I went with Oloriel’s blog title as part of the title of this post because I cannot fathom coming up with a title as cool as that for a blog post. It just wouldn’t seem right to try.
And now you all know, Oloriel’s blog is called Color Me in Cyanide and Cherry.
Let me tell you something.
This woman can write poetry. If I had to describe Oloriel’s poetry with some fantastical analogy, it would be that her renderings are the equivalent of Poe on an acid trip receiving prophecies from Salvador Dali, Maria Callas and H.R. Giger on how to transfix lovers of poetry with words bordering on a macabre kind of romance.
In short, this woman’s poetry is surReal as it gets.
I’m not going to claim to know Oloriel (or anyone) that well, but when it comes to poetry, I know what I like. And I believe there’s a pretty good consensus that she is a well versed poet.
She once told me that when she was in school, her poetry was ridiculed. I, being incredulous at the prospect, asked her, “Why? What’s wrong with your poetry?”
Oloriel is the type of person that is a free thinker, almost absolutely. If you tell her to go right, she might go left. If you tell her to go write, she’ll probably wait until such a time as she’s inclined to do so, and not because you told her to do so.
The teachers who said that her poetry was malformed quite clearly have no idea what they’re missing out on. Don’t get me wrong; form can be a good thing. In fact, while I do not personally prescribe to the strict dogmatic pursuits of academia with respect to the arts, I would be the first to say that form has its place. The thing is, form is not always necessary or desired. Sometimes one just has to let it flow.
That’s what Oloriel does. She just lets it flow.
I have read of futures and of past,
in cards and tea leaves
and I have believed the present
so much that I
used Ogham sticks as chopsticks
even when it all clattered to warn me
that the pain that comes after
a last kiss,
that even that will be magical
when the dream dusts dissipate.
What I would want the most
is to spit in face of Agrippa
and tell him how
can be cryogenically saved
and mixed with strawberry jam
like popsicles later,
in a room for two.
-Oloriel, excerpt from History Plays a Broken Record