A Long Weekend in Emerald City (Owl and Dylan Book 2)
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Black, Hairstylist. HQ Trivia x Warner Bros. You Vs. I never doubt her strength. No, of course, not. But I believe this speaker. With the work of Andrea Scarpino in this issue, two distinct things are taking place, both serious, and we get to witness the grappling of the poems with life itself. In the first several poems, the poet is dealing with the terrible effects of an assault upon her and the dereliction of witnesses who fail to witness, of friends who abjure friendship for inexplicable reasons.
We have the poet all but crying out to them in letters never sent, in poems that act of necessity as life-preservers on a sea of betrayal. How could they not know, these friends? How could they not judge? Were they judging her, and not him? Were they not friends? But there are others, a dozen at least. I walked today in crisp, cool air, breathed deeply the scent of burning leaves, thought of walking your Labrador.
I miss you, I mean to say. E, you knew and you did nothing. That seems plain enough, sad enough, terrible enough. But then as if unable to let the sense of violation go, to acknowledge that even the mediation of poetry is insufficient to deal with betrayal or heal the breech, she comes back again: I dreamed of you last night. We stood in your dining room, held glasses with big cuts of ice. A told jokes, I heard you laughing, and your wooden floor slipped away from under my feet. I disappeared into darkness, woke with a sadness deep in my chest, an ache that reached my knees.
This will never be over, I thought. I will never be done with this. In another poem we learn that the violation occurred at a poetry workshop, where the talk and the interaction should have been about aesthetics, and the joy of poetry, the happy minutiae of line breaks and metaphors, but where the hoped for enrichment became instead dystopian, hostile, unsafe: a life-marking, negative, scarring event. In these poems she approaches the event and its witnesses from several sides, trying to understand. This is dangerous territory for a poem as the work can descend into treacle and rancid judgment and synthetic vapidity; but hers never does.
Its questions are honest, a search, for she is someone to whom something has been done, who has been betrayed, but she is not a victim in any classic sense. She has strength, as other poems here show us, and she knows the origins of her strength, in case anyone could ever doubt it or her, as she points out in another poem here: Two days, three nights I slept. And when I stood again, I knew the lives of the beasts, knew I was one of them, claw and fur and voice, rip of flesh and bone, heart beating warm between my teeth.
It did. There is such beauty in the slow psalmistry of these lines, the steady accretion through melody and rhythm that creates this character, this voice: We are being spoken to, quite beautifully, by one who knows what that beauty is worth, and how the memory of that beauty, the moment of it and the passion of it, still saves.
The Amazonian Travels of Richard Evans Schultes
The poem does not seek to offer an appreciation of beauty as it was then, when first seen and appreciated in those days; for that moment is gone, surviving only in the memory of what was. The ability to react as he did then, to the singular moment, is gone. The reaction now is the reaction in this time, to the memory of something, and the appreciation of it must come now, in its complexity, in this moment.
The surprise is in how much the power of those moments persists. He captures it beautifully: Your near-kiss was the truce— there, amid the frail firecracker shreds of Mallorcan jacarandas, where, in reverie or earnest prayer, I find, as I move toward the dark frigate of ever-demanding Death, your point-blank beauty again… We experience another extraordinary sinking-into beauty and wisdom in the work of Philip Terman, as we see him confronting in several of his poems issues of age and generation with honesty and resoluteness. I find such strength in the way that Terman confronts these issues of aging and memory and hope.
We can only hope. We find this strengthening hope in poem after poem in this group. It is a strength that draws beauty with it, and with beauty and its perfectly stated prayer of hope, our assent. It helps a little more to know that the Japanese attacked the island in World War II, interning nearly all the native residents in prison camps, and that many died of their harsh treatment.
The world, the poem says, steals whatever it can put its hands on when no one is looking; it is untrustworthy, filled with sounds intended for recipients and missing their marks. Its warning signs of theft and loss come always too late, after the bad act. Is there a solution to this problem? As he says,. The notes in the microfilm are apologies, high-contrast reminders that we are only adequate for our time, but we know enough about futures to guess how we will fail them. When I pose for portraits, please know I struggle for this joyless look because I don't want to grant a future seer a smirk to understand.
