February 28, 2007
HomeoPathoLogic
Pulsatilla
Hetaera postulat and pendulous with heavy-chested sighs under her silky
gown. Or rather a kind of hessian, packing material for the muse. Concealing
rhetoric and extreme behaviour.
An early bloomer, the pasque flower resists the snowly chill
of critique. Riding on the winds of change it spreads its lyric seed.
Dependent as a puppy she lives off the avails of adulation. Emotional and eager to please.
Since puberty she has never felt herself. The alternating occipital ache, swollen dorsum of
footstep. Post-partum seething.
Poemeopaths take great aesthetic delight in prescribing the constitutional type
associated with this remedy. Particularly blondes.
Histrionic yet shy and given to extremes of pleasure and pain she avoids dark tunnels.
Has a morbid fear of the opposite text. Craves acids and pungent things. Herrings, cheese.
Fears and feels slighted. Crying helps.
Affecting mind, veins, mucous membranes, Pulsatilla is the potion for passively hostile
and affectionate verse. For showing finally how to why.
—Mari-Lou Rowley
____
from Viral Suite published by Anvil Press, 2004
February 27, 2007
4th Confession
“Do not let my soul be bound to words
by the glue of love through the body’s senses.”
—St. Augustine
this chair, window, tree
data transmuted into the moment
of a poem, dative
the pairing of sense to soul
bound by words, a process
sticky as the glue of love
unbridled beneath a dome of stars
Orion’s broad shoulders, jewelled sword
brilliant, potent in Artemis’ absence
chastity pins virility to
the wall of night
beguiling in her tucked-up gown
moon goddess rails fury in a quiver
of arrows, blows monsoons
through the body’s senses.
—Mari-Lou Rowley
____
from Interference with the Hydrangea published by Thistledown Press, 2003
February 26, 2007
Five Triumphal Gestures
(For Alan and Geraldine)
1.
Last drops spread the leaves
dangers of exploitation
that blends and (as it were) fuses
mumming plays in royal England
geometry and music are not essential
(do not give as you are asked, nor
answer as you are questioned)
take them all
original patent
maddens the hero
Stand up you moron
onward loser!
gravity & music are not
essential either.
Last drops spread the leaves (see
above)
Light is an experience
in rural England
When chickens are cold
they save half
my effort [or she]
knows how [she is]–She is
Self-knowledge for whatever spectator
(suspected
goddess)
Mutual Cooperation Unit
only a fragment of whose earlier collections survive her.
Boredom is what I least deserve
or desire (he will be careful
not to say the word “decapitation” again!) re–
volt of the provinces of a lighter-than-air body,
which body
eats itself, or
grasps a microphone
for eternity.
2.
Who do you think you are?
rat & finch,
people just
watched. per-
cussor, as in
river-smooth &
waiting
(Pound-Note)
in the bag. eh what?
wife takes
the picture (almost
medical textbook, droll)
audience asks
wait a minute?
handshake?, if that’s
looking enough for you
then ding-a-ling.
(breathy
pause--
shaped
thinking)
come on.
3.
high hill
of my
old age/
endlessly
distracted
molecules
“drilling
down”
to the
individual
gradation
of grays
“but that’s
orchestration”
trundle along
the Boggard
path
yet I need
an aesthetic
immune
to art films
& engine houses
fragments
of a realm
beyond my
reach
mercurial &
sustained
provocations:
a Sassanian bowl, perhaps
a gryphon’s claw, perhaps
a Roman stone
bathtub
4.
Clarification of thought
by walking
The amputee doing
calisthenics in his door way
--“Do you have your ticket?”
--“I have the wing of a crow.”
5.
Beneath the wild
ferns by the bubble-
scummed creek,
John Keats opens
his webs of empty
flesh so the tap-
roots of the willows
find him, and
stones and clumps
of sticky dirt tumble
through him and
where light once
collided within the
tender lobes of
neural tissue, all
grows cold and clean
and clear.
We’d failed to video-
tape our luminous
dog, and even the
snapshots we’d taken
were focused
on a human-
centered world,
allowing John Keats
his skewed spot
off to the extreme
right or left of center.
Now even the photographs
in their fine leather albums
have begun to fade.
