Novel Lines 101: 101 alphabetical poems, each riffing on the opening line of a postmodern novel or metafiction.
Antonio Lobo Antunes, Act of the Damned (opening lines; trans, Richard Zenith)
On the second Wednesday of September, 1925, I arrived at the office at ten-past nine. I remember this not because I have an exceptional memory or keep a diary (I stay away from pussyshit nonsense like diaries and poems) but because it was my last day of work before we fled to Spain.
09 / 09 — cycle compleat (niner niner)
Yep, a Wednesday for sure
That ’25 cent pussyshit nonsense
poems stuck on “17”
Aha, suk’cess (slurp)
busy’ness, ahh, mater·I·al
ass’pect of life, yah?
We’re vibrating crazy 8’s
up here baby, star-power
No pot shots, pls
(Bye bye sell sell, ffs)
Good luck dumb luck, un-
luck one duck we’ve left
Sara K.O.
It’s ten-past nine
(hun’erd years hence
well almost)
Put a tenner on “19”
No input no in-
coming, pls
Poet, your time has come
Argotist Online Poetry
This blog was the successor to the poetry section of the now no longer existing The Argotist Online. This blog is also no longer active, and is now just an archive.
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 24, 2024
Poems by Norman Jope
AN ELYSIAN GLOW
Following her through shady pines on a summer’s day, as if in the hope of a sudden trackless miracle, the young man trips and scatters his thoughts across the nearby shores. Beyond the woods, the sky’s suffused with solid light that turns the brow to marble and the brain to water. The fruits of the earth are there to be seized… the elephant seeks the orchid with a delicate hoof.
Suddenly, he’s in a jungle far to the east and staggers, his flesh fermenting amongst tangled roots and rainbow-coloured insects, inhaling the durian-stench of all the fruits of the earth combined. He buries his nose in fetid matter as night falls unexpectedly, drawing him down to global compost and smells that the planet of water, so many different shades of water, exhales into the cosmos.
He is ready to die now, having met the Great God Pan. Whose emissary is lost in the pine trees, leading him on towards the water where he and his spirit-named boat will drown. He cannot put this into words of any precision, but the generalities suggest what he has experienced – great furnace doors have opened on him and the fire in his eyes can only be quenched by indifferent water.
DANCING IN THE SKIN OF A TATTERED GOD
after Emil Cioran
At the end of a febrile day
the lure of resurrection
only feels like more of the same –
as even after dusk, the sun beats down
from a sky that’s secreted in the brain
like a criminal god. Faint smears of sweat
remind me that I live
and, of the thirty thousand days
that I might hope for on earth,
this has been amongst the better ones
despite the absence of sex and wine.
But still, I feel myself melting,
smeared across eternity
like a stain that spreads from Hell,
as I look ahead to the exit,
the triumph of the impersonal
and to those strange and wonderful events
that I will never witness. Leached out,
leaked out to a place my name won’t reach,
I accept the conclusion of my febrile days.
IN THIS MOMENT
Once more I experience exhaustion, but also exhilaration, at the thought that everything that has ever happened anywhere has led to here and everywhere else, and that everything that will ever happen is already predictable right up to the end. I don’t require random swerves of free will to sustain my morale… the only freedom that matters is the freedom to choose, and I choose in accordance with what I am and the stories that have made me what I am.
And so, the book is written, even if we move from one page to the next and cannot even see to the far side of the night to come. And equally so, I shrug my shoulders and think of all the destinies that did or will not come to pass.
The destiny for the baby bird I walked past yesterday morning, below a high hedge in the drizzle, was a brief and seemingly certain one. It must have fallen from a nest in the hedge and it was circling uncertainly, like a red egg with wings, with little or no chance of flight. Its whole life will have almost certainly passed in a single day – although it wasn’t for me to deliver the coup de grâce, and if there was just one chance in a million that its efforts would be successful then it was a chance worth taking.
So, slightly nauseous, I went on my way and that bird’s brief destiny interfused with mine. It took the whole of creation to bring us together and to send us on our separate ways… from a ʹchance encounterʹ that has led, perhaps, to the flimsiest of resurrections.
OUT THERE
I’m dancing with indifferent stars,
whole forests of them on a winter’s night.
I’m dancing with eyes
that have left my body rooted,
from Polaris to Capella,
Orion to the snake of Eridanus.
Jupiter follows Saturn to the west
as Sirius rises. Even in this city’s skies
the blur of the Milky Way is visible
if not the billions of miles –
the lessons of the unbounded
locate me as they weigh me down.
Pillowed on the uncaring,
mirrored in ultimate onyx,
I salute the yawning void
as an egg from which God’s absence hatches…
and feel myself both finite and free
as my gaze flares like a shooting star
unable to rest, to yield or accept.
Following her through shady pines on a summer’s day, as if in the hope of a sudden trackless miracle, the young man trips and scatters his thoughts across the nearby shores. Beyond the woods, the sky’s suffused with solid light that turns the brow to marble and the brain to water. The fruits of the earth are there to be seized… the elephant seeks the orchid with a delicate hoof.
Suddenly, he’s in a jungle far to the east and staggers, his flesh fermenting amongst tangled roots and rainbow-coloured insects, inhaling the durian-stench of all the fruits of the earth combined. He buries his nose in fetid matter as night falls unexpectedly, drawing him down to global compost and smells that the planet of water, so many different shades of water, exhales into the cosmos.
He is ready to die now, having met the Great God Pan. Whose emissary is lost in the pine trees, leading him on towards the water where he and his spirit-named boat will drown. He cannot put this into words of any precision, but the generalities suggest what he has experienced – great furnace doors have opened on him and the fire in his eyes can only be quenched by indifferent water.
DANCING IN THE SKIN OF A TATTERED GOD
after Emil Cioran
At the end of a febrile day
the lure of resurrection
only feels like more of the same –
as even after dusk, the sun beats down
from a sky that’s secreted in the brain
like a criminal god. Faint smears of sweat
remind me that I live
and, of the thirty thousand days
that I might hope for on earth,
this has been amongst the better ones
despite the absence of sex and wine.
But still, I feel myself melting,
smeared across eternity
like a stain that spreads from Hell,
as I look ahead to the exit,
the triumph of the impersonal
and to those strange and wonderful events
that I will never witness. Leached out,
leaked out to a place my name won’t reach,
I accept the conclusion of my febrile days.
IN THIS MOMENT
Once more I experience exhaustion, but also exhilaration, at the thought that everything that has ever happened anywhere has led to here and everywhere else, and that everything that will ever happen is already predictable right up to the end. I don’t require random swerves of free will to sustain my morale… the only freedom that matters is the freedom to choose, and I choose in accordance with what I am and the stories that have made me what I am.
And so, the book is written, even if we move from one page to the next and cannot even see to the far side of the night to come. And equally so, I shrug my shoulders and think of all the destinies that did or will not come to pass.
The destiny for the baby bird I walked past yesterday morning, below a high hedge in the drizzle, was a brief and seemingly certain one. It must have fallen from a nest in the hedge and it was circling uncertainly, like a red egg with wings, with little or no chance of flight. Its whole life will have almost certainly passed in a single day – although it wasn’t for me to deliver the coup de grâce, and if there was just one chance in a million that its efforts would be successful then it was a chance worth taking.
So, slightly nauseous, I went on my way and that bird’s brief destiny interfused with mine. It took the whole of creation to bring us together and to send us on our separate ways… from a ʹchance encounterʹ that has led, perhaps, to the flimsiest of resurrections.
OUT THERE
I’m dancing with indifferent stars,
whole forests of them on a winter’s night.
