This work by Sebastiaan Bremer truly blows me away! Whoah!
[via grain edit]
the rustle of a Sunday bundle of newspapers tucked under my father’s arm stop
and no father walking toward me stop
on the branch only oak leaves reddening as wind ripens their talent for exodus stop
on the lawn a scatter of wrens head-down but tail-erect stop
no bringing back the other world though every silence sounds for it stop
soft hiss then only all the rattle of useless memory caught in the unwieldy bundle of his dying stop
where I’ve tied it stop
waiting for the proscenium that the warblers’ song might once again build around me stop
I purse my lips in an exaggerated exorcism of breath please advise
by Rusty Morrison
from the true keeps calm biding its story (Ahsahta Press)
slow fields blink past orchard in fall the stream moves clear
slow moves in fields blink past stream fall the clear orchard
slow fall moves fields blink clear past stream in the orchard
orchard slow fall past moves in blink clear fields the stream
fall moves clear past slow stream in fields the orchard blink
the slow blink past stream clear in fall fields orchard moves
past moves slow blink in fields orchard fall the clear stream
blink slow past moves fall stream clear fields the orchard in
orchard in stream clear fall blink past moves slow the fields
in slow past blink orchard fields stream the clear fall moves
in fall slow blink the past moves clear orchard stream fields
slow stream moves past fields clear in fall orchard the blink
blink the orchard fields in slow stream past clear fall moves
the past moves blink orchard slow in stream fields clear fall
clear moves the stream fall in orchard past blink fields slow
by Nate Pritts
published in Dear Sir
as well as in his new chapbook, Descriptive Sketches
the photo was originally uploaded to flickr by amy allcock.
I found this videopoem through my friend Laura Mullen, who posted it on facebook. The video is inspired by the poem “Going West” by Maurice Gee. The video is sponsored by the New Zealand Book Council. Fasten your reader’s seat belt.
Credits: Film for NZ Book Council
Produced by Colenso BBDO and
Animated by Andersen M Studio
by fire and
by hospital by
a slapdash collection
of ands by
a stalwart obsession
birds by living
by living within
a set of
escape hatches by
by ricochet by
spores on the wind
by circus tent neighborship
by fors and
by nors really
by witness by forgiveness by
forgetness by dreaming
by thoughtful love by
by the luminosity
of the true nature
by real dullness
of the spirit
hand me that sandbag
by the wine key
the flooding like clockwork
by poems about crossroads
by songs about crossroads
challenge that water
to a fistfight I
dare you I
am on a roll
and have just told
my typo keyboard
to fuck off
a river crests
by the corkscrew
not by songs about the luminosity
not by poems about the luminosity
sandbag atop sandbag
I don’t know about fate
by death mostly
by some form
a real possibility.
But we could
be waiting here
awhile. Have we
for this waiting.
He paints in the colors of awe. Visit Mitchell Johnson's site to see more of his work.
I was barn. I was razed.
I was mot this flame with no’s sum else blue’s blame noir yearning down the house.
No, it was I and I blank I bandit blather that louse that
fiddle-dee-dee little lame chimera that came as the name yes different.
I wracked my refrain, that blousy souse.
I was bard. I was crazed.
I was dog girl’s shame.
So, I culled my maim. My maze read, you heave to rip rove your aim (she
knock-knocks my nows and raves my here a quickened tousle), spell your
dreams with a big and, and play for the game. I was har. I was phrase.
I was aroused by many’s uttered same.
by Heidi Lynn Staples
from her book Dog Girl (Ahsahta Press, 2009)
photo by Jenny Gacy via flickr
am working on a specimen so pale it is like staring at snow from the
bow of a ship in fog. I lose track of things—articulation of wing,
fineness of hair—as if the moth itself disappears, but remains as an
emptiness before me. Or, from its bleakness, the subtlest distinctions
suddenly increase: the slightest shade lighter in white begins to
breathe with a starkness that’s arresting and the very idea of color
terrifies. It has snowed and the evening is blue. The herders look like
buoys, like waders the water has gotten too deep around. They’ll have
to swim in to shore. Their horses are patient. They love to be led from
their stalls. They love to sharpen their teeth on the gate. They will
stand, knees locked, for hours.
by Lisa Olstein
from her book Lost Alphabet (Copper Canyon 2009)
published on poets.org
photo by Gaëtan Bourque from flickr
I will leave this house and go out into the
are only so many ways to get out I will use the window as a shield and nothing can hurt
me not rain not migration I need a truck I need to drive
forever down the highway carrying nothing going out to meet the owls hello owls on a man-made hill hello men you dead men beneath a separate
weather and now
I am back in the truck
could drive across Nebraska and no one would notice I don’t need to hide
at all anymore
something in the night sky changed so slightly I have to pay attention and yes their mouths are
ahead of the sound
there is no one to tell I tell the truck I tell Nebraska I am leaving there are a million
ways out one day
I will live on an island all the time I will send out a parcel when the mail boat
arrives look empty mail
boat now you are
published in Octopus Magazine, Issue 12
Heather’s book, The Difficult Farm, will be published by Octopus Books later this year.