Thursday, June 29, 2017

Kristen de Kline #110 too late for pulling out words

it's too late for pulling out words
one     by     one
roll with the lines
punch with the rattles
the day falls     down
it's always      too late

the lawless man is on the loose
he's sprinting away with the first page
burning words     flying ash
blue tongue
large wounds
Spanish fangs
words floating
out of the window
whose words are     these

the lawless man throws letters at me
we could be     anywhere anyone
can you smell petrol     burning
he buries me under the whole alphabet
covers my limbs with a tarpaulin
and then the night falls     down,     gently
page by page
half of the sheets are missing
we could disappear out the back of Lawless

I know you want sunlight to fall
pages to turn
I know you want to jump to the last page
we could be     anyone anywhere     I know

it's too late

I know     it we     didn't work


 

Kit Kelen #544 - you can take your cave with you wherever you go



544
you can take your cave with you everywhere you go

I make myself small to get through
it's a long way back where I'm beckoned

I heed
I hollow myself out to receive

I take my time
I know time will take me

but here I am
all the world pours in

I take off my head to make needed adjustments
remove all my gonads to think

I let the sun dry my socks
into my heart I allow all the creatures

as often as reasonable I go in there
nil by mouth overnight
so there'll be fast to break

I do a little pirate dance
and walk the plank
walk water too

I have a little ladder
directly to the roof

some days inhabit an ache
I let the moon in then

disgust myself with all this I
get a symphonic sense of the scene
and up to old tricks
I'm teaching the dog

I wear the washing till it's dry
keep a few hearts up my sleeve
and sometimes fart
to shoot the breeze

spend the last shilling
go decimal wild
do ape's shit?
of course they do

I roll all my strength and all
throw myself into the thing
and frequently bounce back

I'm on the hook
I'm flapping about
it's only a matter of time

head spins
drums come for the street

the news of the world
projects of a screen
I see by the light
of a very old fire

that kind of thing sweats from your pores

I take my cave with me everywhere I go

in a world so wrong
my battles are few
I really must be a coward
truly, believe me
I have to believe
that's how I'm telling the tale

Rob Schackne #378 - "It's a bit late but now"


It's a bit late but now
I might've tumbled to the scam
every time I make a change to a word
or check deep to consider a line

(or even read the bloody poem again)
I've got another reader
and as the numbers climb

my Fool's been proud
now you other poets here
my brothers and sisters

my aunties and my uncles
my sons and my daughters
(though in no position to absolve me)
let me ask for your forgiveness

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Kit Kelen #543 - just to be here - Essaouira - Mogador



543
just to be here
Essaouira – Mogador

just to be here you do not need much
there's not much you need to get done

something bit me just the once
the place is a fire trap

they don't believe it all burns down
there's rhythm of everywhere here

only moments from the device
and another question comes

silence is a thing to bring
rhythm of everywhere is here

silence is a thing to bring
like a rug to wrap night in
there won't be silence here

they won't believe it all burns down

there's a heart hum blue
to the sky that they speak
every net's to haul in a rhythm

just to be here you don't need much
a moment perhaps – blink of the eye

a bird in the desert's recollection
like a scrap of paper blown

a little light
a little air
hands make a cup for water

the heart beats hard
all your life to here is home
the street sleeps rough in you

just a doorway's width
and depth
you don't come in

it's down you go
falling and falling
and no hands to catch

just to begin requires only a breath
not even a word need be said

they won't believe it all burns down

then birds are the bright of it
we give thanks

you may have had to imagine it first

bucket of voices slopped at your door
let's some centuries passed

you can pay a lot to live in a prison
when you have to run the whole show


Rob Schackne #377 - "I see a woman"


I see a woman
older than myself
sitting on the verge
with a sign says HOPE

then a young woman
jogging in colours
wearing headphones
it's only Wednesday

I pray for everything
there's a grim season for

I am a lawless man
I don't know where I am

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Kit Kelen #542 - the last page


542
the last page

could be anywhere
it might fall out of the book
and float from a window
who knows where a leaf lands?

you could open the book
where a bird sings past sunset
and then the colours come
as a journey into the rug
you see the pages turn
top of the head is a sundial
bath beside
dip
trill
and skip

one worried the back cover was coming
but the blank page could be anywhere

it's for you to inscribe
it might be an insert –
a bookmark, like an old boarding pass
and you dozed off between zones

tired with the flight
but persevered
no harm to fall asleep

as the last word must come in edgewise
so sunlight falls through a garden
to show us the windows
through which winter is left

so we welcome
a new season
one has never been known before
from a last page
in the book