I’m dancing with eyes
that have left my body rooted,
from Polaris to Capella,
Orion to the snake of Eridanus.
Jupiter follows Saturn to the west
as Sirius rises. Even in this city’s skies
the blur of the Milky Way is visible
if not the billions of miles –
the lessons of the unbounded
locate me as they weigh me down.
Pillowed on the uncaring,
mirrored in ultimate onyx,
I salute the yawning void
as an egg from which God’s absence hatches…
and feel myself both finite and free
as my gaze flares like a shooting star
unable to rest, to yield or accept.
Oct 19, 2024
Poems by Mark Young
A NOTE ON THE MANDRAKE
The irregular
black bands down
its side allow a
small force to over-
come a larger
one. Otherwise
it is blue, &
draws caricatures
of the effects of
technology
on a modern society
where the houses
& temples are made
from hardened
steel. They are
still intact, a
modicum of the
[Machtpolitik] of its
massage, although
the latter is ex-
pressed as a ratio
of load to effort
& its form rarely
avers its content.
In order to abide
by the precepts
of [The Loneliness of
the Long Distance
Runner] which is / their
holy book, some moths
retire from politics
but still continue to
produce distinctive fibers
based on the use of
quartz & similar poly-
morphs. Others are
rounded up so they
do not become a
significant number
when their final digit
is rounded down. The
rest, once sufficient
radiation has been
absorbed, are left
to complete the
frescoes on the walls
of the Sistine Chapel.
As members of the
company of the faithful
this is part of their
duty, a way to ensure
the Yucatan remains
a one-party state.
The irregular
black bands down
its side allow a
small force to over-
come a larger
one. Otherwise
it is blue, &
draws caricatures
of the effects of
technology
on a modern society
where the houses
& temples are made
from hardened
steel. They are
still intact, a
modicum of the
[Machtpolitik] of its
massage, although
the latter is ex-
pressed as a ratio
of load to effort
& its form rarely
avers its content.
THE YUCATAN PENINSULA AUTONOMOUS REGION
In order to abide
by the precepts
of [The Loneliness of
the Long Distance
Runner] which is / their
holy book, some moths
retire from politics
but still continue to
produce distinctive fibers
based on the use of
quartz & similar poly-
morphs. Others are
rounded up so they
do not become a
significant number
when their final digit
is rounded down. The
rest, once sufficient
radiation has been
absorbed, are left
to complete the
frescoes on the walls
of the Sistine Chapel.
As members of the
company of the faithful
this is part of their
duty, a way to ensure
the Yucatan remains
a one-party state.
Oct 14, 2024
Poem by Jimmy Crouse
THE LIMITED MEANS OF THE HUMBLEST SEEKER
The resolution represents
A force of weight or weights
Solution half the angle when
The angles equal sine
The vertical respectively
A combination force
Involves of angles indirect
A beam inclined upon
A thrust of struts or braces same
Inversely only that
Of timbers heavy further where
Of equal angles half
The weight unequal angles end
Are equal angles hung
At arms or any angle nut
To crack or lever crank
Or second order angular
Of angle order arms
Adjusted horizontal push
Or pulley single sheave
Consisting fixed all single sheave
Of rope to top a pair
A draw above a pair of each
Suspended derrick legs
The bucket raised above the mouth
The shaft or pit by weight
Is only equal times the time
A clamping windlass load
A seizing eye excessive wear
From motion ancient ear
Equivalent at bottom locks
On upward through a pin
In hoists of rocking over curve
Of over counter weight
And tension slide and tension slide
And tension slides of lace
At center ending side inside
At center ending each
Across at center dotted lines
Across outside as shown
The arrows show direction run
Full twist or cross reverse
On driven idler line direct
As relative of speed
Traversing cone decreasing cone
Efficient width in webs
A given close connection wrapped
And pressed against a gear
A light eccentric stud a cone
A single either way
The drum a bevel gear on tight
A shipper pair of tight
A quick return obtained is fast
Is loose obtained attached
A spur of power idlers twist
Efficiency increased
A truck a concave conical
To curved or other light
Traversing free a feather faced
In cones of pinion range
Of speed a rocking shaft device
Convex device a disc
A band by pedal kept released
That swivels taut at yoke
The resolution represents
A force of weight or weights
Solution half the angle when
The angles equal sine
The vertical respectively
A combination force
Involves of angles indirect
A beam inclined upon
A thrust of struts or braces same
Inversely only that
Of timbers heavy further where
Of equal angles half
The weight unequal angles end
Are equal angles hung
At arms or any angle nut
To crack or lever crank
Or second order angular
Of angle order arms
Adjusted horizontal push
Or pulley single sheave
Consisting fixed all single sheave
Of rope to top a pair
A draw above a pair of each
Suspended derrick legs
The bucket raised above the mouth
The shaft or pit by weight
Is only equal times the time
A clamping windlass load
A seizing eye excessive wear
From motion ancient ear
Equivalent at bottom locks
On upward through a pin
In hoists of rocking over curve
Of over counter weight
And tension slide and tension slide
And tension slides of lace
At center ending side inside
At center ending each
Across at center dotted lines
Across outside as shown
The arrows show direction run
Full twist or cross reverse
On driven idler line direct
As relative of speed
Traversing cone decreasing cone
Efficient width in webs
A given close connection wrapped
And pressed against a gear
A light eccentric stud a cone
A single either way
The drum a bevel gear on tight
A shipper pair of tight
A quick return obtained is fast
Is loose obtained attached
A spur of power idlers twist
Efficiency increased
A truck a concave conical
To curved or other light
Traversing free a feather faced
In cones of pinion range
Of speed a rocking shaft device
Convex device a disc
A band by pedal kept released
That swivels taut at yoke
Oct 6, 2024
Poems by Joshua Martin
THREADED INTO A SAUCE
Mourn spouse separate splints
groaning glassy pelvic veneration stumps
as thorough haze with chaotic underwater
caving pressurized morticians. Cosmos
blend evaluated vinyl mumps without
exhaling televised whips. Sneezing.
Throat clearly labeled evaporation
still bunching beneath cravats
robotic yet pocket-sized. Arrogant
trip as a carrot lanyard. Relish
customized routine funnel. If
battled forlorn mutations.
Adage postcard ramble. Sculpted
to wither indirect formaldehyde
inching nearest summer’s ear
that dangles. Average. Brunt.
Radiating slanted biproducts to
which guessing only reveals edges
staring plainly through peepholes
covered in tar starts bluntly
provoked. Mangled. Refined.
CULMINATION AND ROUTE: THE ATTEMPTED PROVOCATEURS
Delegate expressed thoughts
(paradoxical), relying but their tactics
were at that time untimely. An extremely
valuable testimony of an irreproachable witness!
“We (at least many of us)”
says toward amounted gigantic planets.
As an enemy, already outdated,
here omit the March captivity
for almost two decades.
“Were unconsciously steering no question”
gave the slogan of a division of labor,
the foundational position.
“Happy” to vote after the lesser,
they gave the wrong blame for bloody encounters.
“You can overthrow the hands of theses”
consisted in an attempt eclipsed
by order of not numerous but bustling.
Not prevailing.
Gardens, a proclamation
ending a moreover dirty-handed
revolution. Catastrophe!
Famous distort,
a monstrous adventure.
“To be thrown out of the scales”
preached twenty-four hours
in the eyes of votes against.
Resounding episode
possessing an alluring slogan.
To portray circles.
Flatly denies
attempted counter-revolution.
Also to the skin.
Transfer the sitting fortress
from attack, “are shooting us.”
Was warning,
enjoying lofty protection
of all kinds.
