Kit Kelen #545 - ease into the day

545

ease into the day

with an eyes open stretch

won't that be like a birth

easy as water pours?

wake with a thirst

come kookaburra, call me

in bed, you were beside yourself

spill from the given page

last part of the night

comes to the story

then I am the truth to be told

all of the light is writing it down

just what the dark told

it's whom the rooster woke must tell

no one knows where it's from

no one knows where it goes

whole of this world is our gift every day

it's an anonymous donation

and every day it's another come

who will you tell, how to say?

each story comes to its effortless end

words easy as water pours

slide into the night

and you're equally home

just as with death

my brother to be

full of expecting

fond wishful

Kerri Shying R - # 267 - The Lamplight Flickers

The Lamplight Flickers

enclosed
in the poetry
of making problems
I find

I am still
free    I find
some tiles
head first

I find out
nothing

at my hostel
Zampano  says
that clearing out the brain
is just essential   he has

a lightness I have long
come to see as
German 

he is bouncing
a heap of doonas
while we laugh

I lilt the way
back home     in my land
of chances     find

I don't aspire
to spires
keep walking on
my unpaved ground

Rob Schackne #379 - 'Why a reader"

Why a reader
tears the last page
out of a book
a lawless fellow
on remand
steals another car
don't touch me
you psychopath
I'll kill you
bless me sunset

call a lawyer
hold me in the morning
burn it all down
a poet counts the beats
makes up the ending
inside and outside
idiocy I guess

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was doing my commute this morning.  Everyone should have a 5 hour round trip as a commute, it builds character.  But, day 5 in and still adjusting, I caught my reflection and was horrified at the drawn Universal monster reflection intermittently thrown back at me via the train carriage windows.  First time in my life I actually contemplated putting on make-up first thing in the morning for work.  That started me down a dark path that I cut off quickly to look for positives. 

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

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

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

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.