Month: October 2014

The Parisians by AJ Kaufmann

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The Parisians

A Chapbook 

by AJ Kaufmann

Bio: I am a Polish poet and songwriter. I have been around the small-press poetry scene since 2008. “Siva in Rags” is my most recognized piece of work when it comes to English-language poetry, I think. I have been published in the USA (Kendra Steiner Editions mostly) and UK. My work has been also translated into Bulgarian, and I recorded and released 2 solo albums with self-penned songs. I also have a band.
Here are some links, where information about me can be found.

Three Poems by Michael David Saunders Hall

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Three Poems 

by

Michael David Saunders Hall

Analog Soul: Ode To The Ark of History

 “History is never silent, it reminds us again and again and again, that we live its presence in every part of our life every day.”

–Paul D. Miller (aka DJ Spooky)

 

#1) In the Fountain of Now

 

in the beginning

of the end, in the fountain

of now, where youth

is the eternal exuberance

of expression

choreographed

to the sound

of breaks

extended on

phonographs

I once telegraphed rhythms

purposely

abrupt

cutting in, out—

between scenes

of sound

& silence,

ambition

& ambivalence…

sermonizing

the psalms

of drums

in the cadence of heartbeats

with rhythmic instinctions

transcending the trek

of life. it’s all a mystic brew

of rhythms spun from

constant conjures cooking

in the cauldron

of old record

crates

creating concertos

of the crossfader

with coaxing

diminuendo…counterpoint

…& crescendo, making

music from noise wandering

amidst the voices

in the margins, lingering

& loitering

like echoes, refined

by time.

 

#2) In the Tongues of Talking Drums

 

Everyday is the big playback: listening

to ex libris

excerpts & excursions in aural alchemy enjambed

 

& juxtaposed within the soul vibrations

of lingua franca

conjured in incantations of rhythm, connecting

 

us to the continuum of lost & found moments

spliced by

the metronome of memory into the digitized

 

diary of the mind where our analog souls

segue

into the ark of history, rehearsing & conversing

 

In tongues of talking drums

versed in

hieroglyphics & a tapestry of folktales.

 

Words on Fire (or: Destiny…in search of the light)

 inspired by Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale

Are we ever to be old

 

As the destinies or dreams

Of our own decree we seek?

 

Connected by light

We are stars ageless as God

More ancient than Earth

 

In a clockwork of spirits

Born out of our words on fire

 

& loves unbroken by time.

 

Two Views on Love

 1)

What’s this thing called love?

Kisses coming off the tongue

Hearts beating like drums.

 

2)

In the scrupulous scribbles

Of  life painted freehand, love

 

is the serenade

of whispered watercolors

echoing anon

 

& on, dancing in the flesh

never to be forsakened.

BIO: My name is Michael David Saunders Hall. Born February 24, 1970, I am a graduate of University of Illinois at Champaign with a Bachelor of Science degree in Liberal Arts. I’ve worked as children’s counselor and a laborer for Firestone among many other jobs. Presently, I am employed by Walmart. My love for poetry and the arts has me putting all my passion, energy and zeal into an effort of building up a following and becoming a published poet, going wherever the journey takes me. Presently, as part of the process, I have two blogs I maintain, The Poet Tree Will Be Streamed and Life’s Last Labors of Love. I also head and help run (with the aid of RC deWinter, Chris Flegel, and Uma Venkatraman) a community on Google Plus called Words On Fire and ezine of the same name. By the end of this year (if not earlier), I hope to self-publish a couple ebooks of my own verse: one entitled Haikooley High Harmony: Life, The Duality of Love Vs. Lust & The Sunshine After The Rain (which will be like a chapbook of haiku and tankas), and the other is to be called Like Blue Notes For Poetry.
Poetic Statement: I believe, When you write how you feel, all dimensions of yourself come to light and cannot help but be exposed as genuinely real. For me, writing is truly the balance of “delicious agony” and suite ecstasy, always revealing itself as both the process and the product of catharsis.

 

Faded by Matina L. Stamatakis (with KJP Garcia)

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Faded

by

Matina L. Stamatakis

(with KJP Garcia)

plancelled

– kept aside

while sweeping from cell

dispersions

driven back to center

-clarified edges exposed

as indefatigable limitations

* * *

envelope disorderliness

of infinite spaces

─ghost automatons

                                rapt in lush circuitry

─synapse

a refuge

                            in the tumult

* * *

for every longing

overdue

evolution             /              sin          /              violence

purity + deeds

(s)wearing

circumspect technology’s

                                introverted shame

* * *

                                                ─rising

through darkness

                                                                                                                                                 [a doomed conception]

of alien sentience ─

throat                                             spilling-out accursed

ejectamenta                        (im)pulse,  a quiver

* * *

                                over(t)ly

(e)motion

:all – foreign to imminent

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             choke down

of thrust              –              throb                     –                              set

aside with missteps

of speech yet to attain (a)trophied silence

* * *

                                                incommunicable language ─ exasperating

shape of open

mouths─ illusion’s desperate

trigonometry //  a priori: as tongue,      refracted

by  birth’s
origin
[un]wavering crux, thus Being

* * *

humble rivets – know trivial confusion for slack of steel

.  time bends light with/in gravity’s tru(e)st

– accord.

