Posts tagged ‘2005’

Tuesday, 3 May 2022

Crown Ticket by Pym Schaare

as i crumple up the small piece of paper
ready to wrap around the rock
for throwing into the river

i wonder who might find it and read it
i left nothing out
on my rough stone sketch

there seems to be a custom
which acts like a spell
to judge my business and your business

while i listen and watch children
playing on swings
i think about other people

who arrived here
on the order of the ticket
to work for the term of their natural lives

there seems to be a certain
line of thought
by those who flung signatures like swords

on courtly orders for transportation
when freedom was on offer
slavery sold as a generous relative

with the price fixed
for the assembly line
hoe and sickle worked

to transform swamp into irrigation
while heads bobbed up and down
in the tall grasses

like puppets on a wire
work sounded
like the clattering of Lucifer.


Date: 2005

By: Pym Schaare (1952- )

Friday, 1 April 2022

April Fool’s Day by Peter Halstead

The vernal equinox again.
Not so vernal, this time,
As eternal. Not so equal, either,
As just another wintry sequel.
The divided sky, cut in half by sun and ice,
Riffles through the branches twice,
As the rime of history dies
And the summer slowly multiplies:
Woolly clouds resemble glaciers,
Undermined by warmer natures—
Time is cold and close today,
A solar cloisonné.

We are the hours we replace,
Not clock innards, but their face,
And the planet’s penduluming trips
Are more about its balanced drips:
The gist of the galactic chase
Leaps in us through empty space:
Not from any godly knack,
But from creation’s partial lack—
Not from the worlds growing here,
But because they disappear,
As far as I can see,
Springs the night’s equality.

Tippet Alley
April 1st, 1995

Rue de Varenne
September 19th, 2004; May 24th, 2005


Date: 1995, 2004, 2005

By: Peter Halstead (19??- )

Tuesday, 29 March 2022

Bats by Amanda Jernigan

They billow from a hillside in Cha’am.
Together, they are more than plural:
the planet’s darkest song, a tongue,
a serpent muscling air apart,
a dire banner come unfurled,
a river flowing wholly from
the old, mute mountain’s desperate heart,
the last confession of the world.
Conceive of each one singly, if you can.


Date: 2005

By: Amanda Jernigan (19??- )

Friday, 18 March 2022

Belonging by Eileen Carney Hulme

We never really slept,
just buried clocks
in the sanctuary
of night

every time I moved
you moved with me,
winged eyelashes
on your cheek returns a kiss

small spaces of silence
in between borrowed breaths
arms tighten
at the whisper of a name

all the words of the heart
the unanswered questions
are at this moment
blue rolling waves

tonight our souls rest
fragrant in spiritual essence
candle-flamed, undamaged
utterly belonging.


Date: 2005

By: Eileen Carney Hulme (1953- )

Friday, 31 December 2021

Promise by Jacqueline Margaret (Jackie) Kay

Remember, the time of year
when the future appears
like a blank sheet of paper
a clean calendar, a new chance.
On thick white snow
You vow fresh footprints
then watch them go
with the wind’s hearty gust.
Fill your glass. Here’s tae us. Promises
made to be broken, made to last.


Date: 2005

By: Jacqueline Margaret (Jackie) Kay (1961- )

Friday, 25 June 2021

Think of Others by Mahmoud Darwish

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).
As you conduct your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: “If only I were a candle in the dark”).


Date: 2005 (original in Arabic); 2009 (translation in English)

By: Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)

Translated by: Mohammed Shaheen (19??- )

Monday, 14 June 2021

Yes, It Can Be Admitted Now by Kathleen Jesme

Yes, it can be admitted now: she had a secret once

carried like a stone in her pocket until

(is this how what we are
becomes unspeakable.)

what if years later running her hands down her body she found
that stone, worn now,

and named it
or God
or something




Date: 2005

By: Kathleen Jesme (1949- )

Thursday, 29 April 2021

Work by Simon Hall

Abebot vaccuums dust
runs on fruit

Fredbot is the stampbot
can get cantankerous

Horatiobot stacks piles
dreams of pet monkey

Janbot1 is a polyglot superbot

Janbot2 stressed puffs

Kenbot runs on chips
ran twelve second hundred once

Maxbot’s eyes shrink people

Mrsvandongenbot’s operated for fifty one years

Mrsfergusonbot has replacement ears

Paulinebot had a bad fall
can’t bend

Sambot often loses head
breaks down

Simonbot is new
covered in dust.

From: 31 May 2005 – Cordite Poetry Review: Simon Hall: Work – Trove (

Date: 2005

By: Simon Hall (19??- )

Friday, 15 January 2021

Hyperion’s Fate Song by Johann Christian Friedrich Hölderlin

You walk above in the light,
Soulful genius, on a yielding floor!
God’s shining breezes
Gently touch you
As the fingers of a musician
Play on otherworldly strings

Fateless, like a nursing infant asleep,
The gods draw breath;
As chastely preserved
As modest buds,
Their minds are always
In flower,
And their soulful eyes
Gaze calmly and eternally
In silent clarity.

But it’s our fate
To have no place to rest,
As suffering mortals
Blindly fall and vanish
From one hour
To the next,
Like water falling
From cliff to cliff, downward
For years to uncertainty.


Date: c1800 (original in German); 2005 (translation in English)

By: Johann Christian Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

Translated by: Paul Hoover (1946- ) and Maxine Chernoff (1952- )

Saturday, 3 October 2020

Bag of Bones by Dunya Mikhail

What good luck!
She has found his bones.
The skull is also in the bag
the bag in her hand
like all other bags
in all other trembling hands.
His bones, like thousands of bones
in the mass graveyard,
his skull, not like any other skull.
Two eyes or holes
with which he listened to music
that told his own story,
a nose
that never knew clean air,
a mouth, open like a chasm,
was not like that when he kissed her
there, quietly,
not in this place
noisy with skulls and bones and dust
dug up with questions:
What does it mean to die all this death
in a place where the darkness plays all this silence?
What does it mean to meet your loved ones now
with all of these hollow places?
To give back to your mother
on the occasion of death
a handful of bones
she had given to you
on the occasion of birth?
To depart without death or birth certificates
because the dictator does not give receipts
when he takes your life?
The dictator has a heart, too,
a balloon that never pops.
He has a skull, too, a huge one
not like any other skull.
It solved by itself a math problem
That multiplied the one death by millions
to equal homeland
The dictator is the director of a great tragedy.
He has an audience, too,
an audience that claps
until the bones begin to rattle—
the bones in bags,
the full bag finally in her hand,
unlike her disappointed neighbor
who has not yet found her own.


Date: 1993 (original in Arabic); 2005 (translation in English)

By: Dunya Mikhail (1965- )

Translated by: Elizabeth Winslow (19??- )