Crooks with cartridges,
there is nothing unlikely in that.
Mourn spouse separate splints
groaning glassy pelvic veneration stumps
as thorough haze with chaotic underwater
caving pressurized morticians. Cosmos
blend evaluated vinyl mumps without
exhaling televised whips. Sneezing.
Throat clearly labeled evaporation
still bunching beneath cravats
robotic yet pocket-sized. Arrogant
trip as a carrot lanyard. Relish
customized routine funnel. If
battled forlorn mutations.
Adage postcard ramble. Sculpted
to wither indirect formaldehyde
inching nearest summer’s ear
that dangles. Average. Brunt.
Radiating slanted biproducts to
which guessing only reveals edges
staring plainly through peepholes
covered in tar starts bluntly
provoked. Mangled. Refined.
CULMINATION AND ROUTE: THE ATTEMPTED PROVOCATEURS
Delegate expressed thoughts
(paradoxical), relying but their tactics
were at that time untimely. An extremely
valuable testimony of an irreproachable witness!
“We (at least many of us)”
says toward amounted gigantic planets.
As an enemy, already outdated,
here omit the March captivity
for almost two decades.
“Were unconsciously steering no question”
gave the slogan of a division of labor,
the foundational position.
“Happy” to vote after the lesser,
they gave the wrong blame for bloody encounters.
“You can overthrow the hands of theses”
consisted in an attempt eclipsed
by order of not numerous but bustling.
Not prevailing.
Gardens, a proclamation
ending a moreover dirty-handed
revolution. Catastrophe!
Famous distort,
a monstrous adventure.
“To be thrown out of the scales”
preached twenty-four hours
in the eyes of votes against.
Resounding episode
possessing an alluring slogan.
To portray circles.
Flatly denies
attempted counter-revolution.
Also to the skin.
Transfer the sitting fortress
from attack, “are shooting us.”
Was warning,
enjoying lofty protection
of all kinds.
Crooks with cartridges,
there is nothing unlikely in that.
Oct 5, 2024
Poems by Keith Nunes
WHERE TO GO
The cause
Before
The pause,
Hands out
Steering
Ino sepia,
Red flags, white flags,
Survivors flagging
Down fleers,
One flag-waver lures
Adherents
Builds barricades,
Millions march,
The defensive
Inflict
Defensive wounds,
No-one is in charge but
We all know what’s
Going on,
Where are the Informed,
We even know where to go,
Yes,
We know [where this is going]
A STORIED TALE
Triumphal
Apocryphal
Stories of exactitude
Rewritten
Hidden
Sold and stolen
Planted in minds
Recirculated
Folklore and fable
Rubbished, banished
Resurfaced, Reinvented
Rhetoric
Believably
Revolutionary
Unctuous and unbidden
Manifesto
Inherited
Installed
Institutionalised
Statute by decree
Patriotic
Inspiring, rousing
Fought for,
Died for.
The cause
Before
The pause,
Hands out
Steering
Ino sepia,
Red flags, white flags,
Survivors flagging
Down fleers,
One flag-waver lures
Adherents
Builds barricades,
Millions march,
The defensive
Inflict
Defensive wounds,
No-one is in charge but
We all know what’s
Going on,
Where are the Informed,
We even know where to go,
Yes,
We know [where this is going]
A STORIED TALE
Triumphal
Apocryphal
Stories of exactitude
Rewritten
Hidden
Sold and stolen
Planted in minds
Recirculated
Folklore and fable
Rubbished, banished
Resurfaced, Reinvented
Rhetoric
Believably
Revolutionary
Unctuous and unbidden
Manifesto
Inherited
Installed
Institutionalised
Statute by decree
Patriotic
Inspiring, rousing
Fought for,
Died for.
Oct 3, 2024
Poems by Sheila E. Murphy
FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
#5
Drums whisper thrumming alongside the act of ascent
withering away a way with words a few marbles
gripped between fingers still gesture to the thought of
umbilical cord near psaltery. How does orchestral say-so
thin as gruel nourish banter approaching say-so with weeds
silvery as shrill the whistling subverts real melody
that splices ready dialogue fresh with restitution beneath
the umbrella laden with corn silk wheeled in to cover
instant gravitas. Believe me faith sequences thought just as priests
give in to referenda an ounce away from sadness, a brave situation
of comedic fracture you may know for all the wheels. Fraught
with Rembrandt's grief brushed this way to braid the situation comedy
with flailing forecast remembered. I lay me down amid melodic structure
and sentiment fibrous with next things flung toward feeder cities splayed
with possibility. Listen to the frayed indifference splayed
near the focus, the deeds, the washed claustrophobia enclosed
by cement within a spliced vault close with seeds as the bathing
roust entwined with magnificat soldered to fry the litmus
given to grief and shouldered one too many seeds melted
on the tongue fixed in space beyond arpeggiated whim sprints
beyond sonority that lifts into the canyon mercying forth.
FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
#9
Autumn names its reeds slim kin weathered
everlast. The time comes when combs lose
reputation everyone looks away,
defrays comeuppance center folded into
minced notes. Why not charitably denude
first thought blistery thought, its silence,
and learn to sing, learn repair soft silo
mercantile feeding like rainbow trout
the mood of elbows captures clouds
recovering from a surfeit of woodwind mist.
The charm baked clam festooned with libel
you could love or list or lease the wristband
headed for grief eventually near the snow.
The olives not far away, listen to search engines
tossing probability into the mussed snow of Ann Arbor,
beyond most willow motivations cloaked in low-
hanging branch work and moving
with slow deliberate ballet like seams,
little prodigies part of a loved community
with fur and other natural protections buffeting wind
when it accidentally comes in clear as a radio.
#5
Drums whisper thrumming alongside the act of ascent
withering away a way with words a few marbles
gripped between fingers still gesture to the thought of
umbilical cord near psaltery. How does orchestral say-so
thin as gruel nourish banter approaching say-so with weeds
silvery as shrill the whistling subverts real melody
that splices ready dialogue fresh with restitution beneath
the umbrella laden with corn silk wheeled in to cover
instant gravitas. Believe me faith sequences thought just as priests
give in to referenda an ounce away from sadness, a brave situation
of comedic fracture you may know for all the wheels. Fraught
with Rembrandt's grief brushed this way to braid the situation comedy
with flailing forecast remembered. I lay me down amid melodic structure
and sentiment fibrous with next things flung toward feeder cities splayed
with possibility. Listen to the frayed indifference splayed
near the focus, the deeds, the washed claustrophobia enclosed
by cement within a spliced vault close with seeds as the bathing
roust entwined with magnificat soldered to fry the litmus
given to grief and shouldered one too many seeds melted
on the tongue fixed in space beyond arpeggiated whim sprints
beyond sonority that lifts into the canyon mercying forth.
FROM JAZZ FINGERINGS
#9
Autumn names its reeds slim kin weathered
everlast. The time comes when combs lose
reputation everyone looks away,
defrays comeuppance center folded into
minced notes. Why not charitably denude
first thought blistery thought, its silence,
and learn to sing, learn repair soft silo
mercantile feeding like rainbow trout
the mood of elbows captures clouds
recovering from a surfeit of woodwind mist.
The charm baked clam festooned with libel
you could love or list or lease the wristband
headed for grief eventually near the snow.
The olives not far away, listen to search engines
tossing probability into the mussed snow of Ann Arbor,
beyond most willow motivations cloaked in low-
hanging branch work and moving
with slow deliberate ballet like seams,
little prodigies part of a loved community
with fur and other natural protections buffeting wind
when it accidentally comes in clear as a radio.
