poet

Two Poems by Arthur Turfa

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Two Poems

by

Arthur Turfa

 

The Conversation

 

Several years after the break

we stood together near the house

early on a summer evening

as the sun slid into western skies.

There we reflected on past years,

expressed mutual remorse

(at first so tentatively)

because the wounds had been healed.

 

Searching the wreckage of it all,

we salvaged enough to move onward

along separate but often parallel paths.

 

Thousands of miles behind me,

tens of thousands awaiting me,

we started the process of becoming

the people we were intended to be

even though the horizon was hazy.

 

Times and places slip away

softly and inexorably from us.

At times several chords on an acoustic

bring back walking over hills

or a sprawling campus.

For fleeting moments we are again

as we were but did not remain.

Far better to be who we have become,

to realize that it was better because

we stood together near the house

early on a summer evening

as the sun slid into western skies.

 

Precession of the Equinox: Polaris Shifts

 

Slightly tending westward, gradually

the lodestar  yields to its successor

as a new Astrological Age begins.

A residual memory, following me

from the Planetarium in Junior High.

Polaris’ replacement will then

give direction to new future stargazers.

 

One of the last young people to escape

from Kensington’s web of snarling streets

and elevated train lines, you seized your chance.

You became our Polaris, colorful in action

and attire, caring and cajoling, steadying

us to be the people you knew we could become.

 

Across the county or continent, we returned

and you greeted us, gloried in those returns.

As colleagues we spoke when storms neared,

and I kept your counsel in sight toward calm waters.

 

Now I know you began your precession,

stepping aside, though not then out of view.

Some of us search for you, exchanging pieces

that do not always fit together.

Second-hand accounts, some leading closer,

others in contradiction, point to a lodestar

that no longer shines in our heavens.

 

Every so often I scan the spreading stars

for our Polaris, until comes the realization

we are now lodestars for ourselves,

for stargazers we need to steady, for those

who receive the light as we did once

while scanning skies for our Polaris.

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Three Poems by JD Brayton

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Three Poems

by

JD Brayton

 

Zen Snowcone

Kite flying in an arctic gale.

The Moon is a Hoax.

Truth a Trope.

Sentient Sneezing.

A mistake dangling

accidentally

Out of God’s nostril.

(here’s a whisper from the Buddha)

Fuck The Man

For He Is Wise

In Giving His Cash

To Sleeping Artists.

FELLOW CHAMPION

POWER CORRUPTS, OR IS IT THE

STRENGTH OF ONE TRILLION SUNS

AND LETTERS TO THE INSANE

YOU CAN’T CALL IT CANDY

OR ROSES FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER

IT’S SIMPLY THE SCENE YOU PAINTED

LIKE TEMPRA PILLBOX SUNSET SPEARS

USE THE PAWNS LIKE PICKETS ON A FENCE

KEEP THEIR EYES WIDE OPEN AND LEARN THEIR NAMES

LAMBS WHO EAT IVY SURELY WILL DIE

BUT ONLY AFTER A SECOND TRY

IT IS HUMAN NATURE, THIS WILL IN BATTLE

THEY SHOUT FROM ONE MILLION ANGRY THROATS

AND POINT TOWARD THE ARMOR SHIMMERS

WHISPERING JEALOUS POEMS

TO ARMS ALONE

WHO NEEDS AN ARMY?

THE UNISON SOUND BREAKS QUIETLY

TOWARDS THE FRONTIERS OF DELUSION

THERE WAS NO BATTLE

THERE IS NO FOE

YOU TASTE BLOOD BECAUSE

YOU BIT YOUR LIP

 

Chimera Bombinians In Vacuo

ssss-ssss-ssss-sss
Wring my wait
Standing pandering fool
A wrung Chimera aside.
Unscathed.
Unscaled.
Or a mountain of blue un re-totemstone
Blue luster cast bleeding
Cracked grey lids for seeing
Lips in favored breathing night…night
Old tasted..tasting
Crazily (ME)-bite
Crazily (ME)-bite

Here’s a callous rubberstone
Bouncing, prancing, chewedly bone
Glissading dogmouth kites
“ Ah, Youth! You glide like God-Dog water.!”
(I’ve watched from my perch..)
Yes. I’ve sat and set
Drooling petrified
Down
In
Ice.

Down in silver trails unheat
Spattering cowbones at my feet
I eat more stone in hand
I smell beauty
Assuredly( ME )-seat
Assuredly (ME )-seat

“ The Chimera has a riddle, soft man..
~young             *              man~
who scars stone in a moaning sun?”

ssss-ssss-ssss-ssss

My poetic statement- has to reside with the words committed to blank pages. Though it may, (at times), seem so -these poems are not limned in blood. Racing thoughts and automatic writing are the stuff of whispering ghosts. And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen between candybars.  Pass the salt and it had better be worth it, pilgrim.

Faith may be primitive, but it’s the rarest tribe I know.

Bio- J.D. Brayton is an artist and musician who can, as if by magic , transmogrify poetry into lyrics, lyrics into short stories, short stories into novels, and novels into guaranteed poverty.

