My chapbook “Dear Red Airplane” arrived in today’s mail. It is published by Seven Kitchens Press. I suppose it’s both good news and bad news that it is already sold out. Seven Kitchens is a micro-press and they specialize in artful booklets in small print runs. If you’d like to request a second run, you can do so here.
Check out the latest in poet/artist/composer collaboration at Born Magazine. I always find something to love.
Artists in this issue:
Layne Braunstein, New York, New York
Martin Brolin, Stockholm, Sweden
Meredith Dittmar, Portland, Oregon
Dave Selden, Portland, Oregon
Writers in this issue:
Dan Albergotti, Conway, South Carolina
April Kopp, Chicago, Illinois
Zachary Schomburg, Portland, Oregon
Wednesday, April 7th, 2010
Featuring: Bronwen Tate, Ann Bogle, Jennifer Karmin, Marthe Reed, Annie Finch, Amy King, Cara Benson, Mackenzie Carignan, Danielle Pafunda, Deborah Poe, Ana Božičević, Teresa Carmody, Kate Durbin, Megan Volpert, Sarah Rosenthal, Krystal Languell, K. Lorraine Graham, Carmen Gimenez Smith, Robin Reagler, Cheryl Pallant, Shanna Compton, Lara Glenum, Deb Marquart, Elizabeth Searle, and Mel Nichols.
drawn on the burden of light
the pottery throw
in bleat turning
ballast makes fingers twitch
“going to pour”
wet to root and pavement
tent sagging like an oyster
“the city has another soul”
gnat passes someone swallows
“the city also”
stole the bench and echoes
blight and shuttered bleat
soul chews a wilted corner
by Barbara Guest
photo by artbychrysti via flickr
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.
She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard. Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made. Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night. Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker's rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
by Wallace Stevens
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
Let me be "straight"
where I'm coming from:
a word- like Orphic wind-egg
(to sigh to wink to nod to kneel
to shake my stumps at heaven)
I'm so sure
it's a Notorious B.I.G. deal
I saw your& little mouth-thing
now I'm swayin
a life a Sybil-leaf a tulle-box
by still practice learn to
m(out)h Watch "dawn"
this catwalk wearing
lair du temps
Here's a fun sounding exercise from Read Write Poem. It's by Bruce Covey. Let us know if you give it a try!
Where there are coins, there’s matter,
A narrow strip of over 700,000 in this province.
Today the birds are green and the roofs are woven
Of string. You pick the spot, please:
Its zoo built with moment upon moment of cola fountains
(although the one at the center sprouts ginger ale), or
The checkerboard landscape with a single checker making me sweat.
A nest of spiders spins its lines of code — where something is and isn’t —
underneath the netting, the surface para-graph,
A wooden barrel in front of every scrap.
Half kangaroo and half gorilla would be very versatile,
Especially here, where rain has turned the road to muck.
Next to the thicket and upon a rock, my translator
Teaches card tricks to all the babies, changes their diapers.
Later we played an asphalt fight until the killer bees,
Digitally enhanced, came — an extensive natural race
That brings the good in night, its tropical players.
by Bruce Covey
Another amazing edition of EOAGH has been posted, and it's huge and, as I said, amazing! Here's one by the poet Robyn Art. Please hustle on over and see the rest!
[Theories of Colony Collapse Disorder]
1.Because the river is full of holes. 2. Because his hands. 3. Because those were
the pearls that were his eyes. 4. Larceny. 5. Infamy. ^. The churlish disquietude
of the Tastee-Freeze truck. 7. Because of spinning it old school. 8. The same wack
shit. 9. Because lengthening shadows, doing their crepuscular dance. 10. Because
“crepuscular.” 11. High school (bad hair, misery.) 12. The very idea of him. 13.
Recurring dream #1: the house by the water (lake? ocean?) 14. Because the death
of analog. 15. Because the death of the push-mower. 16. Because death 17. in a kinda
general, all-around way. 18. Three weeks late. 19. Rescinded handshake. 20. Fantasy
baseball. 21. Collision of cosmic spheres, a dissonant humming. 22. Blood in the
drain. 23. Recurring dream #2: the Forbidden Room (blood-red drapes, a la The Shining?)
24. Because the day job 25. can’t swing the high overhead. 26. Sleeplessness. 27.
Her bituminous eyes. 28. Because Father Time, one seriously-underhanded motherfucker.
29. Broken strap. 30. Severed toe buried in sand. 31. Because he wanted to. 32.
Because he wanted. 33. Because he. 34. Flooded engine. 35. Invention of cheese-in-a-can.
36. Because genial affection, furious loathing 37. and tenderness. 38. Exhibit A:
syringe, rubber hose, earmarked copy of “Explore St. Louis!” 39. The way you heard
it. 40. Because the tongues of a thousand bedraggled and timorous mortals. 41. Because
rain. 42. Winter: a single thread, unraveling. 43. Better get. 44. Better get yo’
by Robyn Art