Sunday Sonnet*

Photo by Lee Miller, one of the original Surrealists

image from here

The Lover

She is standing on my eyelids

And her hair is in my hair.

She has the shape of my hands,

The colour of my eyes,

She is absorbed in my shadow,

Like a stone upon the sky.

She keeps her eyes open

And doesn't let me sleep.

Her dreams in broad daylight

Make the suns evaporate,

Make me laugh, weep and laugh,

And speak, without a thing to say.

Paul Eluard (1895-1952) - key surrealist, gave up his first wife to Dali, wrote streams of surreal love poetry to her. Great chums with Andre Breton (founder member of the Surrealists) until he (Eluard) joined the Communist Party, thus pissing off the whole of the movement and being chucked out. Sadly lived on in Paris after the war, being sent to Coventry by possibly the most interesting group of artists/poets/writers/drunks/libertines to ever live there.

And I happily include the Murphys AND Satre and de Beauvoir in that sweeping statement.

*Nope, I know it's not a sonnet, don't get all pedantic on me. It just alliterates better.