Monday, June 26, 2017

Kristen de Kline #109 love is

love is (with thanks to Kerri S & Rob S)

love     is
a stranger in an open     car
a faded jaded sign that you don't look at    
tempt you in and drive you far     away
a rose but you better not pick    it
a danger of a different    kind
a handful of     thorns
a different      drug

love     is
a verb     you don’t just love a random
you love     somebody
what are you writing
and they love you     back
whose story is this     anyhow

pass me the ashtray
why can't we grow old together
give me a tailor-made
what was I thinking
I just    thought    you'd love somebody
they'd love you    back
why is that so much to ask

top up my wine glass
chuck me another tailor-made

what were you     thinking

Kit Kelen #541 - travel advisory


541
travel advisory


then poetry went somewhere else
I should have seen it coming
(it's not like there's ever been a generation missed out)
I had thought it could go anywhere (silly sausage)

poetry had been warned
and still
it went through the market
where the music jeers
and all are mocked for thought
heat of that kitchen would down an ox
(kind you find at the restaurant end of the universe –
one of those 'eat me – drink me' cash cows)

all these years, I'd kept poetry close
that I might 'pass without let or hindrance'
I'd do impersonations too
as if I'd been Pessoa once

I had with me Sidney's passport of poetry
sadly the fuckers could no longer read
that's in some ways a saving grace
though it's
bum rap
you'll have to hear

I'd rather go naked, Yeats would say
but I kept on the poetry cloak
whatever they say it is now

till time and I'm done
I will find out where she has gone

there's where we've been warned not to go

that's a best not-destination
not even a stop on the way

I was convicted of all sorts of lacks
of conspiring with the reader
to make a little sense

but I broke out of their narrow gaol
and now I'm on the lam/b
(no, under – I'm dodging the boulders
Polymphemus threw)
with Phemius, who sings the tale

with poetry for wheels and for grease
golden apples, silver too
it's all poetry I hail

Rob Schackne #376 - "God I've pulled words"


God I've pulled words
from much worse places
a dead foal out of a dying mare

a blue tongue from an epileptic
large wounds in my side jesus
and did I kill I guess I killed
what words are they I wonder
you pay for this they give you that
love searches for a softer touch
the sea looks for the perfect fish
fuck this I've said enough


Stuart Rawlinson #59 - Pulling Words

An invisible force
Like magnetism
Or gravity's
Endless tumble
A barricade
Of sound
Throbbing and low
In the room's
Pale miasma

A pen hovers
Over the glass table
A keyboard's
Buttons carved
Into the surface
Indent of purpose
Unlimited combinations
In a matrix
Of unreason

Open the book
Set the ledger
To a future date
Pull out the words
One by one

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Rob Schackne #375 - Falling


Falling

Good night, dear friend
Surrounded by words
And forgotten chengyu

Listen to what the birds say
Good night unchanged
Tomorrow’s on the road
What will soon be written

The day's already different
Asleep last thought falling
Collecting the firewood
Walking the way of silence


Kit Kelen #540 - hours oddly arranged



540
hours oddly arranged
(further notes towards the endless essay on time
+ possible organising principle for all over the place)


you'd think there was some universal law
but hours following had been before

washing shirt when I come home from the sun
rinsing really
then the sun again

dial just a shadow cast
of a stick

wheedling activities out
that is time rounding on

or you get to the edges – say Iceland, Morocco

and sometimes bent into it
labouring under a mighty load

or here we are where we have been

machines won't tell it as it is
I can't see what I'm in

brave at temperature's extremes

watch a fan for a clock
speak in

hours inside and out are apart

the hour upside down
has gravitas

I've seen people locked up in
ping pong – all Alladin's treasure
were they happy, doing time?

is there a point of negotiation?

time comes between us
and still the dead
are all attention
won't lessen their demands

who lives in the wall now?
time's scratching there

the rescue dogs bring back faint anatomies

it's your funny voice again
without glasses won't see what I'm writing

you say impatient
but that's your reading

a piano can slow things down
or any strings under wood pressed

I've seen time roll along like a ball
then bounce, sit up
who says 'betimes' these days?

sometimes it's with the instincts
of an altogether other animal

then you think ferret's day
crocodile of the moment

a butterfly dip in the plunge pool

it could be arriving and not even there
time will leave its calling card
on a silver tray
just where you come in
with the paper knife
careful
and those unopened letters
so fin-de-siècle now

Stuart Rawlinson #58 - Eyes

deepness of eyes
pinhead bends
convex waves
past the precise
focal point
unwavering
constant as
a wavelength's
expression
striated humour
membrane hems
strings snap
in the eyes
every time

