projective

Looking to the Edge by Mark Fleury

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Looking to the Edge

by

Mark Fleury

Looking to the edge

Of the dawn-tinged mountain

Tops’ cliffed flaming skyscape,

The ladder to the brow of the morning

Star leans against the wall between

The night and day of a new year.

I peak over the sky, blue as the part

Of a candle flame that entrances

A child in Easter Sunday’s Grace

Before what’s thanked for is consumed

For weight toward Earth’s center.

And I see it’s the same primordial pool

Of fire and flame and lust that does

Dervish whirls from a screen door

To a backyard. April is draining

Its pain of birth, thaw and rust

As though the hinges

Of soil opened to houses

In the enclosed bark of trees.

Bio: Mark Fleury lives in St. Paul, MN. He has recently had poems published in Vext Magazine, Altered Scale, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, Medulla Review, ditch, UFO Gigolo and the Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology. Mark also has a poem forthcoming in the September inaugural issue of Of/ With. Mark has a new 2014 book of poetry entitled The Precious Surreal Door Opened, published by Medulla Review Publishing.

 

Poetics Statement: My writing invariably goes back to the basement apartment where I lived when I had a nervous breakdown over twenty years ago. The different parts of the apartment symbolize various parts of my psyche; for example, the door leading into the apartment is the location of the pineal gland in the center of my brain. And the window across the room, which is the title of one of my books: The 4D Window, is the sensorium screen where my worldly experiences, including poetry, take place. I consider myself to be a student of Charles Olson’s Projective Verse essay.

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Two Poems by George J. Farrah

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Two Poems
 by
George J. Farrah

Peninsula

You can walk along side it

on a front of a wall cloud

moving through a town

you can move up to it on a

short sighted path longer

then imagined and colder someone

somewhere answered then

and went back

home

a forest is a lobby

a tree a sandwich

a border a forest

every thought a town a possibility    of

something someone or somewhere where

pneumonia takes you         or venom cures

you or a peninsula of any waiting at all

this is a deserted border

this is also a secure border and

you must move this is just so and

no one knows

  why really no matter what they say

  and well advanced 20 feet to know so

  or not know so

now everyone said and everyone

voted coming to an end like this

sill feels so new

this is a reparation

and a variation and yet a

captioned city

Start
Consequent
 flying of buttresses
 
over my wall I was sheltered shuddering
considering but happy
to see the spark of the back
flowering rung up & down
the arms legs and chest
brightest stitching of the
hottest flesh
in the valley of
nerves
against points of
burning trees or cars
or crows
it is even a world
it is always a word
and your are always lost to it at
first
the sense of accuracy is
redefined
challenged in the
mediums of water &
food
 to quit his or
her   time to
cry out
no salt no time
and no visors
they must leave and find a
new home now
I will cross
your words
again and begin.

Bio:

George J. Farrah received an MFA from Bard College, NY.
Book forthcoming from Ravenna Press, The Low Pouring Stars
His work has appeared in The Washington Review, Open 24 Hrs., Ribot,
BUGHOUSE, Fourteen Hills, Disturbed Guillotine, Tight, Aileron, Fish Drum, The Columbia Poetry Review; Caldron And Net, Moria , CROWD, Xstream, MORIA, Ampersand, Elimae, Blaze VOX, BHOuse vol.2, Blue and Yellow Dog,
Experiential-Experimental Literature, Los Magazine, Anemone Sidecar, truck,
Counter Example, Altered Scale and others.

I, Saladin, To Nobody in Particular

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A Response to Charles Olson

by E.S. Cormac

I, Saladin, To Nobody in Particular

Wandering idle down Styx lanes

Periwinkle, Crimson, safflower

hues assault windshield unrestrain’

battlement’s arrows shower.

Shall I sit upon the shore fishing?

With the sea stretching out from my feet.

      Or speak of undone business?

Of breath

          of ears

                of syllable, syllabus, syllabic

Oh Glowster Man

   (that is how the ears hear it)

My spatial nature geometry is lost now

buried beneath billboard

advertising gleaming teeth

and all manner of elixir

                and what watches

                           and what wears

         I want to fit

I want to shine brighter than the fifty stars that glint atop Metropolis

        I want that piece

        I want that peace

I held that gun at them

     for the confusers for the Brooks Brothers cloistered minions

I held that gun

           watching as we lay siege at Ma’arra.

                          How they feasted

Across winter windshield

giants stand gleaming teeth on black ribbon roadsides

 Fear Not Citizen!

                get the yellow out 

                             drink this

                                         tune in tonight at nine)

GOOOO! SPORTSTEAM! GOOOO! COMMERCE! BUY SELL SELL BUY BUY

Go Icharus

fly  where you can never reach

             fly and I will follow

My ship’s mast melts with wings

        to cause quarrel over the loss of golden armor.

There are riches enough to be satisfied in Troy

          In Troy

where Dear Fathers, Fearless Leaders, Benevolent Uncles

Bearded Revolutionaries smile down on us all

           watching

              waiting

                  for the chance to purge

O Commerce O Commerce

I repent

My teeth dream of the day they can gleam

sublime ego sentence strands removed from shores

blown to glass

      situated in teethly tower rows

          erect Testaments to our fathers named

Sears, Comcast, Chrysler, Key and Bank of America I and II

O Commerce O Commerce

I repent I am Redeemed for five cents

Do not discard me in your Gulag Archipelago

         I am not so poor, you will make no great profit

    Do not discard me in a home of wayward Roman D.J.s

         In twelve plus twelve I would never produce a cantos

Oh Glowster Man

    Do you hear me?

       Was this percussive?

          Was it PROJECTIVE?

I want to wander through brilliant stacks of cans

I want to act after taken thought

I want to fight no more forever

Oh Glowster Man

    Do you hear me?

Your RAT-A-TAT-TAT DA-DING

has been replaced by yet another glowing blue screen that can paint the windows of Suburbia

The keys still clack

but even as we speak they are being replaced…

                                                               By what says you?

         by shiny glass and aluminumy tablets says I

                                                                Like His word says you?

    better says I

       they gleam of billboard staring toothuses

 

Charles Olson’s poetry and essay, “Projective/ Verse” are the antithesis of the New Critic School of writing. Although Olson is scholarly and fills his stanzas with learned quotes and references, he departs in every other way from the New Critics. Embracing all the features of modern printing Olson breaks his verse up according to how it should be spoken or into ‘breaths as he calls them. His open verse or Composition by Field is formed free of iambic meter. Instead Olson prefers to concentrate on the kinetic nature of the poem, Olson also carefully points out that all metaphor, objects, or anything else that would interrupt this kinetic flow must be omitted.