Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Mountains smile in spring – The Dewdrop World


Mountains in spring

— calm and smiling

Mountains in summer

— luxurious and dripping blue green blue

Mountains in autumn

— bright and clean, adorned in color

Mountains in winter

— somber, as if asleep

Guo Xi

Source: Mountains smile in spring – The Dewdrop World

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

Black Swans – Hundred Heroines

The Black Swans of Ellen Carey by Donna Fleischer

Source: Black Swans – Hundred Heroines

When the Smoke Clears | Poets Reading The News



When the Smoke Clears

in Culture/Obituaries by

for Ya Haddy Sisi Saye aka
Khadija Saye, artistic photographer

When the smoke clears
there are lumps, charred clothing, human
meat and bones separating, melding to things
that once had other forms and other uses
or turned completely to ash,
where there should be people with faces,
slumbering between the alarm clock
or the newborn’s wail, the Bengali
argued in corridors, and under sheets
this time their color doesn’t divide the neighborhood
color that barely clads the curling flesh

Was the kitchen your only studio? The bathroom?
The wet, shiny photographs hanging on the lines
strung across the room like tongues
of sepia or monochrome, holy and native
the tub full of water with squeak toys and sponges
in the corners happening to fall in,
wanting to be part of the experience
the kitchen table overwhelmed
with pans of chemicals, with the chairs taking up the slack
and taping blankets or sheets to the windows
to urge artifice in the dark
on a sunny day, bringing pictures into being,
making magic with the camera
your mirror

I’ll bet your mum was patient, when she understood
Her cooking must’ve bathed the apartment
vied with the aromas of the pots downstairs
and next door, wiping the fumes clean with Gambia,
as if scrubbing the steps to your door, magic rising
like incense smoke from the cow horn
and the amulet medicine and muse.
Now every apartment has become an oven
that cooked the dreams from everyone’s sleep
while staying in place
dwelling in their space they could not breathe

As she looked down from the 20th floor,
sometimes marveling in the view of her city,
she was not taken in by that mirage. She
and her mother were at Grenfell—that island—
by grace not god’s. Around them was £10 soap,
the suspicions of the coppers,
empty, crumbling houses worth more
off the market than roofing lives,
amid new modern slapdash
she and none of her neighbors could afford.
Success was coming towards her
its matchless fingers primed for embrace,
but she hadn’t made it yet, a living for herself
and her mum, there was no one and nothing to whom
she felt superior, she gloried in the next achievement,
and the next, and the next. It was still illumination
lighting every pore

That perfection is what she had created,
and where she had finished;
she was humble before acclaim, overawed even,
laughing and smiling like the round child
she still was. Her art was not an idol
that she worshipped, apart and speechless
she spoke her brilliance from within
Wrongfully arrested, the police kept her cell phone
though exonerated; they took away her voice to call out
to call for rescue. Gone may be the negatives,
the dead ends, the false fronts,
the revelations, gone may be the crowns
and the Eid

yet that fire remains
that fire


– Gabrielle Daniels

Source: When the Smoke Clears | Poets Reading The News

First Known When Lost: Elections


Of course, one should never expect to witness the disappearance of human folly, malice, and bad faith while one is still above ground. “The vale of Soul-making” is no picnic, after all.  Not unexpected are the perennial ways of humanity: it has all been done, seen, and said before.  But it is tiresome nonetheless.  Best to let it all go.

   Autumn Night: Depicting Busyness in the Midst of Silence
White-haired, in clear autumn touched by scenes and emotions,
among hills, moon my companion, living out the last of my life:
night deepens, no lingering echoes from the ten thousand pipes;
all I hear is the sound of the sōzu tapping the rock.
Ishikawa Jōzan (1583-1672) (translated by Burton Watson), in Burton Watson, Kanshi: The Poetry of Ishikawa Jōzan and Other Edo-Period Poets (North Point Press 1990), page 25.
Watson provides a note on the sōzu: “The sōzu is a device made of a bamboo tube that periodically fills with water from a stream, tips to pour out the water, and then returns to its original position, striking a rock and producing a sharp rapping sound as it does so.  It was intended to scare deer away from the garden.”  Ibid, page 25.

