Posts tagged ‘2013’

Friday, 1 November 2019

Change of Address by Dónall Dempsey

You didn’t die
you just changed shape

became invisible
to the naked eye

became this grief

it’s sharpness
more real

than your presence was

before you were separate to me
entire to yourself

now you are
a part of me

you are inside my self

I call you
by your new name

‘Grief…Grief! ‘

although I still call you
‘Love.’

From: Dempsey, Donall, Being Dragged Across the Carpet by the Cat, 2015, Dempsey & Windle: UK, p. 38.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=v2tlCwAAQBAJ)

Date: 2013

By: Dónall Dempsey (1956- )

Friday, 18 October 2019

When at Last I Join by Amy Fleury

When at last I join the democracy of dirt,
a tussock earthed over and grass healed,
I’ll gladly conspire in my own diminishment.

Let a pink peony bloom from my chest
and may it be visited by a charm of bees,
who will then carry the talcum of pollen

and nectar of clover to the grove where they hive.
Let the honey they make be broken
from comb, and release from its golden hold,

onto some animal tongue, my soul.

From: Fleury, Amy, Sympathetic Magic, 2013, Crab Orchard Review & Southern Illinois University Press: Carbondale and Edwardsville, p. 63.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=YvqgrzRK_goC)

Date: 2013

By: Amy Fleury (1970- )

Saturday, 21 September 2019

Origin by Sarah Lindsay

The first cell felt no call to divide.
Fed on abundant salts and sun,
still thin, it simply spread,
rocking on water, clinging to stone,
a film of obliging strength.
Its endoplasmic reticulum
was a thing of incomparable curvaceous length;
its nucleus, Golgi apparatus, RNA
magnificent. With no incidence
of loneliness, inner conflict, or deceit,
no predator nor prey,
it had little to do but thrive,
draw back from any sharp heat
or bitterness, and change its pastel
colors in a kind of song.
We are descendants of the second cell.

From: https://structureandstyle.org/post/90981266590/origin

Date: 2013

By: Sarah Lindsay (1958- )

Friday, 20 September 2019

Midnight Feed by Daisy Fried

The open shed on the lawn’s far side stinks of gas
from the hateful mower that pulls me where it wants
when I mow, which is seldom. I rip up grass.
Humid night’s moon’s nothing-halo; the lawn pretends
to candy floss. Black-white dud roses dead since June,
alive enough to scratch my bare legs. I’m wearing nothing
but underpants, flipflops. Arms full, I stumble out,
flashlight in my mouth, turn my head to choose
what’s lit. Inside the dirt-floor shed, I fill bowls:
Dry bits, tuna slop. The flashlight hurts my mouth
till I drop it, dwindles into its cone where it falls to blight
a denticular leaf.

“Raphael! Gabriel! Lucifer!” Feral
kittens come running, vicious, filthy. Hum of the road.
Uriel shines his reflector-eyes from among mower parts
in the shed’s darkest corner. Disgust shakes his paw.
He won’t get close since wild La Mamma ran off weeks ago.
My three-month daughter cries on the baby monitor
I wear like a Miss America sash. She’ll wait,
Uriel must eat. Can’t leave them. Coons or coyotes
would get the food and kittens too. My fur rises
on my arms. What a bad mom! Also, I refuse
to look at the stars. There are too many
stars in poems you have to get drunk to write.

From: Fried, Daisy, Women’s Poetry: Poems and Advice, 2013, University of Pittsburgh Press: Pittsburgh, Pa., p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=zTpXAQAAQBAJ)

Date: 2013

By: Daisy Fried (1967- )

Saturday, 24 August 2019

Born, and Then Again by Mihku Paul

You dream of a wild bird
wheeling like a hurricane.
charmed from the warm, bristled sea.

The bird singing,
circling a sea-shell cradle
where you lie waiting for
peace on earth.
A banded sky, brown hawks
diving into mountains of stone.

Beneath you, it is deep as Hell.
Verses rise, ascending fire in
breath of bay, breath of balm.
You wait to be
lured back to life.

You, who boast Montezuma’s blood,
pure as priest and nun.
Pray for sufficient sun.
Sing like a charmed bird.
Do not die with curses
blistering your lips.
Sing.
Take shelter in the warm sea,
luring you back
to life.

From: https://cabildoquarterly.tumblr.com/post/51088591501/born-and-then-again-by-mihku-paul

Date: 2013

By: Mihku Paul (1958- )

Monday, 29 July 2019

God Particles by James Crews

I could almost hear their soft collisions
on the cold air today, but when I came in,

shed my layers and stood alone by the fire,
I felt them float toward me like spores

flung far from their source, having crossed
miles of oceans and fields unknown to most

just to keep my body fixed to its place
on the earth. Call them God if you must,

these messengers that bring hard evidence
of what I once was and where I have been—

filling me with bits of stardust, whaleskin,
goosedown from the pillow where Einstein

once slept, tucked in his cottage in New Jersey,
dreaming of things I know I’ll never see.