Kit Kelen #539 - Marrakech - Ramadan


539
Marrakech – Ramadan

textbook of the tourist's undocumented needs


strange shallow night
from which the birds have sung
none of the prayer calls woke me

first sky's washed out
sway brocaded

it was alley dark we came
furtive, foregoing the wheelbarrow offered
on foot, maze trod

you won't dream a way back
but that's how we came

the sun here's stored in little vials
we have kept for the night
and shelves of figures come to colour

these verses are from a forgotten book
the whole street here recites
because it is yet to be written

the saints will wake
then who should they be?
lit miniatures won't be made out
it is deeds resound

roof of the riad
in the olive's almost reach
walls are the desert
ceiling is moon

this floor as of the earth djinns shook
the whole room – not a right angle in it
but you are travelling here
surrender

eyes after
hijab, beards, cleanshaven

perhaps faces from the Souk tomorrow
features lost to centuries
these all luminous objects the desert has left

shelves of figures come to light
miniatures won't be made out

no one came here but the whole night climbing

walls are the desert
ceiling is moon

we cling to our raft
washed up on this sky

seas spoken far off
clouds murmur

the language is not mine to name

what is it the pigeon seeks
where the heat of the day wears on

to hear water falling
to taste the sweetness of tea
to come to a stillness here

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Stuart Rawlinson #57 - Dot Dot Dash

the anchor's broken
sternum hardly
straightens any ripple
trawl the shallows
for a certain depth
full steam ahead

hang it all
out
keep
the metre
baggy
keep
the meaning
flimsy
in case
the rip
tears more
than a page
and
the line
won't reflect
zirconium
thoughts

the building will rise
without a scaffold
hangs itself
on its own
plastic beams
eyeless burning houses

shout in the dark
ignore the moon
holding spheres
defying physics
curtail
sentiment
slice design
poem in morse
coded gibberish
pictures for words
dot dot dash
hieroglyphs
in sand

Stuart Rawlinson #56 - Homestay

the walls are beige
salmon skirting boards
swim upstream to
their breeding grounds
mediterranean black
clouds descend
where the sink
leaked dirt
suspended in soap
suds. the walls
shadow geophysical
remains of
fixtures and sockets
unscrewed and
pasted shut
freeholding on an
unclear day

I’m certainly getting a lot of knitting done.

In the Guildford station the Bike Racks has a sign saying Beware Cyclists.  Some bright spark had added graffiti underneath so that it read beware of “Adrian”.  (That reminds me I saw him the other day.  This was like an affirmation, that all speculation to the contrary, Mad Dog Adrian, like Quatto, Lives!) This is only someone who grew up in Perth's eastern suburbs would understand. 

This morning only one day after the solstice and already it was lighter earlier.  Like the world itself is eager to hurtle towards spring.  The air was softer as it would be after a storm, but it seemed more accepting.  Still that could be deceptive.  Like the dragons’ exhalation of breathe that comes out of the train tunnel as the Dragon Train pulls into the underground stations.  You’d swear it was a real breeze.  Maybe one day a real Dragon will follow his roar instead of a train jam packed with sardined commuters. but there are other things.  Like the terrazo tiles made with pea gravel aggregate which, when polished look like micro solar system with the concentric rings.  The tiles are orange and almost pleasant. 

Grandson Cuddles on the couch briefly this morning.  Girls might smell of sugar and spice and all things nice but boys have that little promise of wildness and the men they might become in their smell.  I accept the cuddles and the kisses, sticky though they may be, as all too soon they will be too big for cuddles.  I hope that day never comes.


Tonight I will write my goals for the coming year in gold ink onto bay leafs and burn them to send the intent into the universe.  I intend to be much happier.  Maybe also write things I am letting go on the back to bring it to a nice little circle.  For every positive intent there will be a negative behaviour I will release too.  Here’s hoping. 

Rob Schackne #374 - "Now your local pub"


Now your local pub
has closed for good
where do you write
poems in the evenings
she wants an answer too
I said wait and see

tell you the truth
drain all you can
the bards are sleeping
rain nonstop drips


Friday, June 23, 2017

Kit Kelen #538 - the fully punctuated poem


538
the fully punctuated poem

as in a whalebone corset
proof of a certain century's dark

labours under heavy sentence
far far from the speech of folk

or you could say the law before
something like a government office
but you forgot which schedule
and your ignorance is no excuse
a cannon is aimed at the heart

in panoply of flimsy form
bravely beavered up
the fully punctuated poem
dates back to Year Dot

begins with a headline trumpet blare
goes on with line initial caps
as in that German Awe of the Abstract
Herr Doktor Doktor Professor
all eager for the treat
faces washed, brushed bushy tails
and has no feet at all

more!
suit and tie
and what a feast!
Morse yearning
Braille in depth of page
but I say semaphore
wave wildly
three sheets to

the fully punctuated poem
thinks itself already stone
then I'm the lichen
I'm the moss

I cross my t's and dot my i's
stickle for spelling as well

but I like my music flown from the stave
and stepping off the feint ruled lines
into ever thinner air

my drawl requires its own notation
I'll keep you posted here

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Rob Schackne #373 - "Shine gilded palace"