It is a vital play, a joyous conscientious entry in the permanent life-discussion we all have with our time remaining, a wordy arm-wrestle engaged in full knowledge that it must fail in the end, and that the loss will be complete. With the poems of Jody Stewart we have something different, joyous but in a different tone, a different way: For hers is a poetry of celebration, a look still at the end of life, but with such enjoyment of the here and now, this constant today where her poems find virtue and joy in every incident and moment.
As she says in the first poem of the group here, after describing a summer morning and a boy and his mother, This is somewhere on earth, I promise you. This kind of happiness without end. Who would think. Of sleep for them, or any ending to this day, Or any end at all. It is this being-aliveness that enthralls me, in poem after poem, found in the situation as presented or found as a hidden wonder, a beautiful certainty that in the middle of anything there is light and joy.
Or again, in telling of a lost relationship in chilling matter-of-fact words Volume 5 No 2 - Page Later that year I stopped loving you. The walls closed in. It is a beautiful wish, and yes, I want to say, yes, poetry should confer so much on all of us! Part of the joy of the poems collected here is the way she engages with a character called Kelly. Kelly, though, is different. She might be a wish. I always sort of longed for a sibling, but it was usually a brother. Because women confused me, and on TV, siblings hate each other, but eventually a brother will punch someone on your behalf, and I had a lot of rage and a weak punching arm.
Kelly, however invented, gives Ms. Raappanna license to engage her real subject, which is America. This is the American Inquisition of the imagination, all self-righteous virtue and property theft and training in to literacy, and then punishment: I drifted into sleep while Kelly spun a tale of two kids lost walking in a forest with a basket of apocalypse.
They claim she tried to eat them, but their numbers and their weapons tech were far superior. They name her home after themselves and teach her how to read. And then the conclusion, sad and wonderful, both an invitation to partake in loss and a fighting back against it, as life asserts itself:. She says that both our nighttimes are the same: sky calling us to join it in its black expanse of loss.
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One reads the work of Ona Gritz with a sensation that we know this woman, have known her forever, this person who tells us so much, whose voice seems to hold nothing back about how the world around her is shaped and whose vision upon it is as finely tuned as a microscope focused on a slide where many marvelous things are happening all at once.
My goodness is like clean water inside me or cold milk. Still I like the way her secrets burn beside it, dirtying it just a little. I like the dusky scent that lingers in our hair. Gritz understands, how it animates the gestures around us, compels us to certain acts or sometimes to rash ones, how what it brings to a situation changes everything. Look how getting her hair cut becomes a realization of needs and desire, so that it becomes not a visit to a hairdresser but a vital part of a crusade against loneliness, an upended meaning: Dramas played out in late night phone calls, the curling cord patterning my wrist, but, really I was alone, a girl jealous at the sight of auburn falling from a clip.
I studied hair with hate-beams of longing because it was love I wanted, to be discovered, finally held. It was what we all wanted, I suspected, though none of us were willing to say it… Or the terror of realizing what actually lay behind the symbol of what should have been a happy marriage as she forces the wedding ring from her finger: …soon the redness goes and there is nothing. Not one sign of that yoke I wore for a decade thinly disguised as a jewel. I love how she speaks of the growing knowledge of her child, of her relation to him in love and pain, or the feeling of vitality and excitement of being a girl of 20 walking through Washington Park, or of being 16 and just discovering "how you glow.
It is perhaps its strength that each moment comes from honest appraisal, as she explains in her aesthetic notes: …I write from lived experience. I always have. But more than that, whether I'm writing poetry or essays or memoir itself, I write with a memoirist's concerns. I'm interested in where personal experience, when explored honestly and unflinchingly, taps into something that's true for nearly all of us.
I Volume 5 No 2 - Page It is a poem that makes me smile every time I read it, so full of hope, caught and framed so well, and ended at just the right moment. I quote the last part of the poem here: Praise, then, to the policeman who paints portraits, and to the bank teller who keeps a journal. Praise to the thwarted shop steward who keeps his standing appointment to play catch with his child.
Praise to the heartbroken social worker who subscribes to the symphony. Praise to the math teacher who photographs birds, and to the roofer who, hoping for hope, believes that next year his team will do better. Praise the toddler and the hospice-dweller as they stumble in new passages. Praise all who breathe. Praise all who once breathed and now nourish the ground. Praise all whose stories have already been written, and all those who still have at least one more chance.
Let the fireman remember his own life as he chops with the axe. Let neither the minister neglect his wife, nor the doctor, her husband. Let none of us simply swallow our lives whole. But if the minister, the doctor, and we should fail, let us have new years and fresh seasons. Let us have seventy times seven chances. Page 34 - Nine Mile Magazine.