Eustace Nash (1886-1969), “Poole Quay from Hamworthy, Dorset”

Source: First Known When Lost: Elections

A Longhouse Birdhouse: THE FACTS AT DOG TANK SPRING ~

The Facts At Dog Tank Spring


Three broke-down gnarled cottonwoods at Dog Tank Spring

they’re older than anything at Dog Tank Spring

The cloudy iced water the high desert

two or three inches fresh rabbit track snow

Blaze orange and cobalt tents at Dog Tank Spring

The crackling juniper fire at Dog Tank Spring

The night stars wheeling close and mythically overhead

you could reach up & touch the sharp edges of

constellations at Dog Tank Spring

Half human petroglyphs haunt the dream at Dog Tank Spring

but who talks about Aeschylus at Dog Tank?

Orange sparks sift into the night

a coyote cries off in the sage at Dog Tank

Wonder where the dead go at Dog Tank Spring

Dog Tank Spring turkey buzzards go where?

Dog Tank hiking comrades shout over wine at the night sky

At Dog Tank Spring your cell phone won’t work

the news went stale a thousand years past

night drops to 12 degrees

the water jug freezes at Dog Tank Spring

Plans hopes aspirations irresistable ideas at Dog Tank Spring

but human designs at daybreak seem the raving of idiots

dawn is for coffee at Dog Tank Spring

At Dog Tank Spring the bow saw the axe the work gloves the matches

the Cedar Mesa map at Dog Tank Spring

spires hoodoos pinnacles of polished red sandstone

cream colored stone shelves at Dog Tank Spring

The trail guide says anticline & unwrap at Dog Tank Spring

Greasewood rattlesnakes blue wavering laccoliths

the tiny oil painting tacked to a pinyon

by someone last month at Dog Tank Spring

A hundred years are what at Dog Tank Spring

Dog Tank past and future lead nowhere

What are spilloffs chockstones scorpions the dugway the sidereal

what’s a rowel at Dog Tank Spring?

The faraway ranch-house the constellations the rabbitbrush

the anvil-headed clouds over Navajo

Let’s talk about the old ones at Dog Tank Spring

Tobacco Canyon Bullet Canyon Kane Gulch the turkey pen ruins

want to meet here in late March?

Embers whiten and fade they’re fleeting books or old loves

a wool blanket over the cold sleeping bag.

These things are facts

at Dog Tank Spring.

 18-20 December 2019

                                              for Mike Gordon


Andrew Schelling

The Facts at Dog Tank Spring

Dos Madres, 2020


Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: THE FACTS AT DOG TANK SPRING ~

A Longhouse Birdhouse: RE-READING GEORGE OPPEN ~

Waking Who Knows


the great open

doors of the tall

buildings and the grid

of the streets the seed

is a place the stone

is a place mind

will burn the world down alone

and transparent

will burn the world down tho the starlight is

part of ourselves

George Oppen
Black Sparrow Press, 1978




Source: A Longhouse Birdhouse: RE-READING GEORGE OPPEN ~

noise & silence: Louise Glück: “All Hallows”

All Hallows

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:
This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.


Source: noise & silence: Louise Glück: “All Hallows”

The baby and I practice hissing like a snake, howling like a lobo: Poem by Miriam Sagan | Miriam’s Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond

The baby and I practice hissing like a snake, howling like a lobo: Poem by Miriam Sagan

This poem of mine recently appeared in Muddy River Review.

The baby and I practice
hissing like a snake
howling like a lobo
hooting like an owl

all these creatures
might appear
at the perimeter of the ranch
out in the basin land

some things remain silent
the moon rising over the sandstone cliffs
the look on a face
that turns away

but that is for later.

Source: The baby and I practice hissing like a snake, howling like a lobo: Poem by Miriam Sagan | Miriam’s Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond

Poems and Poetics: PATTERNS OF ANIMUS: A New Poem by Rochelle Owens


[For some years now, Rochelle Owens has been a regular contributor to Poems and Poetics & before that a key part of the poetry world which many of us have shared with her.  Of the power of her work, Marjorie Perloff has written: “… brilliantly inventive, immensely learned, sophisticated, and witty in its conceits. She is, in many ways, a proto-language poet, her marked ellipses, syntactic oddities, and dense and clashing verbal surfaces. Hers is a universe of stark gesture, lightning flash, and judgment, a poetic microstructure in its superb modulations of rhythms and internal rhymes, its ironies and paradoxes. … Owens’s lyric voice is unique among contemporary poets. An astonishing body of work.”  For all of its ongoing changes (the symmetry of her strophes in the present instance), that assessment, I think, still holds true. (J.R.)]


Source: Poems and Poetics: PATTERNS OF ANIMUS: A New Poem by Rochelle Owens