Oct 1, 2024
Poems by Jonathan Penton
CORRIDOR PIN, BLUE
Stretching over troubled water
looking nothing like a bridge
feeding off a comrade’s horror
laughing, lying in a ditch
So if you find yourself haunted by therapists and self-care menus that haint paint cannot chase away ask if it points at you
like Rhapsody in Blue
Sorrow doesn’t need a reason
but it always has a cause
a child’s death or just the season
when your teeth begin to fall
And truth might not be worth that much it persists nonetheless and if your beginnings are too sharp leaving you not much left you’ve got to walk on through
this corridor of blue
UNTITLED SHAPIRO
We fit wrong over the phone
We fit wrong face to face
We fit wrong when I’m touching your cheek, telling you what I regret
Yet I would sit at this coiled wire forever
I have only built this shaky bridge a day
Time twists on itself like our bad attempts at romance
leaving me with memories that never happened and may not
Our misfitting doesn’t mean much
but it isn’t a mistake
Our dysfunction doesn’t offer the condemnation we rely on to excuse our horrid fit
I will reach for you every night
and cup my hand around you
in ways that never seemed funny or cute
Happiness is not a birthright
happiness ain’t even real
but all our bad connections will remain timeless, a hunk of unnamed bronze
SPIDER
Is there room for anxiety here?
Is there room to float, to hang, to twist one’s head around
like a nightmare of green vomit and no brakes?
We are getting better. Yes,
we are growing and strengthening and chasing our higher selves
Is it too late for failure?
For I feel failure coming on
Raising itself above me
Defeat in a moment of celebration
and I don’t see a space for that anymore.
I don’t see much of anything
when you cut down past the poison dreams.
Coosje van Bruggen
American, born the Netherlands, 1942-2009
Claes Oldenburg
American, born Sweden, 1929-2022
Corridor Pin, Blue, 1999
Stainless steel and aluminum with blue acrylic polyurethane enamel, ed. 3/3
Museum purchase, Sydney and Walda Besthoff Foundation, 2004.118
Stretching over troubled water
looking nothing like a bridge
feeding off a comrade’s horror
laughing, lying in a ditch
So if you find yourself haunted by therapists and self-care menus that haint paint cannot chase away ask if it points at you
like Rhapsody in Blue
Sorrow doesn’t need a reason
but it always has a cause
a child’s death or just the season
when your teeth begin to fall
And truth might not be worth that much it persists nonetheless and if your beginnings are too sharp leaving you not much left you’ve got to walk on through
this corridor of blue
UNTITLED SHAPIRO
Joel Shapiro
American, born 1941
Untitled, 1991
Bronze
Gift of Sydney and Walda Besthoff, 98.213
Installation funded by Mr. and Mrs. Ralph O. Brennan
We fit wrong over the phone
We fit wrong face to face
We fit wrong when I’m touching your cheek, telling you what I regret
Yet I would sit at this coiled wire forever
I have only built this shaky bridge a day
Time twists on itself like our bad attempts at romance
leaving me with memories that never happened and may not
Our misfitting doesn’t mean much
but it isn’t a mistake
Our dysfunction doesn’t offer the condemnation we rely on to excuse our horrid fit
I will reach for you every night
and cup my hand around you
in ways that never seemed funny or cute
Happiness is not a birthright
happiness ain’t even real
but all our bad connections will remain timeless, a hunk of unnamed bronze
SPIDER
Louise Bourgeois
American, born in France, 1911-2010
Spider, 1996
Bronze
Gift of Syndey and Walda Besthoff, 98.112
Installation funded by Mr. and Mrs. Richard W. Freeman Jr.
Is there room for anxiety here?
Is there room to float, to hang, to twist one’s head around
like a nightmare of green vomit and no brakes?
We are getting better. Yes,
we are growing and strengthening and chasing our higher selves
Is it too late for failure?
For I feel failure coming on
Raising itself above me
Defeat in a moment of celebration
and I don’t see a space for that anymore.
I don’t see much of anything
when you cut down past the poison dreams.
Apr 11, 2024
Poem by Keith Nunes
THE FLOURISH AND THE FALL
Lying down to
Take it front-on
Look-see
What the hell is
Coming this way,
Catch a sharded reflection
In the corner of an eye,
Bending with the soundwaves,
Staccato rap all the way
To the found and forgiven,
Acted dumb so long
It won’t go away!
After the flourish, the fall,
Darkness sweeping over everything,
Spreads like dense smoke, someone is
Pulling a blanket over me,
Over my head,
Am I safe or
Am I suffocating?
Lying down to
Take it front-on
Look-see
What the hell is
Coming this way,
Catch a sharded reflection
In the corner of an eye,
Bending with the soundwaves,
Staccato rap all the way
To the found and forgiven,
Acted dumb so long
It won’t go away!
After the flourish, the fall,
Darkness sweeping over everything,
Spreads like dense smoke, someone is
Pulling a blanket over me,
Over my head,
Am I safe or
Am I suffocating?
Apr 10, 2024
Poems by Jeffrey Side
WE ARE TETHERED
Now location dissolves.
No nadir exists for these,
my kin, birthed from my essence.
We carve beds within charnel houses,
upon coffins draped in
snow.
Crowns of barbarity
adorn their heads—a gaudy
display that masks the
unease.
The reward, though scanty,
holds a slight appeal, yet the path
remains covered in mist.
We are tethered to a zone,
restless and forever
on the precipice of the uncharted.
TIME OF WHISPERS
Between echoes of forgotten
laughter and unseen spaces,
I feel the ticking seconds,
where memories linger
in the quiet places.
In an old photograph,
blurred by touch,
your essence remains,
as a trace of existence,
fading into the known.
Unspoken conversations
of suspended words,
silent in the air like mist,
taste of what could have been,
now the fabric has gone.
LYNN’S BIRTHDAY
I was a kingfisher in your hand.
I was a man who licked the land.
The switch is off but the light is on.
Sometime in the future you'll be gone.
No more men will struggle in the sea.
I’ll refuse the fish that are brought to me.
The keeper of the snakes has you hidden.
Like a man on probation your'e forbidden.
Eldred walks the fields when the day is done.
He reads too much of Blake and Tennyson.
Simple measures, simple pleasures
You don’t have to count other people’s treasures.
I touched the ruler with the jagged edge.
I have not found the golden hedge.
Niobe weeps upon the floor.
She cannot find what she is looking for.
Through our many endeavours we learn what is right.
From the days of our worship to the curse of the night.
I'M NOT DISAPPOINTED
I'm not disappointed.
I came here on my own.
I can't even imagine
the way it might have been.
I'm waiting here for something,
afraid in case it shows.
I'm not disappointed,
but nobody knows.
I'm not disappointed.
I've had love and I've had care.
It was a long time in coming
as far as I am aware.
I had everything I wanted,
more than I could see.
I'm not disappointed,
what use would it be.
I'm not disappointed.
I continued to climb.
I knew at the start
it was a waste of time.
I couldn't even tell you
where it is now.
I'm not disappointed,
though I don't know how.
I'm not disappointed
now that I'm back.
When goodness came to me,
I still felt some lack.
There are much better places,
I have to assume.
I'm not disappointed
I can't find the room.
I'm not disappointed
she drew back from me.
It should have been expected,
but I couldn't see.
When I leave tomorrow
there will be no regret.
I'm not disappointed
that I lost the bet.
Now location dissolves.
No nadir exists for these,
my kin, birthed from my essence.
We carve beds within charnel houses,
upon coffins draped in
snow.
Crowns of barbarity
adorn their heads—a gaudy
display that masks the
unease.
