn arguments into architecture; of how the body keeps manufacturing left and right despite the heart’s refusal to stay on either side. Beside him she murmurs in sleep, a language made mostly of crossings-out.

When morning enters, it enters unevenly. The kettle shrieks. A truck reverses in liturgical beeps. They stand in the kitchen passing an orange back and forth without peeling it. The fruit glows like a minor sun between their hands. Neither of them says what they suspect: that every border is the scar of something once continuous, that choice itself may only be a hallway mirror teaching depth through duplication. Still, he reaches for the knife. She reaches for the salt.

#poem #poetry

Marginalia for a House with Two of Everything

They wake in shifts. She names the sounds outside: owl or hinge, weather or animal. He says every noise is a corridor with two doors pretending not to share a function. The radiator knocks like a tenant learning Morse through a wall. Somewhere, a siren lifts its hem over the district, red-blue, artery-vein, accusation and rescue braided in one rotating mouth. He thumbs through a book on heresies and marginalia, finding each century invented twins to drag through the square: elect and damned, reason and fervor, empire and ash. The mind, he thinks, loves a clean incision, the butchered fruit split to disclose its mirrored chambers. Yet the peach pit resembles a clenched ear more than a verdict.

#poem #poetry