—Jesse Glass
February 25, 2007
BURN IT ALL DOWN UP TO THE LAST SENTENCE
a.
the exotic s,c,r,e,a,m
wrapped in its coarse cocoon
fails to bite out
of the embrace
of mirrors
tiny advance
in Buddhas
(abed-nego--
Cd-rom full of
grisly footage of
Amita’s teachings
sold in marketplaces
where a pale face has
p,l,u,m,m,e,t,i,n,g,v,a,l,u,e
1.
this “spasm” of otherness
2.
bullet-dented, motionless
3.
last time I looked
starry scissors
against the sky:
not
not
not
the dharma
b. (commentary)
.
blak box
takn 2b shakn
watz inzide????
hol r
sol
thiz luvnhayt
biznz’ll
blast yr.
gob
inna
jag,,,,
c
thin girlz
makin
be,uty
on
th' stairz
unner
a
canopy o
he,ven
moveuzall kyotic
wayz
ne,r
th lizzrd
skint
river
o'flintz
war
pithykanthro,zus
onct
strok th'
hand-ax n zo
invent'd
gawd,,,,
“she kloz'd
“her legs
“onna tatoo'd
“hand
“pressin'
“ta open
“h,r wom'
“like a bok
“o aztek
“secrts
“on th, pges
“shadoz o
“wingz
“liftd n end-o-time
“attak &
“deepr yt.
“blod welz
“ta blot thoz
“pges
out,,,,”
rumorz
o
raw
end,nz
ce
but
izit
trooth’s
wat ur aftr h,re?
no UFOz
hoverin'
mid-horiz,n
for us ta stepabord
ta parad,ce,
butta gost
inna masheen....(????)
naw
jackbootz,
z all wn finz
iznit--
wantin’
ta bust
headz
iz all th’
fu,kn
rayj
wantin’
ta mak
us do
wat it
wanz
faktureez
turnt
pimps
o’ th glanz
iz all,,,
wer
zo glum
bastrds at th
mylennyum boyz
blak box
takn 2b shakn
watz inside????
hol r
sol
thiz
biznz'll fu,kin
blast yr.
gob
inna
jag.
—Jesse Glass
February 24, 2007
Dear Reader,
my eyes are nearly clawed out of my head–
the grizzle of my nose is mostly gone–
half of my tongue’s bitten off, and the skin and flesh
of my hands and forearms is torn literally into strings.
In this tattered condition
I have ceased writing
to enjoy a sort of parlay, recovering strength
and preparing to resume my work in a few moments.
Nearby, some former Muses lie on their sides where I tossed them,
eyes glazed and rolling in ecstasy,
while others sneak about
licking the black hinges of their jaws
as they plan a renewal of love’s sweet circlings.
Dear Reader,
believe me when I say there is a beautiful view from where I dip my pen.
Dear Reader,
believe me when I say
it is only you I desire without reservation.
—Jesse Glass
February 23, 2007
Summer at the “New Globe Theatre”
Physical rough up language
man-handled [sublimity
on tire treads [rubber throne
wire cages worn on the head
while jets rumble fuck-all in real-time
above & beyond the S,h,a,k,e,s
this morning
air-conditioned (of course)
souvenirs
barefoot inna cloud o’ red dust
the Thames from here’za, za..
(echo o’ (s)trumpets).
a clot o’ ill-kempt groundlings welts drawn? daggerz?
hair by the pulled-out roots preserved
piss & shit cultural [ass/etc.
semblance o’ suckling
p,i,g,h,u,m,o,r
carv’d up for c,o,r,p,o,r,a,t,e,z,p,o,n,z,o,r,s
rot-tooth Ur-Hamlet
the nine reeking holes of the body
maggot on a treadmill
hornet lashed to plough
—Jesse Glass
February 22, 2007
we were on
the rocks
the gulls
musical shuttle
when they
bumped
wings
and you were
reading the
play to me
about how
the waves
made it
with each other
to make the
lake
—Jesse Glass
February 21, 2007
In Patterns of Regret
rhythm shaped
beyond where wine influences us
to explore
deep seeds
buried in the garden of a book
the key, however, is
in repeated sonic babble, distortions
reflection of the world,
the echo unveils poets
striking out words
built from the stick of disregard
striking out words
the echo unveils poets’
reflection of the world
in repeated sonic babble: distortions
the key, however, is
buried in the garden of a book
deep seeds
to explore
beyond where wine influences us
rhythm, shaped
in patterns of regret
—Maxianne Berger
____
Palindrome plundered from Gregory Betts’ “Plunderverse: A Cartographic Manifesto”
February 20, 2007
The Other Woman’s Poem
I found another woman’s poem under the pillow
on your side of the bed. Your taste in literature
appears to be improving, but I analyzed
her craft, found schemes in her motif.
