Sunday, June 25, 2017

Kit Kelen #539 - Marrakech - Ramadan

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

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
the metre
the meaning
in case
the rip
tears more
than a page
the line
won't reflect

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
slice design
poem in morse
coded gibberish
pictures for words
dot dot dash
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
in the evenings she
wants an answer too
I said wait and see

bards are sleeping
drain all you can
tell the truth
loud shit rain

Friday, June 23, 2017

Kit Kelen #538 - the fully punctuated poem

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

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
clouds to gather
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

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

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.

Kristen de Kline #107 all in one short week

all in one short week
shit     happens  

down in Lawless they say never show your     hand
keep your cards close to your     heart
fold or make them     fold
throw me a poker     smile
told you I've got a white dove up my sleeve    poker face
surprises      don't you just love 'em

I'm tearing the wings off of angels
they don't flinch   not once
I'm shaking the earth
trust no one
I'm shaking the sky
trust only your heart

I can't keep up with the angels
all I'm left with are     wings
fag butts

there are many ways this can     play
out    a lone hitch-hiker
maps poems Lonely Planet guides
a body in a ditch
a man whose name begins with M vanishes
off the face of the    earth
I can't keep up with the bodies     disappearing
here      disappearing there
I can't keep up

we try to sleep in the back of the Valiant
something pokes into my spine
a wire spring coils its way from out of the fabric covers
I shake the earth to see what I can find:
an empty cider can crumpled McDonald's wrappers a fifty cent coin
there are many ways the dreams can     taunt
hitchhikers bodies dismembered limbs charcoal faces
where do they     belong

you shake the skies
we try to sleep
tear another wing off an angel
listen to a whimpering cry
you shake the earth

we try to sleep in the back of the Valiant
unwrap a checkered picnic rug for a blanket
listen to Hotel California on an old ghetto blaster
lie outside in the gutter on the edge of the allotment
look up at the stars
write another poem
tear off another    wing
is that whimpering I can make     out

all in one short week
shit     happens

Kit Kelen #536 - midsummer


dreams of snow

wherever we go
some sun comes with us
close your eyes
and it's there

all ache from the light

a head with so much summer in
birds flown in there from everywhere
and they just won't shut it

I tear the wings off angels
but they never feel a thing

not much to imp in of the dark
but the bones remember winter
and the all night rain

The boy who murdered the animals # 110

When the new teacher arrived
they took her off
to bond with the boy
who had murdered the animals

Secrets were kept from her
blood was washed from the walls
as this boy's name
was added to the roll

James Walton #65 Stick insect lessons

just bark today
look really close
this bread knife being

notchy serrations
fissures persisting
bent lines of sightings

cry for the butterfly
all dewy beauty
one day’s flutter

yesterday a crease
hardwood ungrowing
in veranda surroundings

breathing a quietude
not always visible
but here ever present

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Kit Kelen #535 - how to slow down

how to slow down

forget the shoulds and musts
and gunna

make a list of the done
the chalked and corked
the done and dusted
enemies now in the ground
count them slowly
if you find that's the measure

count only what's in the bag
let sheep wander off
and your grass is green

make a full and frank confession
tell the whitest lies
test the chair laid back
crack knuckles
bean the bag

try horizontal
corpse for a lark

imitate rest
and it comes
the lyre's tuned

boss stray musings back into the queue
handle one thought at a time
a chord
then a colour
slow the reel

child pose
happy baby!

let pet set pace
just watch
then stroke


close eyes

be a ball
and slowly slowly

notice loinstir
then let go
in a little
you'll be coaxed
how in your face
that's love

be flower

here's rain landing
till we swim
see down in depths
just breathe

and what is it you float away on
now effortlessly light?

say snifter
(having checked the yard arm)

lie in the grass
let it grow over
take a little time with the sky

fall out of the conversation
follow your own advice for a change

in fact
forget the rest
be blessed

orient yourself downhill
backed by breeze
think only of stream pours
birds say

let heart pump

slowly slowly
clear the mist
let the mountain climb

forget the wall

foot to the floor
lock the brakes
three times
till the charm
is set
and in a dream
skid home