Posts Tagged ‘ Christien Gholson ’

Christien Gholson – Mudlark No. 63 (2017)

Bryn Mill Pipe, Swansea Bay, Photograph by Christien Gholson

 And it is a dream at sea such as we never dreamt, and it is the Sea
in us that will dream it:
The Sea, woven in us, to the last weaving of its tangled night, the Sea
weaving its great trails of darkness —

                                                            Seamarks, St. John-Perse

Mudlark, An Electronic Journal of Poetry & Poetics, Never in and never out of print, William Slaughter, Editor, ISSN 1081-3500

Source: Christien Gholson – Mudlark No. 63 (2017)

Christien Gholson – Mudlark Flash 143 (2021) – Poetry

Lament for Snow Blowing off the Roof under Grey Skies

There is loss it skins the world raw 
Sloughs off tomorrow and tomorrow blots out the stars scrapes 
	snow-dust across snow-hives 
Tears snow through snow a junco blown into last night’s window 
Unfathomable loss no raven or angel eye can plumb it

I must forget how snow can peel back the skin

This is the loss snow-dust an illusion while it happens 
Snow-dust that flies already gone 
I long for raven wing on a fence-post mice who dream 
	snow-crust into existence packrat-cell beneath 
	floorboards double oval of deer prints in mud 
	while they are still here

I must forget the snow as it falls
There is loss indistinguishable from my death who stands 
	beside me wearing a late Paleozoic snow-cloak 
When I go snow-blind there’s nothing left but voices on 
	the wind calling to themselves hunting their 
	former bodies 
Look at how they ache and cry and skin the air

I must forget how all the cats in the world lift their open mouths 
		to catch the flying snow

This is the loss standing on the shoreline with my first child 
	watching snow fall into the sea 
Whitecap-embrace of water with water thinking how many 
	times it will happen in the years to come and it has 
	not come again 
Death’s hands are cold so cold but hold me so close

I have already forgotten the murder-cry in the magpie’s 
                                  blue feather

I spin with snow-dust become snow-dust for maybe the last time 
To feel snow-dust blow through the heart into a cavern of masks 
	and stub-candles held by disembodied claws 
Our hands and tongues and thighs become shadow-mutations 
	because of such loss

How can I forget the way snow collects on your hat your 
               cheeks eyelashes brightens your eyes

This is the loss words torn off roofs names without bodies 
No I would become snow I would   
I would sacrifice my body for the body of snow the slide of 
	a blue whale’s back against ocean ice the arctic hare’s 
	leap the snow leopard’s eye from behind snow-driven 
	stone No

I will not forget

Source: christien Gholson – Mudlark Flash 143 (2021) – Poetry

noise & silence: Chaos & Equanimity

Balance, A Definition


  1. What I Found:


In a dry wash at twilight, on cold sand,

a cairn, three feet high, intricately balanced.

Close to the cairn’s foundation, a deer’s

hoof-print, sunk deep. Just one, no others.


  1. A Few Questions:


Why did those awkward and precarious angles of stone

re-open an old dream of floating (floating trees,

half-moon and stars below roots; floating stones,

imitating hawks…)?

How did a deer pass so close to the cairn

without knocking it down?

Who first said float but really meant sink?


  1. Some Answers:

The deer appeared from the space between the stones.

The cairn appeared when the deer floated by

and touched down one hoof, testing reality.

And the sky, the sky, with its thousand

interlocking blue staircases, built from nothing

but air and the breath of the dead, appeared

out of the dark atrial chamber of the deer’s heart…

_Christien Gholson

(previously published in The Bitter Oleander)

Source: noise & silence: Chaos & Equanimity

Seven Songs Sung at Reservoir No. 4, by Christien Gholson at The American Journal of Poetry


Slight ripples cut the pines into cubes, needles

bob in place: a fly’s breath, a faint word spoken


from below? Five dead, six dead, no point of

origin; waves born before before. It’s always


the same deadened faces, for the last one hundred

years, the last two hundred – wearing mourning-


masks, pious, excreting feeble thoughts and

prayers. Someone’s making money somewhere.


Fuck your Prayers is my third song sung, to

drown-out the dead who feed on the dead. . .


Christien Gholson
from Seven Songs Sung at Reservoir No. 4, After Du Fu


Source: The American Journal of Poetry

noise & silence – “insert poetry everywhere anywhere here.” a poem by Donna Fleischer

insert poetry everywhere anywhere here.
by Donna Fleischer

Bar-do teachings say when the dead person walks into the sun, she sees no shadow;

when she looks into a mirror she sees no reflection; when she steps out of the stream

she has no footprints. In this way she learns that she is dead

continued at  Source: noise & silence

noise & silence: Interview with Small Press Legend Don Wentworth (Editor of Lilliput Review and author of Past All Traps)

noise & silence: Interview with Small Press Legend Don Wentworth (Editor of Lilliput Review and author of Past All Traps).

“Illusion . . . eats us. Mystery feeds us.” ~ Christien Gholson / a New Welsh Review Interview

Christien Gholson talks to Paul Cooper / New Welsh Review

noise & silence: Christien Gholson’s On the Side of the Crow Redux



noise & silence: On the Side of the Crow Redux.

Christien Gholson: “For the tiny insect casting a long shadow …” / Issa’s Untidy Hut

Issa’s Untidy Hut: Christien Gholson: “For the tiny insect casting a long shadow …”.