The meter moving my stanzas, active with
your verbs, takes its rest in the everyday
language of your arms. Her lines are contrived
to simulate excitement, drawing on shades
of forbidden form.
Yet after a few readings
you’ll crumple it in boredom, discard it
like so many others before. Philologaster,
I realize that no wife can keep you
from burrowing your wormy way through
other women’s verse, but don’t naively hide
the folded facts under your pillow:
remember who changes the sheets.
—Maxianne Berger
____
from How We Negotiate (Empyreal Press: 1999)
February 19, 2007
(a composite poem of complete sentences from Rampike, Zygote, Black Cat 115, ink, Cencrastus, Broken Pencil, above/ground press, Coach House Books, Brick, Blood & Aphorisms, pedlar press, Quarry Magazine, Descant, and The New Quarterly)
SASE
Dear Ms. Alland,
You’ll notice this is neither
an acceptance nor rejection letter.
There is no logical reason
for this decision.
Recently we rejected work
from a writer who won
the $5000 Stephen Leacock Award
two weeks later. Actually,
this might mean it is better
to be rejected by us
if you want to become
rich and famous.
Because our magazine
is created in the scraps
and odd shavings of time
between paying our rents
and living our lives,
choosing work for each issue
is a painful experience.
We prefer works
that display polyphonic
and dialogical qualities.
This prevents us from taking
some exceptionally fine writing.
Competition was fierce.
Many projects were meritorious.
As you can imagine, the majority
of submissions come from writers
we either publish
or who are friends of the magazine
in some way.
Unfortunately however. Please see
the list below for reason(s)
we could not use your work
this time. You should hear from us
in Jasnuary.
I apologize for the time it has taken.
Whatever though do keep in touch.
Please consider becoming
a subscriber.
We would have encouraged you
to try again, but, unfortunately,
we are ceasing publication.
Writing is an occupation which,
generally speaking,
requires a great deal of solitude.
It has become necessary
to make use of these terribly
impersonal reply slips.
We have all received
these letters and cursed
the fools who sent them.
We hope you understand.
You definitely have potential.
Sincerely,
The Editor
P.S. I think I’m in the next
Paperplates too. If it ever comes out…
I’m reading at the Imperial Pub
next week. See you there?
—Sandra Alland
____
previously published in Taddle Creek magazine (in 2001)
February 18, 2007
Lost While Translating
There’s this woman I’m reading.
No, that’s not right.
There’s a woman –
open like a book.
Still not it.
Her heart an ancient text.
My heart the devouring eyes.
No.
There’s a woman,
she has words like no one,
sentences like never,
a woman I lost like a train
for a faraway land.
Not what I mean.
In English, you say,
What are you reading?
Rarely who.
There was a woman,
and I kept reading
what I’d been reading before.
—Sandra Alland
____
previously published in Proof of a Tongue (McGilligan Books, 2004)
February 17, 2007
February 16, 2007
Bodied Tone
endemic: the comic
Myoclonic cuticle
chutes the catwalk
jerks the lute,
its meaning
the chronic ballad
renders
dance:
sub-atomic membranes
Sound, its tendered inflections
engendered anemic counts,
a bloodline leading gene clefs
Register
epics dissonance
as its
Cluster
—Vernon Frazer
February 15, 2007
Still Moving
as moment / as line
traces behind its moment
to snatch it / freeze in time
the animated / inanimate words
suspended animation
still, moving
the line races behind
the paper’s frieze
still
moving
at / the moment
the words as present
still / moving
—Vernon Frazer
February 14, 2007
AT THE FESTIVAL OF TEXTS
... while they were talking about
genetic engineering in The Great Hall
and declassified documents in The Barn
two words were trying to get out
of an abandoned greenhouse in the grounds.
... while poets sat sifting
under trees what they were
going to read or chewing over
what had already been read
we found some white shit
at the base of a trunk
denoting a sparrow-hawk
- worth stepping back
before looking up.
And then we passed
a humming-bird hawkmoth
with its proboscis
stuck in a flower
and heard clapping
from a lecture
on The Paradox of Happiness.
It was about this time
that we came across
the two trapped words
belly up against glass trying
to get out of the greenhouse
which leant on a warm
crusty old brick and flint wall.
The words had drawn a small crowd
which started to twitter and flap
but the man I was with - a non-reader,
non-writer by choice but willing to listen
entered the glass house and by moving
slowly with hands hovering lightly
was able to catch the words and hold them
for a minute passage of time before
he let them go free from the text ...
