The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 Ė2178


Volume-3                                                 †††† June -2013                                              Number-1


Falling into Starry Night

by Michael D. Sollars


My eyes bounce open to a landscape of bold colors

Not sheets of flat even surfaces, but hills and ridges of paint;

I am again locked in the recurring dream;

Each late midwatch shows this eerie starry night

With moon stuck overhead in position and phase,

A crescent slice with its rounded blade at the nadir,

Motionless, overturning the laws of even Saint Newton;


Here I am again, crawling across the mattress of sleep

From first one side, then the other;

But then I find myself stretched out across a canvas,

Gripping the frame bordering the landscape;

I hold on, fighting not to fall into the abyss of colors;

A world of mad blue and yellow awaited;

My grip finally fails and I plunge into the scene,

Splashing face first into the thick brushed panorama;


Rough beauty marks me, with face and body candy frosted,

Quagmire of color, murky mess,

Pigments not spotted on a color wheel,

Mysterious intense blues, late summer burnt yellows,

Canvas bare whites, cave deep blacks,

Whose hues miraculously catch fire and life,

Impregnated in impressions on a palette.


Overhead still loom the shuddersome night hours,

With goldenrod moon, still bogged down, free from time;

My eyes, on the go, catch the net of Vincentís whirling stars,

Ringed with blue and yellow swirls,

Hovering nearby like jean pocket galaxies,

Almost like an innocentís fingers had crafted

The worlds shaped from flourishing smudges;

Overhead spin swirls like bursting chrysanthemum petals,

Round jets of mustard colored fog surround them.


The undulating hills, pulsing in tint,

Purring Russian blue kittens curled up on the horizon,

Brushed Byzantine empress blue,

Gorged on the blood of color;


Nearby thrives a Jupiter cypress,

Rising full, the entire height of the canvas,

But furtive in darkest imaginable green and black,


I trudge along, drifting from the cypress toward the church,

Lost in the wandering lanes, wet streets,

Inching my way, crawling through marshes,

Ridges, and streams, painted thick;


A poor church with a star pointed steeple,

Occupies the landscapeís focal point,

With mother surrounded by a cluster brood

Of quaint houses and cottages;

Faint yellow lights yawned through tiny windows,

Where unseen weavers, cobblers, farmers, peasants,

Potato eaters all, persist and prevail;

Inside the church, far below the napping bell tower, dreams its pastor;

The village, like the slumbering hills,

Shines with the same bold blues

Washing down from the heavens;


From outside, you cannot see

The extreme elevation of my new world,

The mounds of paint shaping houses, hills, and stars,

Those inhabitants of houses and church;

Paint stained me from head to foot,

Before seeping through my pajamas;

I felt my pores open to draw in the tiny droplets;

Then my skin, hair, vessels, sinews, organs, bone,

All became awash in the new placenta hues,

Born anew like I was squeezed from a birth canal tube;

Brushed into form, an actual image,

I awoke to nothing more than color.