Tuesday, 30 June 2015

JUNE POEMS

Pearl Pirie


romantic painster, louder, I can’t even hear you bleed


bungee
jumping school drop-
out, spine rhymes with itself
muscles too taut to spit cusses
ground-kissed

*

tourniquet, turn a quaint what? tune a kit, tuna kid, done
orchids, (lie alkaline), dumb as orchards (Palestine)

doom NASCAR, gloomier child, Rumi eyeshot
(there is a field) roomie’s eyesore, hot om, ye sorrel

homesick oral, (there must be a prayer for this) om
throne a sorrow (meet you there), thorned a Zorro.


*
-can you wake up this word?
- look up or wake up? 
I usually wake up a word by tickling its left serifs


*
the hottest part of me is the tangent of our combined heat
— the point of your shoulder against my temple

the temple, that part of my head, my idiolect’s headwaters
that icebox robot of bone that runs on its tin feet towards 

the odg, a god, a dog, or sense of odd, and winds me back to our
shared ticks.  if it’s an idiolect we share, is it a dialect? a bialect? 
  

*
a bi-election this separation into the unnaturalness of having—wait,
eight limbs? does that mean we are
an octopus finally? ou une autobus? we idle and sidle and sit.


*
the coldest part of me is the C of your ear as it rests on my scalp.
soft sounds of hair is ocean is ohh. 

where are you warmest? can I riffle deep under your shirt?
is it here? may I ask? will you answer me that?
or will I have to find out for myself?
we are countries apart in the politesse of public.

the land under the land has no lines that match anything
we devise.  Palestine or lines of  pants or panty lines.
tan lines, police lines. threat and thread and red and unread
and always one more means
to an and and an and.

*
there are real things to do, if
we are insistent on peace. if we
act instead of throw money, patience
and petittions at. there are people
to feed, talk to, carry heavies for.

if are well-healed before well-heeled
we must each horn and powder 
one’s own arrow of anemone
(out beyond ideas of wrongdoing)
break bread and eat, share.
sense is ours for the remaking.

present, accounted for, is everyone
with family who die more reliably
than rain that lifts itself in petticoats
diagonals of dandelions in dialogue
the whole width of The Possible
(when the soul lies down in that grass)
turn a cat loose on the birds
and two kills a week, half for sport
half left in indifference. the grief
of heart family of loss of gloss of
eyes turned etiquette away, quiet
the midnight mental paintings.
tête-à-tête quite suppressed.

insert bird, birds and sloppy generals
(out beyond the ideas rightdoing)
no, don’t invoke Hitchcock again.
unfinger your eyes and see. not
hand-me-down movie clichés
to replace observations. are you
at the end of your trope yet? yet?

*
to beehive to behave to behove,
(there is a field) stone unturned,
left unpaved, a corn row owns 
and forms itself  from what it has
sown in sequence in sun sequins. 

what was allowed, farm-sown?
let us dye. aloo palak arm-thrown.
one world of surface, depths of
convoluted believing anything.
(the world is too full to talk about.)


*

silk curls tumble over suit man. 
the light polishes his bald spot.
I want a pen to write hearts on it 
(as if that will fix everything).

*

strum feathers by the fountains, so foreign for the brahman
the sparrow myna, shady. what’s fated for ermine or tending to debris.
you’re the hallways and the tables that I stream to, folding light
that I bliss for, swell and well, goodnight, oil-barrel myna, tangled nude.

strumming hairs of my guitar on a nippy slippery weekday
a schlock with ardour. I see dense bones lift for my chains.
conscious and adhered as those sheened eyes of sparrow myna
she's berating me with the ladle from a dove
of the lonely strawman, her plucked down.

sparrow myna, squawking radio, barrelled myna, can't you see
you’re the hallways and the tables, are the rooms and walls and light
the space I miss, hood your eyes, sparrow myna, that’s my news.
sparrow myna, I love you.

*




Pearl Pirie's lastest collection is the pet radish, shrunken (BookThug, 2015). She is a host of Literary Landscape on ckcufm.com and president of KaDo, a group for eastern varieties of writing including haiku and tanka.www.pearlpirie.com


Thursday, 25 June 2015

JUNE POEMS

Brittni Carey (Windsor, ON)

JUNE POEMS


Chronology
Plunder, Early Canadian Glass (1961)

the present        grows out of all that went before

it is increasing                in the future, as in the past

it is difficult to picture                without many forms




























Cameron Anstee lives and writes in Ottawa ON where he runs Apt. 9 Press.