stains are false brands stubborn – undisturbed by wash and play

= only age (befri)ends ultimate options

faded beyond

e                             +/-                          legibility

* * *
the mind’s errata,

                                cognition: a synaptic labyrinth                                    ─disappears between

oceans of membrane                                   [un]familiar portals  in a dream

mechanized & extraterrestrial

expresses incomprehensible
know/ledge

only exists            in/complete

* * *

nothing(ness) posesses an indisputable perfection

corridors are heavens between disconnective voids – space unto space

of emptiness is resemblance – in likeness is always an image cast

to describe is to steal details from abstract almosts

equal = equal – alone

all + one

together is own make up of parts formed from (a)maze[me(a)nt] to be

  * * *

     synthesis──  needs flesh                          expect no answer    ──depend on distances/instances
breathing tomorrow    comes knowledge

& question                     rearranging patterns   of usual places

displaced                               in con/text                   +    elements + soft texture
obscured [by]  teeth

sensors behind senses
sense[less] // structures                                                           set  up to collapse
* * *

what detach meant was to say – give it time.  and it is standing in for what?

it detache(s/d) from meaning, past occurrence, infinitives, speech

.  in future’s tutorials examples, systems, and designs are ennobled unseen gases kept under bell jars filling in for(eign) core responses of familiarity disjointed                                                                                                                                                                                                observed

insistent upon bonds                                                                                                                                                                                                  broken                                                                                                                 in death and half-life

* * *

a dimming beacon, this half-life, a cling to           improbable senses       wavelengths       bodies
endless exploration of dire conditions─                           volition, non-present  & all the wilder, studying it
through liquid air, its immortality                only a mortal mark on blue matter──dissolution, suddenly
emblazons it──aether disperses             corporeal space, the observed half-life radiates a permanent
dystopia,   detach//collapse:             organs     wild flowers      malfunctioning   & uncertain── wet
as nothing, nihil in its skin              calls to speech through the bell jar, hollowed-out ghost-air
abyssal  [ as endless]                 algorithms
* * *

inches                                                   gamed                                  –                                gained

askew – a slant measured in available degrees

–              misfired on demand                                                                         – on target                         insides out        –

by want – need – have – control is bought borrowed sold

echoes in chamber push other voices to sleep

phantoms sacrifice death in total for glimpse = mired in local conditions of

staying housed/coursed where curving bells contain deviations derived from models

(A portion of this poem originally appeared in Barzakh)

The Lungfishes by Jesse Mitchell

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The Lungfishes

by

Jesse Mitchell

 

I. And the ice floe became endemic, because the water was cold

    And it was thin

    And it spread everywhere, all around.

    Standing in the backroom of a noisy petshop, waiting to drown,

    Imagining Cocteau, a film (a shimmer) on the storefront window

    Orpheus: Le Sang d’un Poete

    As the rain came down.

    Leaving dirty streaks in the dust, dusty streaks in the dirt.

II. And composition suggests death.

     The boundaries are set and they are smooth.

     The periphery is set and it  is smooth.

     It is a casket-aperture to let in the light,

     Because life needs random.

     Because vitality is chaos.

     And all we see are borders

     Fill them in, fill them in, we fill them in, fill them in.

III. And then it all gets old, it gets old

     And all you have left is bones and soul, bones and soul.

     The cars idling in the streets,

     The roar of engines

      The clouds of smoke.

IV.  “Greetings and welcome to Jaipur.”

      The bathroom smelled like soap, old ratfaced brown towel hung over the railing.

      All the way back to Earth, were lines, full spectrum  bright lines, like sunglare, lines streaking back.

      Trusting the burst behind them, the rushing crushing transfer of light, the blur between them,

      Weaving around them, the dangerous-shaking shapechanging

      building images in my mind, the images my mind will come to commit to memory, outrageous

      namecalling, tracking mud through the room, confused feeble little mind,

      The last second reflection of light (fluorescent) in a passing by mirror, sheen of the glass, corner of

      an eye.

V.   And don’t ever be afraid, there is nothing to fear.

      And don’t ever be ashamed

      Of what it takes to get back home again.

      Busted blind, or deaf and lame,

      All the bended bent outside in, dim lit,

      Rushing rivulets away,

      To get back home again.

VI. Lungfishes

      Lungfishes

      Amphibian reptilian paraphyly

      Air-filled-lungs, expanding gills, words falling out of ash like scales off of eyes.

      Plague, pulque, fire, flood, and gramophone.

VII. and we sat in schools, in little classrooms, bounded in by glass, bounded in by glass.

       And we listened,

       James Fenimore Cooper, Max Planck, the dreadful XYZ affair.

       Have mercy.

       The devils on us that hide in every subject, behind every pause.

       Deconstruct the clause, graph the sentence out.

IIX. Fire-pimps that hide behind the tinder.

       Lightning-skies that hide behind the storm.

       Reckless are the curtains torn, the rattle of the steel.

       The storms behind the clouds

       And this is what the tuhunder says as it begins to pour,

       Rushing rivulets, rivulets away.

IX.  Dans cet abime, abondance.

X.    and the fire became endemic, it was far too hot,

       The blood so warm and the skin so flushed,

        And the rain come spilling out.

       The noise so quiet and the light so bright,

        The visions so blurry, the lines so static, the colors so fade.

        Fill them in, fill them in.