Suleiman A simple poem would be content travelling Back from the future to transfer its burden Of knowledge about the present, but this one Stays in that present, unable to see Anything beyond the overrun square. Or mistakes seeing for having just talked, Waits there with permanent demands…. That one too is ultimately simple, As simple as having something to say About death (it’s partially total), As simple as Egypt if Egypt were To live forever on the edges of the square (Twenty years from now the square is gone). The complex poem admits all this From a counter-present the future denies All knowledge of, where talking looks Like seeing and seeing writes it down Whether or not in the order it should It comes. The peaceful transfer of Power from the past to the future Sees the end of a present, escorted By sand. It’s also the complex poem [...]
Simone Kearney
In His Tree They are untold: the advantages of entangling oneself completely in a place like this, up and beyond all chance of discovery, here where untold means not in the dark, but numberless, numberless not without number, but many—and if I sit in the dark now and wait without number, the difference is I do it voluntarily. Not the way the yellow leaf is chased by another but the way the word yellow can be drawn by hand through the same pond air and then across an open page. Here the one keeps evolving into the next, like listening into seeing thin layer after layer of nacre affix to (to whelm) the body fastened to sleep in the heart of a pearl. All afternoon a feeling needed to be described to me before I knew what I felt. The very terms of this predicament had disqualified me from the [...]
No Real Than You Are Not to know me is not to not love me. I could be anywhere near you. Lemon meringue? It’s no good unless it falls apart. It not you. Someone put a logo right over my face. Call for the opener of the mouth, Philip Morris. The words want to be alone together. It’s one way to put them through it. Ethics not aesthetics demands it. People yell, attracted by a gesture — personal, spontaneous, sincere. But jammed verbally. It’s all automatic, spooking the flowers. Are you asleep? The sleeper has two left sides. It wants no straps. Its dreams are light glowing up from under flowing water. We’ll finish the story later with the words at hand. Keep a top eye out for visions. NOTE: The art is a sketch by painter George Schneeman, who recently passed away. _____________________________________ Larry Fagin‘s books include Parade of [...]
Slip settle into found bona fides, interpretive transverse plays meeting to embrace still pretenders filling an interval – locus classicus – refurbished injury staying, a stitch in the margin, a nerve- how seen, diverse as a planet if one can re-member, one shiny token, a sparkle in the eye between thoughts, expeditious, angular de- natured curve- cupping slippage, circumference to radius point being, to or not to come to a complete stop ___________________________________________________ Christopher Stackhouse is the author of Slip (Corollary Press, 2005); and is co-author of image/text collaboration with writer/translator John Keene, Seismosis (1913 press, 2006), which features Stackhouse’s drawings in philosophical discourse with Keene’s texts. His poems have been published in several literary journals including EOAGH, Octopus, GlitterPony, Aufgabe, Hambone, nocturnes (re)view of literary arts, and The Recluse. He has a book of poems forthcoming from Counterpath Press (Denver, CO), and a collection of various texts on art, [...]
Candor Here, Lustre There In memory of Paul Violi To keep my friends is my delight so in this book I pray you’ll write quoth Miss Aurelia to her twins you who are younger than them remember the wealthy all leaving for a living our feathers! I’ve moulted only Liberace— insincere shadow not lacking boring parts but oh the many tiny weathers never played on a priceless piano thoughts which follow cigs lose places in another wobbly line messy breath toute l’âme resumée may you sit on the tack of knowledge and rise to the chair of success Several loudly splayed from a hard spin with something too pink to stay in glass preferable chair of your perpendicular dance isn’t now this evening’s entertainment you mean the Habanera what was that maiden collapsed! and when she fell you called me lady beefsteak when you’re hungry champagne when you’re dry money [...]
This entry is part of a series, Paintings of Poets» Entries in this series: Painting Larry Fagin (Plus a Fagin Poem!) Share this: Related Posts The Lost Painting
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My Dear Theo, I am writing to you rather reluctantly because, for a good many reasons, I have kept silent for such a long time. To some extent you have become a stranger to me, and I to you perhaps more than you think. It is probably better for us not to go on like that. It is probable that I would not have written to you even now, were it not that I feel obliged, compelled, to do so – because, be it noted, you yourself have compelled me to. I heard in Etten that you had sent 50 francs for me. Well, I have accepted them. With reluctance, of course, with a feeling of some despondency, of course, but I have reached a sort of impasse, am in trouble, what else can I do? And so I am writing to thank you. As you may know, I am [...]