Amomancer: The poetry of William F. DeVault

passion, sepia

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 14:47:00 +0000

Those of you who visit my works often know the name of Mariya Andriychuk aka Lady Martist, my Ukrainian muse and friend who is a gifted photographer, graphic artist and model. Recently she posted one of her latest efforts, a sepia toned semi-nude self-portrait entitled "passion, sepia" and I wrote a poem in response to it, then asked her if I might use the photo on my blog, alongside the poem. Her response was, as always, positive and enthusiastic. So, here they are, the vision and the words inspired thereby.

the look in eyes
where passion reigns
and the pain of hollow hours
is shattered by a touch that extends into all corners,
born of flesh,
borne on spirit
and burned into my memory
by the merest thought of you,
hot with hunger and desire,
a goddess of fire
made avatar for the worship of her.
a religion of needs,
bleeding as sacrament
from one into another
until there is no more solitude.
your passion
makes me want to live forever.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

at dawn

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 21:36:00 +0000

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
promises left like footprints in sand,
washed and blown away by rain and wind?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
mysteries becoming histories of lovers
hovering between the revelation and sin?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
leaving a legacy of words and whispers
that blister flesh and heart and prayers?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
not in the flesh, but in your heart, drifting
like a mist on wet moss, following the wind?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
your limbs, cold and stiff, life fled
to another sphere, no longer near enough to touch?

shall I rise at dawn to find you gone?
perhaps. but it is better than the cruelty
of allowing you to wake to your own lamentations.

William F. DeVault

rough and sharp

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 14:59:00 +0000

broken,
the shards discarded
like so much useless memory.
edges, rough and sharp
that cut the butter churned
from earnest cream of dreams,
broken,
splinters littering
the grounds like druidic landmines.
barbed treacheries of pine and birch
that wait without consciousness
or conscience for vulnerable skin,
broken.

William F. Devault. all rights removed.

one more day without you

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:24:00 +0000

One more day without you
and the sun dries my tears,
the night is torment and torture,
the sheets mocking me with memory.

One more day without you
and I live outside of time,
straddling yesterday and tomorrow,
places where you dwell for now.

One more day without you
and I shall fold my hopes
and all the promises you made
and trust you from necessity.

William F. DeVault. All rights reserved.

ramshackle hearts

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 19:38:00 +0000

memory fading
pain serenading
feelings cascading
from ramshackle hearts.
liars are shouting
lovers are doubting
renegades flouting
their places and parts.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Villanelle: reunion in another sphere

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 18:38:00 +0000

A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song
chanted, not recanted in hearts earnest and pure, where prayers belong
and we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

An impure surety eclipses doubts, shouted in ancient bliss.
A prodigal heart, parted like a prophet's path, dreams reminisce.
A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song.

Ritualistic mysticism heals the schism of pain long
forgotten and forgiven in thoughts driven stark and strong,
and we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

Robes of a priest, released to the water's purification, this
the symbology of a faith older than God and man's abyss.
A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song

Transfigured desires, disfigured toxicity we prolong
in our quests and tests, flaying and lashing ourselves with tongue and thong.
And we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

All that remains are stains we do not recall the source of, the wrong
persists, but from deprivations we conspire, forgiveness remiss.
A thirst, sated. Lovers, fated by memory, a sacred song.
And we are left bereft of joy to suffer for the moment's kiss.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

It has been a while since last I wrote a villanelle. I needed the exercise.

11 frames per second

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 15:51:00 +0000

I am hollow.
a sphere of tears dried,
nothing inside but pride
that even now sublimates to vapours.
memory capers,
but for how long until the light
goes out and the projector's threads
mean nothing but erosion.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

will you remember this kiss?

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 12:01:00 +0000

will you remember this kiss?
when time and the towering shadows
reach across the courtyard
you swore would never come between us
and snatch away memory
like a thief, caring not your loss,
or that it was one of a kind, and kind
of you to allow me to share it with you.
we value what we understand, and worship
the mysteries of a single breath
shared between lovers, even at a distance.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

lyric: the hungry and the dead

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 21:22:00 +0000

the hungry and the dead.
they fed on the same lies,
eyes going out in fading awareness.

the hungry and the dead.
things left unsaid become
yet more stale and mouldy crusts of distrust.

nobody wants to die hungry
in the street, in defeat,
forgetting all the sweet
things that once were in reach.

the hungry and the dead.
in the lunchroom. in the bed.
nothing but threadbare tablecloths
spread over the tombs of injustice.

the hungry and the dead.
they fed on the same lies,
eyes going out in fading awareness.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I have dreamt of you

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 21:07:00 +0000

I have dreamt of you, exempt from shame,
your name unspoken as to be so bold as to speak it
would be a blasphemy to one such as I,
burnt and beaten down by time and tempest.