—Mary Maher
February 13, 2007
MRS LAM LICKS A BAD DREAM
After the reading
Mrs lam dreamed
the poet
who liked whips
spent the night in her name.
He was a lover
of meaning
and resonance.
He cupped her subsongs,
drank to distant bleatings
and let a lambent fingernail trail
through labyrinth, lacunae, lady,
lagophthalmy till he came
sighing
to beat, thrash, baste,
(slang)
(Old Icelandic).
She awoke
leatherbound
and stretched
but found
she had slipped
down the page
and was lying eye to eye
with Lamia,
a sorceress,
witch,
(myth).
—Mary Maher
February 12, 2007
GWEN JOHN ISN’T SITTING
Literate.
A literate woman with an enquiring mind
is that what this painting says
the gaze falling to a winged book
at her breast?
A drawn curtain anchored by a closed book
invites the light she needs
on to the table where a pen lies in wait.
She steadies herself on a glowing white cushion
in a wicker chair: willow
woven again and again by paint.
Or is Gwen saying something about the complexities
of this chair she carries from canvas to canvas?
Its vacancy groaning for missed confinements
or have her chair-days come early
or were they always with her?
Nothing so pretentious maybe;
skindeep, paintings don’t talk
they just look, like us
and the book might not be literature;
it could be maps (what interior next?)
a diary (oh those important dates),
or someone else’s disturbing secrets
(there is a slight ‘uh’ about the lady’s face),
hints on household etiquette, recipes, memoranda.
I’d rather it wasn’t poetry: too inward looking altogether
but of course there’s no reason
why it shouldn’t be a book of reproductions like this.
(‘A Lady Sitting’ by Gwen John)
—Mary Maher
February 11, 2007
THE CHEST HAIRS OF LANGUAGE, DEAR READER
My writing is a needle shortening the pants of monotony and dread
It leaves an impressive thread as it winds through
the abbreviated cuffs of you who hitherto did proceed trippingly through the daily
darkness and stumble of everyday speech
My writing rides a bicycle through the stitchholes of your hems
the fabric of your mind stretched by my thousand-speed cosmic roadbike cosmos with
wheels of pure joy
and your thoughts
undiscovered planets embraced by a multitude of imperceptible moons
suddenly are Hubble-ized and named by the perspicacious cartographic lexicon of my
cerebral sewing
For I am a one-handed phrenologist kneeling in a haberdasher’s fantasyworld funhouse,
a contestant playing the carbon dating game with the moon-fearing bachelorettes of my
ancestors
Through the chest hairs of language, my poems seek gold medallions and the burnished
signs of the zodiac in the mythic resonance of the curly pectoral forest
my writing is a BeeGee sestina hallelujah chorus
a John Travolta post-structuralist jumpsuit fandango of literary theory
a Hilary Duff post-colonial mega-sized writing samba in the blog roll drive-thru
My poetry contains multitudes and they appear small within its vastness
a single molecule within the molehill of my talent
I write on a desert island and the desert island feels glad
signals the boats of meaning, the search-and-rescue helicopter critics
says, stay away
stay away for we have something here
Yes, I’m a bachelor married to the archipelago of my own poetry
going on a date with me would be like Y2K all over again
an excitement of digits, an anticipation of irrational calculations, airliners seeking the
arcing chaos of their own inspirational routes through the cloud-busy air
a date with me would be like changing from the Gregorian to the Julian Calendar while
hang-gliding through the National Library dressed in an asbestos nightie while the
books are inflamed
the
librarians run blindly down the stacks and inhale the smoking grammar of our
lives
headbutting the opposing players
of tedium, madness, and apathy as they attempt to fan
the bookish flames with facile rhymes, trite metaphors, and a limited
understanding of the depth of my literary consciousness
I am the book-wheezy Jeffersons of this last century, the poetic Archie Bunker of our times
I speak of Love Connection glory
of radiant Gilligan’s Island subplots singing Partridge Family small press bliss in the
triumphant World Cup publishing paradise of Toronto
A date with me would be like having God’s credit card, Satan’s expense account, and the
incisive ontological wardrobe of Samuel Beckett if he were born as one of the
midget stagecrew for Gladys Knight and the Pips and his daddy owned the big
rhinestone factory on the outskirts of sense.