I love the generosity of his catalogue of hidden lives, of secret hopes and aspirations. So often the work of his poems is to bring us together like this, by finding and marking our possibilities. This seems to me the right place to end this introductory essay about the delights I find in reading these poems by these poets. That seems praise enough. Lily Ruban To Apichatpong Weerasethakul The verdure here has broad generous leaves, most light that reaches us is filtered through its veiny palms. Hospitals here look like summer huts, but the doctors and nurses are dressed in familiar white gowns like at ours.
Scalpels, stethoscopes and droppers. It's south, and the small town perches a hill and overlooks a valley and a sea. Every bed is a canopy bed with transparent curtains to protect the sleeper from serpents and mosquitoes. The human silence is full of bird song. Small white buds on the verge of flowering of some late-blossoming plant.
It looks like cherry blossom, but it crowns very dense grass. It's south, and it's almost past August. She occupies the flat where her ill father used to live so lonely after she died. All the day she sits on the balcony and reads, as concentrated over her read as a university professor. She reads all the novels Frau Jelinek has ever written. The tight braids of her hair are busy too, they count the crows against the blue sky of Kiev.
Kiev is her hometown, Kiev is also the capital of my home country. It is crypted, the battered conspiracy, the coordinates of her balcony kept more secret than any military data on the eve of war. But Catherine told me which section and range, the cemetery. Despite myself my hands loosened that soil.
My mother is alcoholic, she drinks everything she can find, talks with drunkards, homeless strangers in the streets of Novosibirsk. I drink tea with berries, I am a highly addictive personality too. Chocolate has won the space in my brain meant for something bigger, maybe God. And do you remember the degree of my former addiction to you? Compulsiveness, transcribed from mother, a copy-paste quality. To exorcise, with candles and tar, the home, the city and the bed.
I was so worried that the pen would not poise against the paper flatness again, metaphysical geometry of writing, a cartoon, a magazine. I was so nervous, I thought I would never write again but then woke up to my brother saying: she ran off. The wretchedness immediately fossilized into this salt crystal.
Mother is coming for a visit. Words originating from medical lexicon are acrobats so precise their relationship to the world. The doctor told me a fairy-tale on the necessity of a heart surgery. We scheduled an appointment. I cancelled due to my spontaneous journey to Denmark where I fell so many times for you.
She has her most beautiful dress on, if you lift the skirt, if you lift the skirt, you will see many chaotic stitches underneath. Why did she do it? The sight of the useless stitches would startle you in the same way as if your were seeing results of a scarification. Her fair-haired prestance is even lighter in the middle of summer and in the beginner's yard.
She scoops a thin-fingered handful of honey and rubs it into her scalp. I don't utter words that I don't know how to spell, - she says. I can see a drop of melted honey travel down her cheek, an amber tear. She continues to touch objects, leafs through a book. She vacillates between normality and unkempt madness. I wait for the rain of camomille petals, it will wash everything. As for the strange stitches, she was fighting a nasty demon, she explained.
The honey evaporates and becomes a halo, high and rich, above her. To die inside the comfortable clothes, autumn is snug. I swallow a beta-blocker and sleep for sixteen hours. It wasn't supposed to act like a sleeping pill, was it? Not an off-you-go gesture. I swallow a calmant, a scoop of white snow. On the interior of the hospital premises it is always winter. I am sixteen, I swallow ornament of your epaulets.
I swallow cement, I swallow sentiment. My home country is at long-drawn-out war. I go back sometimes. Grandparents are so old they touch beneath the ground. Especially my grandfather who works in the garden all summer long and collects the edible roots. Especially my grandmother who cooks, cleans and irons in the loving memory of the dead, their nerves and graves. To hold my grandparents' hands is to kiss their faces is to pray.
They look and talk groundward, the path from their apartment to the country house lies by two municipal cemeteries. Memory bids goodbye. In the context of writing exchange the same question sounds genuine and relevant.
Under Milk Wood
The accent gives us away. I became an immigrant too late in the girl, the speech apparatus would never adapt enough to disguise the foreignness. Although yet another girl went to Ireland and pretends she is Irish now. She is a singer, they believe her unaccented speech. Maybe it is good this way, this is how she avoids bringing up our home country at a dinner time conversation, which name has become a synonym to the word 'war'.