I have dreamt of you, full of wonder,
knowing there is nothing else and no one else who has been
so profound and perfect to my heart's true curve,
the missing piece for Promethus' release.

I have dreamt of you, seeing too late
that you passed me by with neither of us awake, aware
that there is, was and will be, in life, passion
like stones heated to flow like blood of suns.

I have dreamt of you, and together
we feel the gravity of precognizant memory
as it glamours us with futures still waiting
in the cold shadows we ourselves have cast.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

yielding to temptation

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 19:24:00 +0000

yielding to your fantasies.
skies don't lie and I,
I am caught in your cotton candy kisses,
held soft and aloft
like a prayer that dares eyes to caress
each curve with nervous nakedness
of heart and satin skin,
thin to the osmosis of dreams.
yielding to temptation,
crossing boundaries that bind
and blind me to my promises to be good.
bare feet on infinite sheets of sand
that are more than just a place
to trace our illusions,
the winds whipping us to crown senses drowned
in the elegant whispers
that remind us of what we really yield to.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Once again my dear friend Mariya Andriychuk inspires me with her work. Thanks, again.

bright bayou

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 18:09:00 +0000

I have drunk the water of the mirage
that lay upon the surface of the stale black waters.
in my thirst, it seemed sweet.
it was cursed, and I was beat down by my best intentions,
stitched lips that have forgotten all the mentions
of sustenance in promises promised in fading light,
in luxuriant night, and all the spiteful furies
of a thousand juries of the ignorant and the damned.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
If you understand this poem, then you are me.

in the morning I will be gone

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 13:00:00 +0000

in the morning I will be gone.
but who says a night can be measured in hours
the tender splendour of light at rest
when the zest and the best of the world
falls into small corners to be pressed together
like pages in a journal full of wildflowers.

in the morning I will be gone.
because that was the deal we sealed in wordless words
heard only by us in purely furtive looks,
nooks and crannies of our revelations filled
with all sorts of lies we tell ourselves
because the truth hurts too much, too much.

in the morning I will be gone.
and you will launder and press and fold
and put away the memories that seemed so important
when they were being made, fading to jade,
pages that never yellow as we never look at them
except in the darkest of nights.

in the morning I will be gone.
but who says a night can be measured in hours
the tender splendour of light at rest
when the zest and the best of the world
falls into small corners to be pressed together
like pages in a journal full of wildflowers.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
I return to the Fields of Arbol. This is inspired not just by a lovely photo of my friend "blackfantastix" but also by the title she gave the photo, which I appropriated for the theme of the poem.

Commandment 6: The right to human life

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 19:03:00 +0000

It's what I do,
he said,
I pull the trigger
now they're dead.
I'm a bad man
doing what you expect of me.

It's what we do,
we said,
we flip the switch
now he's dead.
we're society
caught up in our own hypocrisy.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

morning

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 15:30:00 +0000

rising before the sun runs
on tracks
to the highest point in the sky.
high.
high enough to hover
like the memory of a lover.
high.
but now still asleep over the lip
of the illusory plain of our world.
so I labour in darkness.
which is fine, I guess.
the press of other people's needs
not urgent or even relevant.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

from ice to ash

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 13:26:00 +0000

a fragment of a ballad I'm working on...

the more I think of you
the less I dream of her
time heals all wounds they say
but only you can end the pain

the haunting fades to naught
but to what the shadows held
before I found my way.
now I have to say I will endure

that memory lies when Aphrodite cries is certain, yet.
even in the rain the lovers' pain brings soft regret.

the more I think of you
the less I dream of her
and all I thought I had that melted,
burned and turned from ice to ash

each time we touch, it gives me hope
that for all the blows we take, the ache
is not eternal just time for growth.
when with your kiss, in Spring I woke...

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

catch

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 13:16:00 +0000

shall I catch you in the kitchen
shall I catch you by the stairs
shall you know my plans and practices
or shall I catch you unawares
by the heel or by the hair
in the bath - most anywhere
shall I catch you in the kitchen
shall I catch you by the stairs
shall you know my plans and practices
or shall I catch you unawares?

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Thunder of Lust

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 19:30:00 +0000

I want to be the consecration of all your hesitation.

I'm not looking to seduce you
or in words to reproduce you
as a shadow of a light that burns so bright.
I'm not heading for a showdown
with my urges, dark and lowdown.
and won't walk away if you want to talk away the night.

There is thunder to lay under
as the light of heaven leavens
all our baggage, for a moment, lost and tossed.
I'm not looking just to use you
or in words to ruse, confuse you,
but know you glow, immolation worth the cost.

I want to be the consecration of all your hesitation.
I want to be the first, the last, the best and more.
I want to be sent reeling off the walls and off the ceiling
and to find my mind defined within your core.