Shine gilded palace
temple of peace
plastic center
tranquility
clouds to gather
reconstructed
now it's raining
expensive surgery

city religion
the flying bells
can't save
this travesty
it calls me

can't sanctify
swims away

what can you do
in anyone's language


Kit Kelen #537 - light of a longest day

537
light of a longest day


when birds sing louder
than my head inside

and night's exaggerations slough
so then the whirligig goes slow

and dawn's already said

it's like the pause
at the top of the clock

when we're along way under still
give day the rollaround and rug

day's best when nothing's said yet
when all is still to say

so doors laugh open
windows look
and one forgets all work 

all threats are idle as to do
and still the words will come

as poem is mind's instance
so day lights where
we call proportion

it's like with jetlag
when you've gone round the clock
and find yourself in no time at all

when birds sing louder
than my head inside

one wishes to praise idleness
but springs from bed instead

so doing
learn what I'm about

day's best when nothing's said yet
when all is still to say

Kristen de Kline #108 ten cents in my pocket

ten cents in my pocket (thanks to Kerri S)

ten cents in my pocket
two bucks in the bank
plastic bags of salt expired cans of beans black and gold penne pasta
a shower head held up with duct tape
knob-less kitchen cupboards you open with a knitting needle
a wall oven that last operated in the 80s    

collection points:
the pavement offers up 'decent sized' butts
the Woollies skip renders outer leaves of lettuces
at the Emergency Ward everybody waits and     yawns
you read about the Queen
down short blacks
bite the legs off gingerbread men

skinning then deep-frying a pet chook     deceased, of course
don't look so horrified    it had already carked it
didn't taste that good    but

ten cents in my pocket
two  bucks in the bank
I told you things could be cursed    or
blessed     five barley loaves
two small fish     multitudes to feed
do I look like bloody
Jesus










Kerri Shying R - # 266 - The Sprout Cafe


The Sprout Café

untuck the frontispiece    this life
as led is gone   slide across

the cracked forgiveness
the brown banquette

we met each year   no matter
when my tears said     when is the time

this ends  how does it stop and you said
love is a verb   you don’t just love

a person they do it
do it   to you   what name

do you write  here
who owns this story  

now  can it be thread can it be steel
can it be written on by others

who speak the broader tongue
leave it    leave a tip

take the ashtray
take the truth


Rob Schackne #372 - "Maybe Brecht who said"


Maybe Brecht who said
anyone still laughing
hasn't heard the news

dents in the woolshed
nails by the roadside
and there we hammer
halfway out of town
the things that skip
and we laugh at this
where time has stopped
and cars speed off
but it's just a poem
except for the mental state

they're mostly free
falling everywhere
voices from the broken tree

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Béatrice Machet # 362 (for the temptation series)




 # 361    

Struggling. Tensed. On the lookout that stands for waiting. Violence that ploughs inside. As if missing by having too much. Take in everything no beat left. As if missing by willing too much. Lost possibility because of a lack of availability. Missing by overflowing. A living excess. A flood of what makes unity. A mosaicked chaos. Some lead joins to get the light playing on glassed pieces. One dances on them. One hopscotches on it between sky and earth. There. The strengths of one’s life. The unsealed gaps beat and beat and beat. Impossible to get sleep. Turn your loss into a win your win into a loss. Without balance only whirlwinds. To lose or to waste. To win or to hurt. Struggling. Tempted by life. At an angle front and profile. Snatches galore. By trickery some sameness no distinctness till being nauseated but one must accumulate to be able to guess some difference. Is it baseness is it cowardice is it to wound or be wounded is it … trying to live till powerlessness. Then one cuts into the dead. Then one files one’s callus. One renews one makes some room fighting. Tensed. 

Lutter. En tension. Le qui vive lui tient lieu d’attente. Violence et qui laboure le dedans. Comme si manquer de trop avoir. Pas une miette. Comme si manquer de trop vouloir. Passer à côté sans disponibilité. Manquer de trop plein. Un excès de vivre. Le débordement de ce qui fait unité. Un chaos mozaïqué. Des joints plombés pour que lumière joue sur les parcelles vitrées. On y danse.  On y sautille comme un jeu de marelle entre ciel et terre. Là. Les forces d’une vie. Les failles palpitent. Pas question de dormir. A qui perd gagne à qui gagne perd. Sans équilibre rien que du tourbillon. Perdre ou gâcher. Gagner ou faire mal. Lutter. Tenter de vivre. De biais de face de profil. Des bribes en veux-tu en voilà. A ruser du même et du pareil jusqu’à la nausée mais accumuler pour déceler la différence. Est-ce bassesse est-ce lâcheté est-ce blesser ou être blessée est-ce … s’essayer à vivre à n’en plus pouvoir mais. Alors on taille dans le mort. Alors on rabote la corne. On fait du neuf on fait la place en luttant. En tension.