Wednesday, August 31, 2016

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
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

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

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
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 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.