Susan Hawthorne #244 in bardo (after JS and SSVW)

there is a state of in-between
Tibetans call it bardo
Greeks called it metaxu

hard to know if this is loss
or a form of communication

it could be that in this state
selves are found
Curatrix to the rescue

she is here
and she is there

liminal and simultaneously
subliminal just below the surface
line of sea surface and horizon

on land an arborettum on a bare hill
trees waving in half-grown forms

this state of in-betweenness
a temporary relief from pain
life will come again

Sarah St Vincent Welch #233 the lost and found poems (after SH)

a wick

a whittle

green fuse

abscission

the dry the brittle flowering

lost and found

the reluctant curatrix

receives your ticket

files it scans it

here is the arboretum

where species talk

underground

from bonsai to giant

reclining eucalypt

interested in the news

conversations through the clouds

Janette Hoppe #33 Crisis and Chaos (3)

Hey Mr Boss man
let me tell you how it is
got no more love for ya boy
so I be Boss Hoggin' it

ooh wee!
We gonna have ourselves a barbeque
you've had it your way for far too long
so I'll right the wrongs for you
I'm gonna make you pigs squeal
wee, wee, wee
all the way home
gonna pick up my gun
see how fast you can run...

pick up the gun, pick up the gun,
pick up the gun
put the pigs on the run
pick up the gun

don't hesitate boy

'cause I gotta fire in me

it's my turn to be the oppressor

that's how it gon' be

so pick up the pace boy

let's see how far you get

don't be lookin' back boy

'cause I ain't done yet

don't be eye ballin' me,

don't holla or hoot

'cause I gonna lynch you boy

right after I shoot

and when it's all over

gonna make a bonfire so huge

and gonna fire up your crackling

have myself a barbeque.

ooh wee!

smell that pig a cookin'

*Pick up the Gun - Black Panthers Chant (1968)

Robert Verdon, #284, welcome to the future

the bridges are budding

a skirl of horns greets us

clockwork mice

arriving by tardis

neat papers foretell

jobless futures

academics unravel

weeks go by

without a newspaper

we have the bourgeoisies

of every minority

we have the believers

in Abstract Ideas

cultural lakes

flush themselves silly in our presence

rambling roses engulf each chimney romantically

the seam of time and space begins to rip

city cliffs vomit lemmings in a rain of abacus beads

the zenith is the hue of dubbin

the dustbin of history is always full

there are no jobs

everyone must have a job

sestinas ring out complicatedly

they comprise the national anthem

everyone must learn it off by heart

it is the same in every country

robots sing it everywhere

Bach made happy

special bodies of armoured machines enforce order

wrinkled men rule as they did 50 years ago

the Queen is still on the throne, so they say

we watch re-runs of M*A*S*H and Family Feud

parliament is compulsory

poetry is competitive

paintings are solar-powered

music is ubiquitous

suicide is painless

life is unfair

death is a holiday

war is our lifeblood:

welcome to the future

Mikaela Castledine #236 Poems are not lost

Poems are not lost

and only melt

if you don't catch them

back into the liquid

from which they came

molecular in theory

you could still sieve them

into your cupped hand

or else they will coalesce

for another dipping poet

on another day

Jeffree Skewes # 28 Bardo Island

No one thing is properly measured

until it's seen in verso

long is but a comparison to short

moment to moment all day these two play

above and below or fact and fiction

between life and death

this second and the next

the Bardo dwells

in the world of duality

there exists a place not quite either

a time to choose or perhaps muse

on the shores of Bardo Island

breath comes in //pause// out it's over

in a flash it's peace or war or write or not

in between is the Bardo

after life and death there is an island

eternity's not a clock

image: Bardo Island – synthetic polymer paint enamel gold-leaf recycled book pages on cotton paper canvas on ply / jskewes

Efi Hatzimanolis #192 thinning time

a clawing insomnia in the pitch perfect black
of midnight stroking  
the insatiable grub feasting on 
the fullness of time

Michele Morgan #235 beagnach earrach

it might as well be
spring, we pass
each other smiling

Béatrice Machet # 220 STILL- Immobile

Still    is what is perceived from the outside         and inside
the tiny move of life going its way    although our footsteps
are suspended      waiting for the necessity
of walking  

it’s in the eye’s consciousness
outside     projected is your gaze
inside      your body’s feeling
welcoming sight to be mixed up with
rustlings     shivers      and minuscule shifting
from one limb to the other     from one organ to the other
from itching to numbness
in this space that your skin contains
in the volume of warmness
each time you make it     the experience tears emotion out
from landscapes so many        and so numerous the edges
till the beating heart of presence
which animates your flesh in its inside      so as to radiate
a je-ne-sais-quoi
understood as relationship      as a way   to catch up with

so between hold and slackening
you go with it


Immobile est ce que l’on perçoit de l’extérieur           et du dedans
le mouvement infime de la vie qui va son chemin quoique nos pas
soient suspendus dans l’attente de la nécessité
de marcher

c’est dans la conscience de l’œil
dehors           porté le regard
dedans         ressenti du corps
il accueille la vue pour la mêler
aux bruissements    aux frissons    aux menus déplacements
de membres en membres     d’organes en organes
de picotement en engourdissement
dans l’espace contenu par la peau
dans le volume d’une chaleur
à chaque fois l’expérience émeut
des paysages tant et tant      des confins   
jusqu’au cœur battant de la présence
qui anime la chair   dans son dedans   pour irradier
un je ne sais quoi
compris comme relation      comme voie à saisir

entre tenue et relâchement
accompagner

Kerri Shying R # 64.1 White Matter Disease ( after KK Fairytale)

White Matter Disease

 ( after KK "fairytale")

There was a pile of firewood waiting to be burnt

for the party

we were looking for the lost poets

(always) in this house of mine

something lost

the faster I go the less it gets done so I tend to pick up

poets and mingle them

with other things 

all unlike

 the higgledy-piggeldeys

all in shifting stacks

carried while talking

into another room

eventually we find them

when visitors come to stay

they are

unearthed

beneath the sofa beds

poking out of filing cabinets

beguiling the way back into a rotation

in the lounge

how that one lost poet got in that woodpile

and was burned

still escapes us all

Linda Stevenson #31 August 31

Maturity

Maturity can be a lonely place.

I visit there,

expecting company,

am often blessed instead

with solitude.

How pleasant then

occasionally to share

this larger, lighter space,

this grown up sphere,

with elders, peers, compatriots.