Photo shoot of novel-in-progress, Nocturne Variations
Posted in Books, Prose, Uncategorized
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Tagged blueprint, book, John Biscello, Literary, nocturne varations, novel, photo, process, work
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Grateful for the appraisal & support, especially since I am seeking a new home for my orphan-child, after my publisher recently closed its doors.
“And the award for Best Indie Read So Far goes to…..Raking the Dust by John Biscello. I was totally blown away. In fact, I was so impressed, that I actually resent the fact that this hasn’t been picked up by a bigger publishing house.”
To read full review, click here.
The sea is the sea but it is also a sound recording of the sea,
it is Memory, shroud and fathomless, and freighted with echoes.
It is the case history of forgotten species and myths,
the ghostlight of dead stars.
In a brief lighted instance,
a rending flicker, he measured
and recalled, a rumpled
and well-worn patch
of dark velvet, sun-warmed,
and touching the skin of teeth
to Memory, he grieved her,
fashioning haunt
from thin fabled air.
“The duende . . . Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents; a wind with the odor of child’s saliva, crushed grass, and medusa’s veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.” — Federico Garcia Lorca
Prayerfully
wresting the nightsong
from dark wind
tasting
lips,
she, bewitched,
annoints and rivets
the god-sworn wound,
its rose an excruciate
impossible to bear
without ceremony.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized
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Tagged bewitched, dark spirit, duende, goblin, inspiration, John Biscello, lorca, medusa, Muse, wind
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In perpetual flirtation
and basking courtship
with Beloved,
I, warming to petition
and gospel,
humbly sign my name,
if only to ghost an echo
channeling undisclosed remains.
“The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner’s mind.” — Shunryu Suzuki
Lying on the mat,
picking up with fresh ears
a preschool earplay symphony–
caw, bark, vroom, ding-ding.
(For Leonard Cohen)
As the bird on the wire
trills its last delicious
electric notes,
the vibrato hum
begins to resound
in Heaven.
In the Beginning,
when all was scrim and nostalgia
to be, there was the Word,
a dark sensual organism
prefiguring Symbol,
and in the mouths
of babes desperate to dream aloud
and chasten their hunt for meaning,
the Word became a necessary sea, fathomless
and freighted with Memory,
to whom the voices
endangered their silence.
What may, in the bristling long run,
turn out to be a hooded blessing
in disguise; that is, Hubris,
Ego and Arrogance, as sickled
agents of corrosion, Greek in scope
and epic cinema,
turn an Emperor’s new robe
into a naked showing
of divided parts
ripe for sowing.
