Michele Elliot #2 : collective anxiety (ii)

Dad, see that sign? It says no food. 

Can you see it? 

So stop eating or we'll be in trouble from someone. 

Ok, stop.

Sarah St Vincent Welch #177 Aussie Election 2016

a chalked message noticed in Summer Hill, Sydney, we believe written by children the night before

we wait for the count
think of asylum
well-being and health
extreme climate events
learning how to read and write
how we acknowledge love

Chrysogonus' Translation #97 - from Claine Keily's "I buried my head"

Kubenamkan kepalaku

Ia datang padaku

kulit gelap dan muda

berlari ia dari negeri

terlalu muda bagi dadanya

untuk mengeras

kataku akan kunikahi

walau ia bersumpah pada Tuhan

yang tidak pernah kuyakini

kubenamkan kepalaku

tiap malam di rambutnya

yakin ia tak akan menyakiti

aku berjalan setiap hari

melewati penata rambut

melihat bulu mata palsu

yang ia pasang

penuh terima kasih

ia tak dapat bertanya

apapun tentangku

She came to me

dark and young

fleeing country

young enough for her breasts

to still be firm

and I told her I would marry

even though she swears to God

and I have no belief there

I buried my head

each night in her hair

knowing she could not hurt me

I walked by each day

past the hairdressers

saw the false eyelashes

she was applying

grateful

that she could not question

anything about me

Driftwood Obelisk

The liminal zone surrenders her secrets,

hidden beneath rocks

below the pond-sand’s shelf

tippling on the tidal ebb,

this masterpiece of nature’s art

demanded to be saved.

Air – fire - water

the tools of the creation

palpable in the sculpture’s essence.

The Obelisk lay snared in a salty crevice,

Iluka Bay where mermaids sing

and carefree dolphins frolic,

a home of transfigured treasures.

Where the fishing boats lay tethered

waiting for the next poem

to write itself upon the silvery sea.

184

autumn falling

into its old

leafworks

trick tracery

of where the green was shining

drip down gone to ground

and now the sun's the colour

and now the body of the tree is gone

all bones to the chill

must be midwinter here 

 

Rob Schackne #2 - Two Poets in China, 744 AD

Two Poets in China, 744 AD


How did all these voices get into me?
The moon has two faces, one of them useless
A poet who looked like a servant, a butcher
A street sweeper, a sweetheart, a burglar
A poet to be a horse's ass, two poets to be us
A glass of wine, wrinkled clothes, the smiles
How do you ever know what someone knows
Waving at the children, this parade of river
Skipping along the old crossing, the leap year
And one of them was a wrong one, a murderer
And one was alright (he looked mentally defective)
They were dear to me, I travelled with them both.

Lies Van Gasse #181

(dag 1-170)

verlaat ik mijn bedding,
trek ik aan mijn wortels,
verspil ik mijn gezicht.

Gezichtloos aanroep ik de zwarte pagina’s,
gezichtloos verlies ik mij in een wolk van houtskool,
gezichtloos trek ik onbegrijpelijke lijnen,
gezichtloos doorboort mijn potlood het te zachte karton
dat mijn gedachten omhelst, ze koestert

(day 1-170)

I leave my bed,
I pull my roots,
I squander my face.

Faceless I invoke the black pages,
faceless I loose myself in a cloud of charcoal,
faceless I draw incomprehensible lines,
faceless my pencil drills the too soft piece of cardboard
that embraces my thoughts, cherishes them

Susan Hawthorne #183 paradox

in the tightrope of language
linguists are solemn aerialists
where sentences follow switchbacks
hedged between a tapestry of fields
deadwood from previous centuries
is a mosaic of meanings syntaxed
like stitches on a crochet hook

she is a ventriloquist reciting all
thirteen stanzas by heart a kind
of troubadour of the circus ring
she spins her web of strong verbs
speaking words with double sense
a paradox in which language
simultaneously communicates
and thwarts communication

Mikaela Castledine #183 Converting

I saw the forest shine

each leaf solar flash

converting the winter sun

Red Cone (LF)# 179- After

after

after you left
I was left
with a shape of you

Julie McElhone #3 Clarity

A new craved-for book

Unlike meringue or champagne

Favours the high mind

Sarah St Vincent Welch #176 Ekphrasis Frida Kahlo's 'Diego on my mind' - Tendrils

Frida, with Diego on your mind,
looks down and away, inside,
the white ruffle surrounds
your strong face
hair crowned with flowers

this time I see tendrils
lianas, aerial roots, veins
curl and interlace flying over
casting beyond the frame

we hold the eye of our phones
open at your altar
the tendrils reach around the world
again

Lizz Murphy - Poem 183: Lilt i. The lilt of the 'New Belfast' ...

i.

The lilt of the ‘New Belfast’ tilts me 

motorways cutting through terraced terracotta   

battle anniversaries cutting through evening  

Kerri Shying R#3 Underfoot

Underfoot

By the station there’s a stairway

where I sat to sell string

in the days when my knowledge

could be passed through a ring

as thin as a wind gust and as flinchingly borne

underfoot, underfoot

myself unadorned

1.7.16 (#181) light rain by Myron Lysenko

light rain

a glimpse of the train

between trees

Béatrice Machet # 166-167 NAME

My name means a lot to the wind

it allows it not to speak for itself

my name is a gentle sting that the wind

will appease by calling 

out a name on  one’s skin

which is not mine

yet as if it were myself

Pour le vent mon nom signifie beaucoup

cela lui permet de ne pas parler pour lui-même

mon nom est une gentille morsure que le vent

apaisera en appelant

un nom sur la peau de quelqu’un

qui n’est pas le mien

pourtant comme s’il s’agissait de moi

Michele Morgan #175 Bia

when food is art, all
those gourmet
possibilities

Efi Hatzimanolis #136 Silver Lining

Staring huntsman, I'm awake.
How long have you been boring holes
into my skull? All night? All eight?
The sun is up,
I should get up,
instead, we look at each other across my sleeping husband.
The spider is lined with silver,
glowing softly in the dim light
like a storm cloud stuck to our bedroom wall.
My husband's dark blonde hair
lined with silver.
The room is filling with clouds.
Because I know the spider is old and dying
but little else,
I am thankful
when it brushes away the clouds,
and climbs into the curtains for the day.