I'm not spitting out excuses for the shadowdancer muses
that seemed bright while I lingered in the night,
barely living but for the sorceries of the dream.
I'm just ready for the static to be more than cinematic,
to reach this nosferatu heart with surging, purging light
that burns away the mocking memories with photic scream.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

we just might be the last to go

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 15:26:00 +0000

I wonder if my grandchildren
will ever know
the taste of snow
the sound of autumn leaves in a soft rain
the cocksure personality of a crocus
or the lonely sound of a spring peeper
on a warm, humid night so still
that you could fill your lungs with your last breath?

Unlikely.

For there are those too arrogant
and selfish, blind,
they live for themselves
not for your children
and their children, and theirs
and the children of lost tribes
and ancient civilizations doomed
by the small minded and ignorant merchants of the end of man.

We just might be the last to go,
but all beauty will end for their ends.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

red on

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 11:38:00 +0000

My delightful friend, Russian photographer and model "Armene" (real name Olga Zavershinskaya) has contributed her beauty, style and sense of humour previously to the Fields of Arbol, and this blog. With this new piece of hers, entitled Red On, she gives us a bright and fiery image that blossoms from her lips and the feather boas she drapes herself with.

Given usually to more puckish images and totally fearless in using her own nude form in her works, I found this piece charming and pleasantly restrained. Please take a look at her work sometime, she is well worth a visit.

red. red on white. on pink.
the colour, not of the kitchen sink
but the blood that represents passion
and life and love and pain and fire

fire. fire on red. on flesh.
catching us, metaphorically, to soar
with our senses, defenses ravaged
and our excuses savaged by our natures.

blood. blood on silk. on white.
the passage from innocence to the purity
in that red is not always a scarlet letter
but an embrace of sweet elegance. red.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

green woman

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 13:16:00 +0000

It has been some time since last I engaged the Fields of Arbol, but after seeing this image by Valentina Kallias, I just had to ask her permission to use it, alongside the poem it inspired, on this blog.
Thanks, V, for the gracious permission. Click the photo to see a much larger version, and please visit her website from the link to find other works by this excellent Swiss artist and model.
And so yet another blossom erupts in the Fields of Arbol.

in the wind and the sun, fields ripe with life,
you bring it to my soul. the power of the earth,
merged to the sky and wind and the rain, to
burst forth to flood the senses with wondrous things,
sight and scent and taste and texture, lacking
only the sounds my words fill in as frail offering
to the goddess of the transfiguration of the world
into an Eden, where I would lay, and draw joy.
I would be innocent again, and fulfilled, in arms
and eyes and lips and the embrace of the green woman.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

doomed and damned to fall

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 13:52:00 +0000

we're on the other side of that wall now.
the other side of that wall.
we've lost what made us special.
we're doomed and damned to fall.

when neighbors can't trust neighbors
and everyone rationalizes
the fear and hate consuming them,
the murder, pain and lies

we're on the other side of that wall now.
the other side of that wall.
we've lost what made us special.
we're doomed and damned to fall.

a beacon, once, of freedom
now locked behind the shame
of what we'd do to muddle through
shallow hallows of our shame.

we're on the other side of that wall now.
the other side of that wall.
we've lost what made us special.
we're doomed and damned to fall.

our leaders? most are feeders
in a trough we fill with greed
over things we never finished
leaving most in need to bleed.

we're on the other side of that wall now.
the other side of that wall.
we've lost what made us special.
we're doomed and damned to fall.

we'd steal and feel it was our right,
bash a fag and wave a flag,
hypocrisy in the land of the free
our birthright, bloody and bright.

we're on the other side of that wall now.
the other side of that wall.
we've lost what made us special.
we're doomed and damned to fall.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

saffron

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 15:23:00 +0000

lay with me in sheets of saffron and crimson,
silk and linen and the essence of exotic herbs
that lend to taste and scent a pleasure to repent
only after I have consumed you in metaphor.
I will lay my face to your skin and breathe in
all the attar and heat you dare to share with me.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

nazarite.02

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 14:47:00 +0000

a patient presence bears memory on lips and hips
and something slips into your sentience, precognizant.
the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle and rose petals,
crushed and thrust into the air by carefree hands
in a measured chaos towards an expression of joy.
ecstatic and eclectic the sparks fly and catch
the tender tinder of hope, as we grope towards the light
that cannot be seen in the day, playful senses
stripped by the grip of the feral and furied purity
of an inadvertent prayer made in worship of your heart.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

nazarite.01

noreply@blogger.com (William F. DeVault) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 12:00:00 +0000

touching the moment
then pulling away
nothing to cling to
nothing more to say
but that we are chaos
and born to be lost
counting the moments
and counting the cost
of
touching the moment
then pulling away
kisses for karma
the clocks melt away
listening for omens
in words that we spill
spread like sacrifice
ripe for a kill

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.