The reward, though scanty,
holds a slight appeal, yet the path
remains covered in mist.
We are tethered to a zone,
restless and forever
on the precipice of the uncharted.
TIME OF WHISPERS
Between echoes of forgotten
laughter and unseen spaces,
I feel the ticking seconds,
where memories linger
in the quiet places.
In an old photograph,
blurred by touch,
your essence remains,
as a trace of existence,
fading into the known.
Unspoken conversations
of suspended words,
silent in the air like mist,
taste of what could have been,
now the fabric has gone.
LYNN’S BIRTHDAY
I was a kingfisher in your hand.
I was a man who licked the land.
The switch is off but the light is on.
Sometime in the future you'll be gone.
No more men will struggle in the sea.
I’ll refuse the fish that are brought to me.
The keeper of the snakes has you hidden.
Like a man on probation your'e forbidden.
Eldred walks the fields when the day is done.
He reads too much of Blake and Tennyson.
Simple measures, simple pleasures
You don’t have to count other people’s treasures.
I touched the ruler with the jagged edge.
I have not found the golden hedge.
Niobe weeps upon the floor.
She cannot find what she is looking for.
Through our many endeavours we learn what is right.
From the days of our worship to the curse of the night.
I'M NOT DISAPPOINTED
I'm not disappointed.
I came here on my own.
I can't even imagine
the way it might have been.
I'm waiting here for something,
afraid in case it shows.
I'm not disappointed,
but nobody knows.
I'm not disappointed.
I've had love and I've had care.
It was a long time in coming
as far as I am aware.
I had everything I wanted,
more than I could see.
I'm not disappointed,
what use would it be.
I'm not disappointed.
I continued to climb.
I knew at the start
it was a waste of time.
I couldn't even tell you
where it is now.
I'm not disappointed,
though I don't know how.
I'm not disappointed
now that I'm back.
When goodness came to me,
I still felt some lack.
There are much better places,
I have to assume.
I'm not disappointed
I can't find the room.
I'm not disappointed
she drew back from me.
It should have been expected,
but I couldn't see.
When I leave tomorrow
there will be no regret.
I'm not disappointed
that I lost the bet.
Mar 29, 2024
Poems by Mark Young
A LINE FROM PETE TOWNSEND
We invented all the complexity
ourselves. We probably have
trust issues. Remove the obser-
ver. Can we not make them
randomly float forty yards into
the air? Migrants do not flee
persecution just because we get
around. The dance heads in a
different direction. The music has
changed. It is a song everybody
recognizes. We all sing along.
It is a very pleasant adjustment.
SHE / CAMPAIGNS AS / A HORTATORY POPULIST
Equality isn’t what it used to be; even
though nothing still equals nothing
&, according to Parmenides, nothing
comes from nothing. Which probably
means that any equality there is to be
found will turn out to be worth no-
thing & not worth noting. Neverthe-
less, she will undoubtedly still be ex-
horting us to practise equality when
it really should be equity she espouses.
We invented all the complexity
ourselves. We probably have
trust issues. Remove the obser-
ver. Can we not make them
randomly float forty yards into
the air? Migrants do not flee
persecution just because we get
around. The dance heads in a
different direction. The music has
changed. It is a song everybody
recognizes. We all sing along.
It is a very pleasant adjustment.
SHE / CAMPAIGNS AS / A HORTATORY POPULIST
Equality isn’t what it used to be; even
though nothing still equals nothing
&, according to Parmenides, nothing
comes from nothing. Which probably
means that any equality there is to be
found will turn out to be worth no-
thing & not worth noting. Neverthe-
less, she will undoubtedly still be ex-
horting us to practise equality when
it really should be equity she espouses.
Mar 6, 2024
Poems by Les Wicks
AVAST
Their barque was launched in a swamp
with fiddlers & wine in real bottles.
Potted politicians & public barflies paraded
down that street leading to the bones of a jetty.
The crew was long dead, bled into
the scrimshaw of atrocity but still...
They tried for pirate
ended up minor demons.
Could only set sail when the winds kicked up
their minds literally blown, out to the coast.
Every captain should have their lover
to share each other’s holes, buried treasure
was always about flesh.
STILL, LIFE
Floods
random
or not.
Then a ruthless dry
with its banjo & scythe.
The infection of morning
as professionals drive in
to read strangers’ minds. Counselling.
Tim reckons let’s be real
feelings are weeds
most are judiciously plucked or wither
before their bitter fruits can ripen.
We collectively have many
reasons to be cheerful. But.
So. We made this world in our image,
shepherds of discord.
The time of our lives
the tire of our lives —
my garden is so cluttered with dieback
it mistakes this for purpose.
Their barque was launched in a swamp
with fiddlers & wine in real bottles.
Potted politicians & public barflies paraded
down that street leading to the bones of a jetty.
The crew was long dead, bled into
the scrimshaw of atrocity but still...
They tried for pirate
ended up minor demons.
Could only set sail when the winds kicked up
their minds literally blown, out to the coast.
Every captain should have their lover
to share each other’s holes, buried treasure
was always about flesh.
STILL, LIFE
Floods
random
or not.
Then a ruthless dry
with its banjo & scythe.
The infection of morning
as professionals drive in
to read strangers’ minds. Counselling.
Tim reckons let’s be real
feelings are weeds
most are judiciously plucked or wither
before their bitter fruits can ripen.
We collectively have many
reasons to be cheerful. But.
So. We made this world in our image,
shepherds of discord.
The time of our lives
the tire of our lives —
my garden is so cluttered with dieback
it mistakes this for purpose.
Mar 3, 2024
Poem by Adam Fieled
THE STUDIO
The vista which then opened was one I never
could’ve anticipated in the Nineties—the PAFA
campus was set as a series of jeweled buildings
smack in the center of Center City Philadelphia,
a few blocks from City Hall. Mary was then still
in enough good standing to maintain her own
studio on campus. I had to sign in as a guest on
the ground floor every time I visited. The room
was a large rectangle, & the elongated back wall
was one big window, looking out on the western
progression of Cherry Street, towards Broad. Until
Mary & Abby, I had no fixed notions of painting;
now, I dived in with the frisson of one let loose in
a wonderland. Everything about Mary was magical
to me, & the canvases arrayed around the studio,
largely male nudes, recumbent or not, plugged into
Mary’s fascination with classical mythology, & made
a case for Mary as a Don Juana, a seducer of men.
Heady stuff, & often Mary’s tales were about men
who had posed for her. Vertiginous, but I was on
the verge, nonetheless, of a full-on love affair, maybe
marriage, to a women powerful enough to be called
a Creatrix, a female goddess in the world, & I knew
it. Sleeping with Mary meant something it never could
with others; rather than a mere palliative, if you could
get her to put out in the studio, you were plugging into
a mythological web, glistening & intricate, stitching
yourself, possibly, into history, & the come was in color—
The vista which then opened was one I never
could’ve anticipated in the Nineties—the PAFA
campus was set as a series of jeweled buildings
smack in the center of Center City Philadelphia,
a few blocks from City Hall. Mary was then still
in enough good standing to maintain her own
studio on campus. I had to sign in as a guest on
the ground floor every time I visited. The room
was a large rectangle, & the elongated back wall
was one big window, looking out on the western
progression of Cherry Street, towards Broad. Until
Mary & Abby, I had no fixed notions of painting;
now, I dived in with the frisson of one let loose in
a wonderland. Everything about Mary was magical
to me, & the canvases arrayed around the studio,
largely male nudes, recumbent or not, plugged into
Mary’s fascination with classical mythology, & made
a case for Mary as a Don Juana, a seducer of men.