Monday, 13 April 2015

APRIL POEM


A DIALECTIC POEM IN THE MAKING
by Karl Jirgens

Instructions:  Read the following passage from George Eliot’s Middlemarch and respond to the question below. 

__A__ felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasure, but __A__ did not swerve from the usual politeness of greeting, when __B___ rose and explained her/his/its presence. __A__ was less happy than usual, and this perhaps made her/him/it look all the dimmer and more faded; else, the effect might easily have been produced by the contrast of ___B’s____ appearance. The first impression on seeing __B__ was one of sunny brightness, which added to the uncertainty of __B’s__ changing expression. Surely, __B’s__ very features changed their form, __B’s__  jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in __B’s__ nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When __B__ turned her/his/its head quickly __B’s__ hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thought they saw decided genius in this coruscation [sparkle]. __A__, on the contrary, stood rayless.

Question: Identify characters A and B, in the above passage. Fill in the blanks above by choosing from among the pairs below (some illustrations provided), or enter your own answer in the space provided:


A. Bozo the Clown
B. Charlie Chaplin

A. The Dalai Llama
B. The Buddha

A. Pamela Wallin
B. Mother Teresa

A. Kwame Kilpatrick
B. Nelson Mandela

A. Lady Gaga
B. Maria Callas

A. Dull ennui
B. The Endless Mundane Vagaries of Life

A. Mary's Little Lamb
B. Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain

A. The apostrophe
B. William Shakespeare

A. The cracker and cheese
B. The Carnival of Rio de Janeiro

A. Anne of Green Gables
B. Godzilla

A. The humble oboe
B. The Brandenburg Concerto

A. Unabashed Gluttony
B. Dante’s Inferno

A. The Electrolux Vacuum Cleaner
B. The Black Hole V4641-Sgr (in the Sagittarius arm of the Milky Way)

A. The common stone
B. The Great Pyramids of Giza

A. The exclamation mark
B. The Big Bang

A. The dyslexic Army
B. Mary

Or, fill in your own selection:

A. ________________

B. ________________


Friday, 30 January 2015

JANUARY POETRY



[Waiting for Charlie]
Hannah Watts



Ph speaks to me about truth & essays.

He tells me to own the I



build Babel. But my tools are scattered

mouthful vital soils.

I exhume Plutarch with my tongue while 


we chat about identity over coffee.


He hunched in Leffler Peace Park, eyes dilated, children sipped from his lips.

I tried to imitate his gaze and my father called me—


Gréagóir pulls me to his chest, arms ignited

I burrow in embers

Manitoulin river rock sunset

he clings to me like Charlie, sinking rib-deep

breathless he takes shots shots shots

my fingertips graze smouldering shoulders.


Deathless, I ride single breasted into the breath of Achilles.

But I am thin. I hide behind trees, torchless on the edge of seas.

I pronounce my time of death 


and engagement 


I wave my hand to display the ring.


Poets are not liars because we never claim truth.

I feel old when I should feel brilliant. 


This is an intimate conversation.

Monday, 26 January 2015

TWENTY POEMS by Niall Sheridan & Donagh MacDonagh (1934; 2015)

 No. 247 is reproduced and digitized here for scholarly purposes.
 Use images in accordance with the authors' 1934  lapsed copyright.
























Friday, 16 January 2015

JANUARY POETRY

This is a sentence.
Lindsay O’Connell


your compliments arrive at a well-considered welcome moment and, though not decidedly deserved, are appreciated by me because writing, as you no doubt know and have tried to convince me so far, takes lots and lots and lots of practice, and so I encourage the unfortunate stroke to break rules and elide convention which you make (if only in your own mind) through humour, as well as the other means at your disposal: sincerity, save-face, pity, pouring drinks etc., along with your appeal to me here; but the vastness of this appreciation, my appreciation for your writing that is, which is ever-widening I assure you, reminds me that I, and almost certainly any other person who aims to practice (like breathing), never set down rules and only aim to suggest (often through example) the best way to approach cuneiform which will always be concerned with the picture, or the problem, or the person, or the task it traces; however, these reasons, while admittedly strong in counter-point, do not change the outcome of today’s meeting – an event that seemed to me to be more about the relaying or rules and stylistic necessity of texting than encouragement to keep on writing – move your pen, move your pen, shift-up, shift-up, it’s a call to write write write…