Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Wendy Battin

Christmas in Connecticut

Not what you think. Rain. 
The cards are all in Greek.
The man unwraps a joke in the box.
The woman unwraps

a silver man with the head of a bird.
They are so in love, the four of them,
the man the joke the woman the beaked
aluminum dream,

they laugh at the eyes, the leg, the ear,
the arm all hung in the tree.
Two headless torsos,
his and hers, twist in the branches.

See how the world is made new?
Whatever I tell you is true.


Sunday, December 22, 2013

Felino A. Soriano

from Espials


listening is friction
a finding fathoms
important, implicit
inclusion of sound-echo
freedom beyond inertia’s
realized fulcrum, endearing
speech speckled as with purple
dusk in the moment of night’s
whispering interpretation


said of implication

                                                your language infers damage
                                    to the
            oscillating demeanor exposed though its


thus or/with
—unsurprising the fixation of sound wandering atop shadow-allegory history


eyes, these carvers of silhouettes
eager etchers enveloping
positional findings, these
bouquet-shape flames
ongoing emblems of light
interpreting hands of the
watcher’s walk
emblematic reach the above-
cycle serials, solid shape-
eagerness engaging
of wait and pause of examining
artistic reinventions


in hearing this elongated song’s
augury-language devotion (inclusion-developed, see?)
             personality characteristics
launch into lyrical laughter                  the reconvene of
self in the watching self and their
identical differences
wandering into the braid is song’s
bouquet of directions
land-again pluralized pulsation
enveloping my decision to sit, participatory,


octagonal greens of spring-tree burgeon
                         emptying conceptual interpretations of emotional clichés,       THE

 leaning language of elemental sadness, an already escaped fathom of plagiarized emotion
then/when, or/why

does when weight has its ankle swell into devotional algorithms of rain and pertaining flee
                                     the wind become a silent challenge

reasonable in the spectrum of hall-thin frequencies, volume and serial realizations

encouraging tonal
             tendency-space subsequent to summer of near’s infatuation


washed by angled intention of
morning’s frustrated wetness

grain of microscopic skin the green
of distance evokes

vocal interpretations of sound’s abstract
persuasion to understanding delving


David Howard

Cavafy's Neighbour 
When the moon was full he could see it in the pond.
Still, if he pulled the shutters there would be no colour, just
the memory that is language, bad language.
He could have married the younger sister with the swan’s neck.
Once a dress the colour of sunset. After dark she would let him
take it off. Even the god who approved could not watch.
‘If you want love to stay shut up the house, covering
the furniture with dirty sheets’ she said.
He didn’t care. Only later, the later that takes him into old age. 


Laura Young


Coral Carter


time for me to be hawksilent catstill — a shuffle — a paper dropped — a sigh — 

will send them into the air — babiestwo — feraldoves — just left home — finding 

it almost too hard — taking the sun — I hope they have learned about hawks — that 

they’re a food favoured by cats — do they know this? — these twobabes from out 

of the woods — I want to give them seed but maybe it is better they learn their own 

birdy ways.

under the diosma

beside the pool

a skullscrap 








Murray Jennings

In a Café on the High Street Two Poets Reminisce . . .  

‘Just want you to know’ she said ‘how I nearly
turned up at your door with a suitcase a box of
books and LPs and a pathetic bleeding heart’.
‘Oh yes’ he said ‘but how close was that really?’
She paused for a moment and replied ‘twenty-four
hours that’s how close that’s the truth and in that
one day the sky fell on my head, my daughter sat
in my lap asked for a story and hugged me and I
imagined she might have been reading the pattern 
of bloody rips inside my skin, inscribing my story
(I’m so sorry it has to be goodbye, but I’ll come 
and visit, you know I will. I will always love you 
no matter what. I’ll be able to explain everything
when you’re older), words I’d rehearsed but no
longer could form with the tongue that even now
allows me to imagine I can taste you through my 
ridiculous self-pity and What ifs? while I read the 
letters you send me occasionally with all the news 
of your day-to-day life over all the years since we 
both wisely let go.’ ‘Oh’ he said ‘if you had turned 
up that day you must know as I do that we would 
have drunk each other under the table and died in 
an agony of guilt, screaming and competing poetry.’ 
She smiled and they clinked their coffee cups.
For just a moment the traffic outside was silent.


Saturday, December 7, 2013

Laura Young


Andrew Burke

Skin Thin as Paper

One day he wrote a page
a style not his own

sex and a hint of danger
by surprise out of wedlock.

“I hate old skin,” she said.
“There’s no way out of it.”

He thought, part make-up,
part obligation: a thin map,

main character, tangible roots,
recovery, dis/loyalty. Options

blowing in the mind.


Lawrence Upton

Trombone Piece #2

the obsessing of bees with flowers
the calmness of reverse engineers
the co-ordination of gang rapists

clatter of a mess tin
someone cuddles 
the commander's genitals 
in a large soft hand

things are not connected
except by numbering and measurement

gesture relates them

we hear their operations in universal corridors