A BRUISER OF GOLDEN WORDS

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The Old Marlovian

 

220px-Hulme_1The Embankment

(The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a cold, bitter night )

Once, in finesse of fiddles I found ecstasy,

In a flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.

Now see I

That warmth`s the very stuff of poesy.

Oh, God, make small

The old star – eaten blanket of the sky,

That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

~~ T.E. Hulme ~~tehulme

 

T.E. Hulme was born in 1883, and was one of those edgy bohemian types, along with, Ezra Pound, F.S. Flint and Edward Storer who changed the face of poetry for good. They were fledgling imagists who rebelled against set metres and rhyme, which had been established in English poetry since the 16th century; for them, Romanticism was sliding down the greasy pole of yesterday`s news, and they wanted something new, fresh and invigorating. And so “The School…

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Exant

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Exant

by

Lewis Gesner

three stamps do for one are now they claim to be daft riders of the choir punctual and noncommittal full of blue haired rejection dominion and a base camp, frost on beards clamor and the song apparel makes undulations in the mass the animal state, the contour shaved prosaic but on the end of a filter spread of a butter diffident repose lawn marker heeds property one hundred slabs a long chip’s scorched return with resident the flash of mirrored ornaments in the retirement grove it is in an afternoon the ball to slot converting energies, cold across through heating even raw as flames magic actions strung together with a lisp and from the trauma more the shield in de then re programmed concert the in streak principle charcoal and allure moderate body valving technique beckons them repeat and meet them at the next chromatic lip fires and the V shaped rut and three pronged straw threads remittent serial rope connective the arrival of the spongy air the speaker cone for the local ghost responding gel whipped indirect reference into a froth metered the voices over the loudspeakers are fading the truss rods were detached before the crash but still insisted she controlled the movement of the storm with her mind disrupt gray space contour ligaments practiced alternating left and right foot to move forward and back have the social wanderer as mutton from an index card the true inception followed on the blue lines returned the bait untouched snapping and clicking dusty nylon gravesites replaced by bandages and boiling string exchange partnerships sweeping action regardless the tool delicate pressure, the sign is dimpled on the cheek forget the stirring in the hive algae stained water bottle departures on the scale and discovery slippery units riddled gesture realized from manuals sludge pail had its own place in a remote corner filled full desired defense want fear for un restrain laminated on your joints poured on form fit attempt the perfect copy slather itch pocket, trained in the uniform room orders, knows the kitchen and the bath furor in converging gravel, whipped by cyclone your name is ground into the empty monument the stone mason’s yard string skinned banjo and opposition weathering the glissando howling trio limps into the case-water for an eye flush strips of color as receded disappear the combination blue, cloud-leach brown the earth’s round too porous not perfected as were daffodils and elephant trunks still closely threaded to profound aparts from human awareness creaking, then a rippling, side effects expand at cracks, swell and narrow of in in de flations your masks are transparent slip covers which have not been exceeded fertilization mounds, wind to garden retired puddle deflected from the tar deck sucks out light plus radio waves slice drill elegant farm wear, nostril will power controls the filtration taking small steps, journeys eclipse trance rest on cement pillows human participation fringing participating, group flight over the textured plane has remained without a warrant for necessities millennium the seal, has fused itself on backwards gush, just a drip now retentive keeps in sight floor boards thick as sandwiches and in a curl the heat of suns sudden made them wince cooled, level melt panned drying monotone interaction feels sensor touch, a prickling, and an uncomfortable, numbing wave freezing writes in crystals ritualized body functions over time and a break during which evacuating any which way as far the brass gamelan introduced sight the inside back of skull from tube quills piercing underground the water bladder blends and quenches in a thirst awkward and five minute tardy everywhere no trespassing signs as resistant stand with pride their little pink death these vapors protrude as best they can, nosing in toward materialization in the midst of a factory wall or half submerge in the living body of the one that used to live next door without precision open round the mouth as much as possible dwindle lace strong because the geometric mesh enunciate use up teeth and tongue seems to plant amid the plaques and department store prints don’t presume too much the overhanding sash and the sail to hold the years of radiating lard has on its try the diffusion of the equivalent in sediment and residue in the line in your slow tradition block passage waits and thinks it has some pure bred determination a standard insult prevailing rest wrap tight sweat soak blanket peels

Lewis Gesner is a writer and artist living in Taiwan. He has exhibited internationally, and is a member of Mobius artist group out of Boston, MA, US. He has had several print and e books publish by Whitesky books.

Ghazal For Ginsberg

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 Ghazal For Ginsberg

by

E. S. Cormac

Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will.

I have studied your immense enumerations grey beard

I carefully crafted lines in response to shopping list strophes jazz beard

Thrown away to mind’s inner recesses and 182GB of RAM that’s all I have left either way

It is our pleasure to report neon fruit hydrogen jukeboxes the least of worries, father beard

It started off beautiful lines echoing your madness devoured minds of generation

Poseidon’s blinded children air out intimacies despite song of emperor’s fiddle, vigilant beard

It lead away to Troy’s shores and roster of ship’s crews using exacting turn-o-phrase

They snap fingers in cafe bravo to poetic truths of high school journal keepers now, beat beard

Lines stopped weary of flowing thoughts returned to foreign fiord

Struggle self society is it lost in transliteration mouthings, pariah beard

I am tired of them. I am tired of their flying circus. I don’t want to be a clown. I want to look outside

IWW, CCCP, LBGT, your Spartan Phalluses battled Barbara Billinglsy boulevards kabala beard

I will no longer write of the I, the me,  the we, the ours.