Heady stuff, & often Mary’s tales were about men
who had posed for her. Vertiginous, but I was on
the verge, nonetheless, of a full-on love affair, maybe
marriage, to a women powerful enough to be called
a Creatrix, a female goddess in the world, & I knew
it. Sleeping with Mary meant something it never could
with others; rather than a mere palliative, if you could
get her to put out in the studio, you were plugging into
a mythological web, glistening & intricate, stitching
yourself, possibly, into history, & the come was in color—
Mar 1, 2024
Poems by Jeffrey Side
LYNN’S BIRTHDAY
I was a kingfisher in your hand.
I was a man who licked the land.
The switch is off but the light is on.
Sometime in the future you'll be gone.
No more men will struggle in the sea.
I’ll refuse the fish that are brought to me.
The keeper of the snakes has you hidden.
Like a man on probation you're forbidden.
Eldred walks the fields when the day is done.
He reads too much of Blake and Tennyson.
Simple measures, simple pleasures
You don’t have to count other people’s treasures.
I touched the ruler with the jagged edge.
I have not found the golden hedge.
Niobe weeps upon the floor.
She cannot find what she is looking for.
Through our many endeavours we learn what is right.
From the days of our worship to the curse of the night.
IN THE POOL OF ABUNDANCE THERE IS DROUGHT
Dreams can come true
if you know the things to do.
The only thing that’s stopping you
is that you're tied up too.
I've got someone to comfort me.
I’ve got someone to care.
I’ve got someone who has the key,
and she’s around somewhere.
I’m dreaming of the portrait
you never gave to me.
I’m dreaming of me and you
standing by the sea.
I could never be the master.
I could never be the son.
I could never be the finger
that pressed the wrong button.
TIME OF WHISPERS
Between echoes of forgotten
laughter and unseen spaces,
I feel the ticking seconds,
where memories linger
in the quiet places.
In an old photograph,
blurred by touch,
your essence remains,
as a trace of existence,
fading into the known.
Unspoken conversations
of suspended words,
silent in the air like mist,
taste of what could have been,
now the fabric has gone.
SAY NO TO TOMORROW
Sands of reminiscent footprints on
traversed paths, gather together moments
stitched in nostalgia, while reality converges
with transient tapestry recollections of creating.
Hands of experience and shadows, cast
changes, chances, choices and ghosts
of imprints, painted with days bygone
on the flattered murals.
Covert prisms reverberating with aspirations,
serenade birds with accordion melodies,
while their metallic spines juggle
star formations as the dusk captivates.
Melancholic larvae know more about this than
anyone, and have mentioned it many
times, as Medusa swirls around them as if
spatial dimensions were not the only problem.
Say no to tomorrow, until the the past is once again.
SELL YOUR TERRITORIES
Silent chamber
echoes can
be heard
when introspection
glides through
secret corridors
of whispers.
You stand
on your
untrodden territories
facing the
map of
existence uncharted
from a
compass point.
Sell your
territories to
those yearning
for cryptic
melodies of
depths and
let them
sing the
lullabies of
vagabond echoes.
I was a kingfisher in your hand.
I was a man who licked the land.
The switch is off but the light is on.
Sometime in the future you'll be gone.
No more men will struggle in the sea.
I’ll refuse the fish that are brought to me.
The keeper of the snakes has you hidden.
Like a man on probation you're forbidden.
Eldred walks the fields when the day is done.
He reads too much of Blake and Tennyson.
Simple measures, simple pleasures
You don’t have to count other people’s treasures.
I touched the ruler with the jagged edge.
I have not found the golden hedge.
Niobe weeps upon the floor.
She cannot find what she is looking for.
Through our many endeavours we learn what is right.
From the days of our worship to the curse of the night.
IN THE POOL OF ABUNDANCE THERE IS DROUGHT
Dreams can come true
if you know the things to do.
The only thing that’s stopping you
is that you're tied up too.
I've got someone to comfort me.
I’ve got someone to care.
I’ve got someone who has the key,
and she’s around somewhere.
I’m dreaming of the portrait
you never gave to me.
I’m dreaming of me and you
standing by the sea.
I could never be the master.
I could never be the son.
I could never be the finger
that pressed the wrong button.
TIME OF WHISPERS
Between echoes of forgotten
laughter and unseen spaces,
I feel the ticking seconds,
where memories linger
in the quiet places.
In an old photograph,
blurred by touch,
your essence remains,
as a trace of existence,
fading into the known.
Unspoken conversations
of suspended words,
silent in the air like mist,
taste of what could have been,
now the fabric has gone.
SAY NO TO TOMORROW
Sands of reminiscent footprints on
traversed paths, gather together moments
stitched in nostalgia, while reality converges
with transient tapestry recollections of creating.
Hands of experience and shadows, cast
changes, chances, choices and ghosts
of imprints, painted with days bygone
on the flattered murals.
Covert prisms reverberating with aspirations,
serenade birds with accordion melodies,
while their metallic spines juggle
star formations as the dusk captivates.
Melancholic larvae know more about this than
anyone, and have mentioned it many
times, as Medusa swirls around them as if
spatial dimensions were not the only problem.
Say no to tomorrow, until the the past is once again.
SELL YOUR TERRITORIES
Silent chamber
echoes can
be heard
when introspection
glides through
secret corridors
of whispers.
You stand
on your
untrodden territories
facing the
map of
existence uncharted
from a
compass point.
Sell your
territories to
those yearning
for cryptic
melodies of
depths and
let them
sing the
lullabies of
vagabond echoes.
Jan 17, 2024
Poem by Alan Catlin
GUARDIAN ANGEL
His guardian angel must
have been packing some
serious heat, must have had
a small arsenal and enough
ammo to take out a small
army secured beneath her
flowing black robes.
She used a flaming sword
instead of head lamps to show
the way on dark, moonless nights
patrolling the deserts of his
life, a life that was soon-to-be
a ravaged wasteland
of stripped malls, gutted wild
animals hunted for their tusks,
their fur, then discarded and
left to rot beside lost pitted
highways that lead South
into the unknown.
His guardian angel must
have been packing some
serious heat, must have had
a small arsenal and enough
ammo to take out a small
army secured beneath her
flowing black robes.
She used a flaming sword
instead of head lamps to show
the way on dark, moonless nights
patrolling the deserts of his
life, a life that was soon-to-be
a ravaged wasteland
of stripped malls, gutted wild
animals hunted for their tusks,
their fur, then discarded and
left to rot beside lost pitted
highways that lead South
into the unknown.
Jan 11, 2024
Poems by Keith Nunes
ON THE EDGE
Standing on the precipice
With his back to the cliff
Eyes closed he feels the
Invitation of emptiness,
It’s a gentle, cordial invite,
A vague promise carried on the breeze
Curling around him, a promise that
If he lets himself fall he will
Experience a sensation of heavenly nothingness,
An immersive peacefulness entwined with
Intense excitement,
There’s a light-touch-hand on his chest
Pressing him backwards, then
It’s as though the hand is around his heart
Holding it so he doesn’t have to hold it himself,
He’s weightless, a spirit-form desiring to remove itself
From this redundant body rooted to this tortured earth,
An unfamiliar serenity pours over him like a watery shroud,
He’s tilting, marginally, forward and back,
A slight nudge either way and
A decision is made,
He wants the decision to be unwitting, made by itself for itself
Without conscious thought or effort,
Let it happen,
Happen!
IN ASKING FOR SILENCE
Vertical finger at the lips suggesting silence,
Demanding silence?
Is the gesture implicitly forceful, or is there room for playfulness?
Do you choose to ignore the gesture, or
See it as conspiratorial, inclusive?
