Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Peter Valente translates Vers Dorés by Gérard de Nerval – Don Yorty

Source: Peter Valente translates Vers Dorés by Gérard de Nerval – Don Yorty

“Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty” a poem by Jane Mead

Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty

What struck me first was their panic.
Some were pulled by the wind from moving
to the ends of the stacked cages,
some had their heads blown through the bars—
and could not get them in again.
Some hung there like that—dead—
their own feathers blowing, clotting
in their faces. Then
I saw the one that made me slow some—
I lingered there beside her for five miles.
She had pushed her head through the space
between bars—to get a better view.
She had the look of a dog in the back
of a pickup, that eager look of a dog
who knows she’s being taken along.
She craned her neck.
She looked around, watched me, then
strained to see over the car—strained
to see what happened beyond.
That is the chicken I want to be.

– Jane Mead

with gratitude to dmf  ~

two souls while blogging by Donna Fleischer – Realities & the Rituals of the Upside Down, A) Glimpse) Of) Press


two souls while blogging

“we can!” she writes to this other hemisphere where I am who — immediately distracted by that insurgence —
lets the coffee grow cold, drinks it anyway and feels warmth

blood pressures rise with apprehension of silence of pure wanting, wanting to be swallowed by that gorgeous everchanging ocean being,

don’t cry I cry to myself. think of Jabès, the moon,
how you dare to fall to love with her different continent without the popular nihilism of Wim Wenders, no; her Paul Celan.

Eight years blogging, painful and beautiful, the slopping of rheumatic waves on the pond when floating in despair
try to swim into the dark water, light one more match

#Occupy Wall Street erupts, I write / the lit match
/ sputters in dark water / long enough to / hear stone move / /

learn to swim-to-swim-through-to
what else is there? 2015, 2016, almost give up, a few times.
old age gravity-caves; 2017 what was it but a year? the new year, just begun,

2018. how many lights burn with uncharacteristically compiled manuscripts
a final push for immortality? Music. Every kind. tapping my foot, chairdancing.

she writes her voice through to me, when I surface the air is new. 2010 sent out my
light to the world in. Today, backstroke. She comes to Claude’s grave in my heart
takes my hand I feel again. Will I swim again? Freeze up into Fleur Jaeggy’s fictive ice? Ingeborg Bachmann’s fire poetry? She writes the path we are to take with the world.

Only the sea can hold both. Only the sea knows what is up, what is down

shard of
free will

the selfless shore swept
for this love poiësis
a humanlike ecstasis

for Marina

– Donna Fleischer

from Realities & the Rituals of the Upside Down
A) Glimpse) Of) Press, 2019, Athens, Dimitra Ioannou, editor

noise & silence: Winter Solstice 2019: Labyrinths

From Thanksgiving’s Snowfall – Picacho Peak


Winter Solstice:

A Lattice, A Labyrinth

Stillness as the sun sets.

The sun draws red from

the bare trees. Red skeletons

reveal the path each tree

took on the journey between

shadow and light.

A lattice. A labyrinth.


A child slips into the world,

does not remember how

to take that first breath, stares

up into the cold blue-white

eye of Venus.

So hard to climb, this grille

of dim cave-light and bone.


I touch the shredded bark

of a coyote fence. My hand

touches my hand’s shadow,

the pattern of twenty-seven

little bones beneath:

Scaphoid, shaped like a boat.

Lunate, a crescent moon.

Triquetrum, the pyramid.

Pisiform, small and round…

Stand still as the trees. A

red-orange seam finds its

way into the grateful dark

between organs. I forget

to breathe.


A lone coyote cries: all

secrets have been laid bare –

and nothing was revealed.

I want this night to go on

and on,

never end…



Have a peaceful, lively, sacred & mundane

– Christien Gholson at noise & silence

Source: noise & silence: Winter Solstice 2019: Labyrinths

#6 winter solstice 2102 – Rough Ideas

“I don’t believe that poetry can save the world. I do believe that the forces in us wish to share something of our experience by turning it into something and giving it to somebody: that is poetry.  That is some kind of saving thing, and as far as my life is concerned, poetry has saved me again and again.”

– Muriel Rukeyser

Source: #6 winter solstice 2102 – Rough Ideas

Rough Ideas: June 2016 Archives

Throwing Away the Alarm Clock

my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”
it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.
now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
one of who
myself-someone my father

– Charles Bukowski

Source: Rough Ideas: June 2016 Archives

Rough Ideas: December 2016 Archives

Spring passes and one remembers one’s innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence.
Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.

– Yoko Ono

Source: Rough Ideas: December 2016 Archives