It is our pleasure to report, sertraline, fluoxetine, replace cerebellum scars now, committed beard

I will become Clipper of Coupons for Packets of Tea. I, soldier of emperors, swear, grand beard.

I am having a slow epiphany beatnik beard.

The beatnik poets as a whole, and Allen Ginsburg in particular, struggled against the norms of society. Through verse and prose they spoke of taboos, railed against mainstream America, and confessed dark desires in a style that also rebelled against the formal literature of the time. Whether through translation or imitation this style is what is most remembered and copied today. Hidden in the human caricature that has become the Beat Writer’s are the real life struggles of men against their society. A society they felt alienated from somehow.

What Exactly Depends Upon a Red Wheelbarrow?

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Karissa Morton Carter

For one of my poetry classes, we have been reading John Felstiner’s Can Poetry Save the Earth.  In preparation for a Skype session with Felstiner on Monday night, he sent us a list of poems he wanted us to consider, along with some questions about each.  In regards to William Carlos Williams’ infamous “The Red Wheelbarrow,” he asked the simple question:  “How much depends, and why?”  I’m a ramble-thinker.  I blab & (attempt to) condense, so welcome—my process of figuring out the answer to that question.

The choice of the word “glazed” in particular strikes me as it positions the reader in a very specific relation to both time & weather—two things completely out of our control.  The wheelbarrow is not “dripping” or “drenched,” as it would be if it were currently raining, yet it’s not “dry” or even just “damp” as though the rain’s been over for…

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In Defense of a New Lyricism

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In Defense of a New Lyricism

by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

“man is himself an object”

Charles Olson

Lyricism, the poetry of emotion, is in need of an overhaul but not in need of complete annihilation.  Lyricism at its core is rhythm and sentiment tied together.  This bundle is of great importance to both reader and writer.  As poetry finds a natural pace conjoined to thought, it returns to its verbal and thus songlike primordial state.  This rhythm which comes with thought attached to breath or heart or nature or machinery or whatever is contained inside and out converts emotion also to its natural state – the state of being sensed.

 

Lyricism is poetry made natural or better yet, normal/mundane.  The new lyricism is not concerned with meter as much as it is concerned with the pace of thought, memory, experience.  Lyricism translates the world into emotion and emotion into a musical/tonal state of being.  Being is important.  Lyricism works with flow and rests so as to keep the emotion moving between writer and reader.

 

This link between reader and writer is the crux of the new lyricism.  Lyricism is about emotion not about subject and object.  It is about how an occurrence changes a state of mind/how a mind changes at all.  States of mind are what connects all individuals.  We experience and we process.  We react.  We internalize.  We externalize. When we read we not only absorb words but apply those words to our past and ideas of the future and our current place.

 

Reading is daydreaming or meditating.  When one reads poetry one should stay close to the words until words fade into the moment. The moment of sentiment.  Of sensing.  When one leaves the poem and enters into the Self or outside of the Self.

Thoughts collect as reading occurs.  The new lyrical poet harnesses their own thoughts and experiences/perception and transfers into an absorbable state of musicality.  The new lyrical poet takes into account syllables, breath, phrasal constituents, phonology, harmony.  This poet is love with language and brings it to a natural place where it can do its duty of communicating or rather communing.

 

Lyricism does not need to be subjective.  We are all subjects and objects simultaneously.  Experience and perception is all around and ever-occurring.  With this taken into account the new lyricism focuses simply or only upon conveyance of the emotion and/or those thoughts related to emotion.  The mere mention of joy, anger, love, distress conjures up sentiment and the daydreams which transfer one back intowards such a state of occurrence.

 

Emotion needs no agent nor patient.  Emotion is.  And if it is, it is worthy of the poet’s attention.

 

Emotion is an ever-changing part of being human and emotions shift at any given time.  The amount of triggers which set off thoughts and thus emotion or more precisely the memories surrounding and caging memory are infinite.  Today is different for everyone.  This second is varied for each experiencer but it is experienced. And, emotion is there; even if the emotion is the emotion of nothing – no value.  Apathy, indifference, nihilism, zen, etc states of non-emotion are in themselves emotion.  Emotion is nothing more than a state of mind/being which sometimes becomes a reaction.  Mostly, emotion is from the Latin for remove or displace.  What is more displaced than nothingness?  And, in all honesty what state is harder to achieve than that of nothingness within writing?  Even the most abstract and uncreative of poems emote.  Each syllable in its morphological essence may trigger change.  Each syllable with its phonological presence can soothe or ruffle and thus create an emotion.

 

The new lyrical poet does not need to fall into archaic traps and be brought into a state of ‘I’- heavy wordings.  Nor does the lyrical poet need to fall into meter.  Language will find its flow from there we place emotions to move between eyes/ears and print/voice.