Are you today the type to be annoyed with a command?
Are you today the type to be humoured by a suggestion?
Does the gender of the person influence your reaction?
What if the fingernail of the finger is chewed down, or if it’s nicely manicured?
If there’s an accompanying shoosh, does that affect the response?
Do you mirror the gesture to show support?
Do you waft a hand across your face dismissing the command?
Do you pantomime tip-toe movements as if displaying your quietness?
Do you exaggerate bullish movements to ridicule and rebel?
Do you sit gingerly, pick up a book?
Do you jump up and down and shout Nirvana lyrics?
Is this a serious moment,
Or is it silly?
Standing on the precipice
With his back to the cliff
Eyes closed he feels the
Invitation of emptiness,
It’s a gentle, cordial invite,
A vague promise carried on the breeze
Curling around him, a promise that
If he lets himself fall he will
Experience a sensation of heavenly nothingness,
An immersive peacefulness entwined with
Intense excitement,
There’s a light-touch-hand on his chest
Pressing him backwards, then
It’s as though the hand is around his heart
Holding it so he doesn’t have to hold it himself,
He’s weightless, a spirit-form desiring to remove itself
From this redundant body rooted to this tortured earth,
An unfamiliar serenity pours over him like a watery shroud,
He’s tilting, marginally, forward and back,
A slight nudge either way and
A decision is made,
He wants the decision to be unwitting, made by itself for itself
Without conscious thought or effort,
Let it happen,
Happen!
IN ASKING FOR SILENCE
Vertical finger at the lips suggesting silence,
Demanding silence?
Is the gesture implicitly forceful, or is there room for playfulness?
Do you choose to ignore the gesture, or
See it as conspiratorial, inclusive?
Are you today the type to be annoyed with a command?
Are you today the type to be humoured by a suggestion?
Does the gender of the person influence your reaction?
What if the fingernail of the finger is chewed down, or if it’s nicely manicured?
If there’s an accompanying shoosh, does that affect the response?
Do you mirror the gesture to show support?
Do you waft a hand across your face dismissing the command?
Do you pantomime tip-toe movements as if displaying your quietness?
Do you exaggerate bullish movements to ridicule and rebel?
Do you sit gingerly, pick up a book?
Do you jump up and down and shout Nirvana lyrics?
Is this a serious moment,
Or is it silly?
Jan 3, 2024
Poems by Joseph Cooper
OFF THE PIANO ONTO THE ETHER
Dear Radioland, hello. It’s 5:45 a.m. I squat here
watching the whole thing from the position
of watching television. Pitying the morning light,
the ringing of the telephone, the blowing of the wind,
the infant screaming in its crib renouncing all limits
of a musical coda. It’s anyone’s story as beautiful and
inscrutable as a young person from Mars in love
with memorable endings. Werewolves seeking exotic
friendships. I want to go home and immediately
become a message in a bottle. Anything to not be
omitted. Meditating on the cold holes in my socks.
I am molten, stupid, dangerous driving out of the city,
past farms, river and fields, just waiting to be heard.
I don’t need to know every moment you consider leaving.
TEATIME ON THE SHOWBOAT
for Andrew K. Peterson
Tap damp cigarette along the tub edge
like someone in a terribly sophisticated play
proclaims, “I don’t need a piano to sing!”
My soul is a small boat lost at sea, a crude
radio going full-blast all day drumming
its energy medicine as I grow old by the great
whale of the piano’s immortal solo. The sinking
oar of a colossal adagio an inch or so above
the waterline adorned by a suppressed heaven
of kisses. The marvelous starlet’s beautiful despair
setting axiomatic waves over this absolutely ceaseless
saga. I can hardly see what good it would do
to cry out darling, darling, to cry for the sorcery
of the open sea, the stoic Romeo of the shark.
Dear Radioland, hello. It’s 5:45 a.m. I squat here
watching the whole thing from the position
of watching television. Pitying the morning light,
the ringing of the telephone, the blowing of the wind,
the infant screaming in its crib renouncing all limits
of a musical coda. It’s anyone’s story as beautiful and
inscrutable as a young person from Mars in love
with memorable endings. Werewolves seeking exotic
friendships. I want to go home and immediately
become a message in a bottle. Anything to not be
omitted. Meditating on the cold holes in my socks.
I am molten, stupid, dangerous driving out of the city,
past farms, river and fields, just waiting to be heard.
I don’t need to know every moment you consider leaving.
TEATIME ON THE SHOWBOAT
for Andrew K. Peterson
Tap damp cigarette along the tub edge
like someone in a terribly sophisticated play
proclaims, “I don’t need a piano to sing!”
My soul is a small boat lost at sea, a crude
radio going full-blast all day drumming
its energy medicine as I grow old by the great
whale of the piano’s immortal solo. The sinking
oar of a colossal adagio an inch or so above
the waterline adorned by a suppressed heaven
of kisses. The marvelous starlet’s beautiful despair
setting axiomatic waves over this absolutely ceaseless
saga. I can hardly see what good it would do
to cry out darling, darling, to cry for the sorcery
of the open sea, the stoic Romeo of the shark.
Dec 13, 2023
Poems by Mark Young
SEA, ME, & LIBERACE
A school of Patagonian toothfish
have given me a candelabra
for my saint’s name day. I’ve
placed it on the grand piano,
next to the porcelain vase that
a pod of dolphins gave me
some months back, & in front
of a piece of rutilated schist,
not a gift but a found object,
not from the sea but from where
the sea used to be, millenia ago.
100 TITLES FROM TOM BECKETT: #12
How Will We Assemble One Another?
So who decides which one goes first
when neither is whole enough to make
decisions? & when that resolved, how
then to proceed given the inherent
difficulties once the manual is dis-
played. The instructions are in a foreign
language which will present a serious
challenge since there are no visuals to
assist; & from the positioning of the
few recognizable words the steps seem
to be neither sensible nor sequential. As ex-
ample: foot & mouth follow one another.
Does that mean that foot & mouth disease
will be part of the finished product? Or is
it an invitation to clumsiness, as in every-
time the mouth is opened, a foot will be
placed in it? Nor is there any obvious
provision for either left-or right-handed-
ness. Small things, perhaps, but they seem
what is focused on, & attributes that should
be important are left to chance. Example:
gender decided not by intent bur rather by
what bits & pieces are left over at the end.
A school of Patagonian toothfish
have given me a candelabra
for my saint’s name day. I’ve
placed it on the grand piano,
next to the porcelain vase that
a pod of dolphins gave me
some months back, & in front
of a piece of rutilated schist,
not a gift but a found object,
not from the sea but from where
the sea used to be, millenia ago.
100 TITLES FROM TOM BECKETT: #12
How Will We Assemble One Another?
So who decides which one goes first
when neither is whole enough to make
decisions? & when that resolved, how
then to proceed given the inherent
difficulties once the manual is dis-
played. The instructions are in a foreign
language which will present a serious
challenge since there are no visuals to
assist; & from the positioning of the
few recognizable words the steps seem
to be neither sensible nor sequential. As ex-
ample: foot & mouth follow one another.
Does that mean that foot & mouth disease
will be part of the finished product? Or is
it an invitation to clumsiness, as in every-
time the mouth is opened, a foot will be
placed in it? Nor is there any obvious
provision for either left-or right-handed-
ness. Small things, perhaps, but they seem
what is focused on, & attributes that should
be important are left to chance. Example:
gender decided not by intent bur rather by
what bits & pieces are left over at the end.
Nov 28, 2023
Poems by Jeffrey Side
IN JACQUELINE'S ARMS
In Jacqueline's gaze a truth resides.