Look! Someone’s revved the motor, turned on the highbeams of language’s monster
truck
Seems like its blind driver has floored it and is driving to you a first date
it’s 1849 and it’s with me
—Gary Barwin
February 10, 2007
BEAUTIFUL DOG
the field beside my heart is
filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog
a poem doesn’t have to have 14 perfect lines
or else you’re spitting on graves
maybe you’ll slip up and tell a truth
stick your flaking elbow into something rich
under the moon your tongue hangs out
you’d like to howl but there’s this language thing
the pile of shame grows and grows
please save my family from complication or sudden death
listen: a small movement in the linden leaves
the poem collaspes small and leaping
be brave be brave be brave
the field beside my heart is
filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog
and here’s another beautiful dog
sighing sighing sighing
—Gary Barwin
February 09, 2007
VERY BEAUTIFUL POEMS
my nose
*
in the dark
my nose
*
you will find
my nose
in the dark
*
my nose is a pink moon
you have to
take my word for it
about the pinkness
I mean
it’s dark
but prepare yourself
I must sneeze
I have a cold
and right now
no Kleenex
*
nothing is beautiful until
I look at the moon
my nose in total darkness
*
revision is possible
a poem should be
perfect and polished
like a nose
let’s put
our noses to the wheel
our shoulders to the brimstone
the muse will knock and
deliver the pink moon
to our door
in the dark
my nose
simple sneezing moon
*
imagine if life
was so perfect
like this poem I mean
*
but there are some words
that didn’t fit back there
pumpkin
evil
kneepad
*
the sun
—achingly beautiful—
sets over hilltops
the other side of the world
a nose made warm
—Gary Barwin
February 08, 2007
WHY I WRITE
In the forest, we were not able to
see the trees.
My teacher put them in his suitcase
and walked into the night.
When he got to the edge of the world
he turned and pulled up the road
cracking it once, like a sheet or whip.
He held it under his chin and folded it right.
I pointed. This is the way out of here
but there were no roads.
I pointed. This is our forest
but there was nothing.
The crickets said something that I will not repeat
Six jeweled piglets lapped at the droplets of my brow.
Seven azure swallows brushed their wings against my shadow.
T-shirts are silent, cotton, and easy to launder.
—Gary Barwin
____
Forthcoming in Vallum Magzine
February 07, 2007
Ars Poetica
for Alec Finlay
The sayable
in nouns
in syllables
is nuance
As if a flock
of small birds ate
the feeder but
left the nuts
—Alan Halsey
February 06, 2007
Ars Poetica
‘Statements of fact are not funny’
wrote John Burnet, and
‘Thoughts that are wholly unreasonable
do not admit of artistic expression.’
This was in 1914
and with regard to Greek philosophy
but neither circumstance
entirely accounts for such errors.
—Alan Halsey
February 05, 2007
Target practice
Sharper arrows rusting
beneath the page
that no string shall ever release
fast and square
against the tangled knot
clutching and checking
those same fingers
that should unearth
and ply the inexorable points.
Meanwhile
would the flexing and twanging
of an empty bow
avoid its growing lax
and our losing aim?
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
February 04, 2007
The ambush
The light is waiting
flexible and jagged
at the end of the passage.
This elastic ink
is getting there again
slowly, unaware.
It becomes crisp and alive
for a moment:
a clear-cut tree
a hillful of trees
olive trees against a tramontana sky.
Then the ambush snaps.
Rippled and sucked
by a greedy south
ink and wind
are swallowed, whole.
Through the very gate, over the threshold
thoughts and branches
words and leaves
bones and pebbles
flesh and soil
melt together in a silent sigh:
they acknowledge with a chill
the power
that deals them such a light death
and then delivers their ghosts
into a black & white flat heaven. . .
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
February 03, 2007
Inside the hum
After the impact
words come hurtling down
a black-red funnel
and smash against shuttered eyes
the circuit closes:
inside once more they organize
until
like a charm
some white paper
delivers them pulsating
to a curious still life
abroad.
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
February 02, 2007
A Map to the Muse
Nine steps northwest of zero
across a littered wasteland
of daily chores and nightly deserts
lies the rustproof treasure
of her bright soul revealed
only to few, unbribed eyes.
Lose sight of her shining light
at your own risk and peril…
—Riccardo Duranti
____
from Poems in lieu of an essay on poems
February 01, 2007
THE BARN
The right way
to approach
the broad side
of a barn
is with one eye
closed
and both hands
in your pockets
then start
whistling
to let it know
you’re coming
—Michael Rothenberg
____
Previously published in Rolling Stock