From: https://www.americanlifeinpoetry.org/columns/detail/506

Date: 2013

By: James Crews (19??- )

Monday, 27 May 2019

Idealrelisation/My Hat by Henry Parland

Grimaces I

My hat
was run over
by a trolley yesterday.
This morning
my coat took a walk
to some place
far away.
This afternoon
my shoes
happened to get assassinated.
—I’m still here?
that’s just
it.

From: http://www.babelmatrix.org/works/sv/Parland%2C_Henry-1908/Idealrealisation__Min_hatt/en/41619-Idealrelisation_My_hat

Date: 1929 (original in Swedish); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Henry Parland (1908-1930)

Translated by: Johannes Göranson (19??- )

Monday, 13 May 2019

Rose Red and Snow White by Kim Antieau

Skin as white as Virgin snow.
Ice crystals grown from dust motes,
Specks of Earth thrown skyward:
Snow White
Lips as red as pricked blood, first blood,
Unfolding like the Virgin Rose,
Whole in and of herself:
Rose Red
Colors of the Goddess,
Clues this tale is more than it seems.
Aren’t they all?
When Le Bête knocks on their door
Mid-winter, matted ice and snow giving him
A Rasti look, the twin goddesses invite
The Wild in,
Serve him tea and comb his fur.
No sign of gold at first blush.
Then what? Did they watch Jack Frost
Breathe on their windows and listen to
Ice crack into wintry art?
Their version of cable.
Today, would they gulp beer, eat chips,
And watch television, the three of them?
Would Le Bête complain about the
Commercialization of all things sacred
As he clutched the remote?
“Let’s live off the grid,” he’d murmur
While Snow White and Rose Red painted
Their fingernails black as pitch and their lips
Red as a whore’s candied tongue.
Goth or harlot?
Or, perhaps before the Bear enters their domain
The sisters are hippie-girls, wandering, modern-like,
Looking for some thing. Hitching rides.
Living off the land. Eating huckleberries plucked
From their core, the juice staining their lips and teeth
Deep purple. Watching the bloody salmon leap,
They wonder why their mouths water, wonder
What it is they have lost.
Why does it ache so much?
So when a man in gold knocks on their door
Mid-winter, they pull him inside, shining him on.
Until they spot the fur beneath the gold.
Le Bête!
They speak in tongues as they
Rip the clothes from him.
He is only a symbol, after all.
The sisters bury their faces in his fur.
When they look down at their own bodies,
They see they have grown Grizzly claws.
They laugh and embrace each other.
The man, speechless, tries to piece his
Gold suit back together. Alone
In the empty cottage, he closes the door.
Outside, the night is wild with beasts.

From: http://kathleenflenniken.com/blog/?m=201311

Date: 2013

By: Kim Antieau (1955- )

Tuesday, 1 January 2019

Starlight Grey by Ian Gibbins

At last, we strip off our wall-paper skins,
don brocade wedding gowns in readiness
for our year’s end resolution of untested hypotheses.

With tiger sharks looming in murky shallows,
viable financial propositions have failed to materialise:
no wonder we developed a case of cold feet,

no surprise that long-lost relatives clash again over
certain rather tricky matters, wedge-tailed eagles circle
anti-clockwise, goannas salivate in the undergrowth.

Hour by hour, some kind of narrative unfolds:
“Independence is a virtue,” they tell us. Arm in arm,
we move as one, speak with a single voice.

Faced with a chance of unpowered flight,
an opportunity to achieve previously unheralded
altitude, we make the momentous decision to refute

offers of help, deny any attempt to divert our course.
From the sidelines, they call out, “We told you so!”
and, in almost equal parts, “You’ll be glad you did!”

While hyenas smirk, harangue late-comers to the party,
we look confidently through each other’s eyes,
toss high a ceremonial coin, call either heads or tails.

From: http://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/poetry/sample-of-poets/gibbins/

Date: 2013

By: Ian Gibbins (19??- )

Saturday, 29 September 2018

The Soul by Benny Andersen

My soul is not really working
I have so much inside
that I can’t get out
don’t have any use for it myself
but maybe someone else would
could save someone
from something
give a little support when it counted
people go by
with oozing depression
gaping problems
and I have the solution inside me
but it’s just getting it out
I stand on my head
do cartwheels
flips
but all kinds of other things
come out
excuses
reservations
corrections to old memories
I’m not really like that
I can almost taste it
it’s stuck in my throat
my head feels like a champagne cork
I shake myself a little and say
just a second
here comes the big bang
then everyone will be happy
but people get tired of waiting
if only they believed in me
then the big bang would come
but people don’t have time
think it’s just the usual
don’t know what they’re missing
and there I stand
misunderstood volcano
burning to let out my lava
I’ve got to try again
Give me a second –

From: https://hammerandhorn.net/benny-andersen/translations/the-soul/

Date: 1964 (original in Danish); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Benny Andersen (1929- )

Translated by: Michael Favala Goldman (1966- )