Within her soul I find my silence.
Throughout life’s whirlpool our love remains true.
In her smile I find my embrace.
The years have passed but memories recall
the moments we shared in our concealed retreat.
In silent nights I recall her voice.
in Jacqueline's arms I find my sleep.
In Jacqueline's gaze a truth resides.
Within her soul I find my silence.
Throughout life’s whirlpool our love remains true.
In her smile I find my embrace.
The years have passed but memories recall
the moments we shared in our concealed retreat.
In silent nights I recall her voice.
in Jacqueline's arms I find my sleep.
CYCLING
Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.
In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.
You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.
OUT IN THE WORLD
No one sees the darkest hiss of rain
or the authority of selfish tears
in the rattle of liquid night
like timber packets
Alone hot struggles of kitchen fire
that is her trade
driving her rampart
a woman unconsciously witnessed
with auburn hair low from time’s complexion
that nobody watched
The boatman passes like a gust
absently he comes scratching
cursing all the time
always afraid
strolling to him feels like plunging
Mud errands high hair unmoving
flat time downriver from uninterrupted
books I came not to take employment
for the room had not changed
Able herself supported
she walked with undercut pride
or perhaps with something better
Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world
I SUPPOSE WE’LL WORK SOMETHING OUT
Nature charms you
outside the temple were things
will be understood though wrongly directed.
Unhappy idealists discover
doubts about principles or
otherwise confuse themselves.
Mansions bare the parched streets
where visitors gather by
statues with ironclad
stepping stone traps.
Accented people in the thin city
with frustrated friends
find destiny tumbles
in terror.
Deep in love like resentment
dragons and hyperbolic death
women remark that
men go out
on winter mornings habitually
balanced yet visible
in the way of the spent
room.
Gathering like the rest of society’s
house bought off with chairs
and wine congratulations
and with barbaric modesty
cultivated in vapours
my teachers come to me.
GOING HOME
“Looking in the mirror—
mirror
mirror
mirror
Tomorrow—bright light.
I will see God tonight.”
Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.
Cycling with you in summer 1989,
I am riding close behind you,
with the breeze in your hair,
and I can smell your scent
as we ride downhill towards the river,
with the sun in front of us, forming
a halo around your body and making
you almost a silhouette.
In your summer shorts and shirt,
that is tied in a knot above your navel,
your beauty enlivens my spirit, and
my soul yearns for your love.
You are the queen of my heart,
and the mistress of my soul—
an angel of delight sent from heaven
to show me how to love.
OUT IN THE WORLD
No one sees the darkest hiss of rain
or the authority of selfish tears
in the rattle of liquid night
like timber packets
Alone hot struggles of kitchen fire
that is her trade
driving her rampart
a woman unconsciously witnessed
with auburn hair low from time’s complexion
that nobody watched
The boatman passes like a gust
absently he comes scratching
cursing all the time
always afraid
strolling to him feels like plunging
Mud errands high hair unmoving
flat time downriver from uninterrupted
books I came not to take employment
for the room had not changed
Able herself supported
she walked with undercut pride
or perhaps with something better
Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world
I SUPPOSE WE’LL WORK SOMETHING OUT
Nature charms you
outside the temple were things
will be understood though wrongly directed.
Unhappy idealists discover
doubts about principles or
otherwise confuse themselves.
Mansions bare the parched streets
where visitors gather by
statues with ironclad
stepping stone traps.
Accented people in the thin city
with frustrated friends
find destiny tumbles
in terror.
Deep in love like resentment
dragons and hyperbolic death
women remark that
men go out
on winter mornings habitually
balanced yet visible
in the way of the spent
room.
Gathering like the rest of society’s
house bought off with chairs
and wine congratulations
and with barbaric modesty
cultivated in vapours
my teachers come to me.
GOING HOME
“Looking in the mirror—
mirror
mirror
mirror
Tomorrow—bright light.
I will see God tonight.”
Thanks for running after that bus for me, Dad.
Nov 17, 2023
Poems by Jeffrey Side
WHERE YOUR LOVE BELONGED
I’m sitting here thinking
of a time I could have been
love-friend to her
about life
Pretty girl facing me
from the corner of a room
forward stretching over it
my bridges burnt
She said never leave me
as if I ever could
that was just something
in her mind
There were good days
and there were bad days
but the sun shone brightly
and the sky was blue
PRECIOUS REQUESTS
It was a Sunday morning.
And all the bells were ringing.
I work my fingers to the bone for you.
I want to buy you something new.
You can’t have that many things,
even if I say so myself.
There’s plenty of time, and there’s work to do.
What you hear in the dark,
always repeat in the light.
There’s no gold or silver for your belt anymore.
I shall never forget these things.
Your mother knew about them.
Let your light shine on these special gifts here.
Don’t keep your treasures all that near.
You can’t take them with you too.
Your father knows you need them all.
Is there someone asleep in the doorway?
My legs won’t keep me up:
not in the house we stand in.
Your precious requests have not gone unnoticed.
THE CROSSING OF THE BRIDGE
Dimness is here
followed by regiments
recoiling from containment
armour in Europe
remembering fire-eaters
absorbing what was put down
with great trouble along the bridge
while the rain saturates everything
the enslaved more furiously
throughout fictions and incredulity.
I remember my friends on dry roads
and wagons coated in perfume
memories on the ferryboat
love that is the distance
and the eternal clock
democracy and earthquakes
and women for all the troubadours
shuddering hearts and brains
that heat this world
and rulers furnished by other arts
when I was alone in Charleston.
I’m sitting here thinking
of a time I could have been
love-friend to her
about life
Pretty girl facing me
from the corner of a room
forward stretching over it
my bridges burnt
She said never leave me
as if I ever could
that was just something
in her mind
There were good days
and there were bad days
but the sun shone brightly
and the sky was blue
PRECIOUS REQUESTS
It was a Sunday morning.
And all the bells were ringing.
I work my fingers to the bone for you.
I want to buy you something new.
You can’t have that many things,
even if I say so myself.
There’s plenty of time, and there’s work to do.
What you hear in the dark,
always repeat in the light.
There’s no gold or silver for your belt anymore.
I shall never forget these things.
Your mother knew about them.
Let your light shine on these special gifts here.
Don’t keep your treasures all that near.
You can’t take them with you too.
Your father knows you need them all.
Is there someone asleep in the doorway?
My legs won’t keep me up:
not in the house we stand in.
Your precious requests have not gone unnoticed.
THE CROSSING OF THE BRIDGE
Dimness is here
followed by regiments
recoiling from containment
armour in Europe
remembering fire-eaters
absorbing what was put down
with great trouble along the bridge
while the rain saturates everything
the enslaved more furiously
throughout fictions and incredulity.
I remember my friends on dry roads
and wagons coated in perfume
memories on the ferryboat
love that is the distance
and the eternal clock
democracy and earthquakes
and women for all the troubadours
shuddering hearts and brains
that heat this world
and rulers furnished by other arts
when I was alone in Charleston.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Poem by Stephen Bett
Novel Lines 101: 101 alphabetical poems, each riffing on the opening line of a postmodern novel or metafiction. Antonio Lobo Antunes, Act o...
-
THE STUDIO The vista which then opened was one I never could’ve anticipated in the Nineties—the PAFA campus was set as a series of jeweled b...
-
EQUATIONS #25 When I converse with N on the phone, in about my thirteenth year, our heads open up together, and we create an imaginative lan...
-
EQUATIONS #26 Audrey, as a tangent to N, took the idea, not of broadcasting gossip but of sharing and disseminating literature, as a fait ac...