War gobbles at these people's comfort. We are not willing to speak about war and the part of our family dead to it. We interviewed each other, she kept her possibilities ajar. When I left, she looked about in slight loss and with a knowing smile. She looked at me and then she mildly looked away in a goodbye gesture. I heard about the pact the southern countries recently decided upon, I said to her as if it didn't matter what we should discuss.
The room of our conversation didn't have corners. It didn't matter what we said to each other, as long as I could sit opposite her, the enveloping and reflecting presence of a lookalike. I gave her the same book I gave to G. Barthes was the only writer we mentioned in two hours. It seems like we have met before, maybe in the surface of grey asphalt, eye contact so steady and planned. It seems like we have met before, maybe inside of lead ores.
A gesture of crumpling a dress in view of cold fabric. Dead cold dress, moistened texture of folded fabric that hibernated in the fridge for a fortnight because I suddenly had an idea to put it there. The weather forecast announced a heat wave. I thought that maybe I could back myself up and keep the tomorrow dress in the fridge. So I would grant my skin with cold fabric after waking up from a hot sticky night.
I thought that fridge with clothes in it would resemble a wardrobe. But it resembled a morgue, the morgue of her slit wrists and her poisoned abdomen. Right in the middle of a kitchen there stood the morgue of her delights. My braids held my sister's ending, the pillow wet with tears. Un, deux, trois, the dough is rising. Un, deux, trois, the wedding cake is in the oven. Un, deux, trois, a cotton tablecloth welcomes guests. My sister's dresser is locked. She would never let me wear any of her clothes.
I resented her for this. Much later when I loaned my corset to T. My sister always locked her dresser, I had to break in after she died. My sister and I were exactly the same height. This is how, when we kissed each other we had the sense of kissing ourselves. As a teenager I have kissed my own reflection in the mirror many times. Then I met her and her lively eyes sparkled. Her braids, the stiff stalks, her breath, the winter of a decorative pond, we have never been to the village where God planned a home for us. From within a body with fever it is easier to be under your command.
Crimson tint of your eyelids, crimson tint of my lips. As my body has not yet become a mother, I can still savor memories from the last century. As my body has not yet become your lover, I can still savor memories from the past life on how she was dying, and the last moments of her life were the most blissful. A lifetime's fragment crowned by bliss. Deadly illness gobbled her body, the memory of it still in my saliva. Tears, sobs, excited hot mind. She got wet under the rain, caught cold and died from pneumonia," - the fairy tale says. And now there is new light: a healthy sleep, a happy day, a happy day.
The day I waited for so long, on which you arrived. Menstruation is a heavy delight. Womb's lining being shed, - a dress lining stained from two hours of sitting and reading. I asked my doctor. He said my question was too precise, he didn't know. Even the woman I inquired for a similar experience responded with a slight bewilderment.
I wondered why, during my menstruation, as I stick my finger inside to clean the remnants, the blood clots, I felt the cold. A quaint cold. That of a cool draft in a corridor, a chilly passage. The vagina is colder than the finger while the two ovaries are unchangeably the hottest organs. Wise, predictable climate, exorcised of all illnesses, placed on to the palm of snow white bedding, the lavender body lies in wait of a novel bleeding. Giant pods paved her street and cracked under the tires of passing cars. A gorgeous brunette driving fast one of the cars, maybe it was her.
Ten minutes later something stirred behind the curtains of her window, her mother, her cat, maybe her. What is the species of tree still growing each side of your street? It sheds arm-sized pods on to the ground. Its branches overhang your balcony, its branches bang at the window in your room when an especially strong gust awakes, reaches, touches your forefinger. A honey locust that is, North-American like my toes, the barbed wire my godmother conjured to keep you fast asleep and away from me.
She wants my safety, you lose your mind.
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- Under Milk Wood.
- Fifty Years of Attachment Theory: The Donald Winnicott Memorial Lecture (The Donald Winnicott Memorial Lecture Series);
As soon as you leave my town, I send you a short telegram on what you mean to me. The telegram will say: "I love you". Before I obey, I pick a souvenir from the ground, a brown pod full of seeds of an invasive weed. The fruit of the honey locust is a flat legume, a pod that matures in early autumn. Honey locusts have thorns growing out of the branches, single or forming dense clusters. It is considered an invasive species.
Books sit in my broken hair, assiduous of honesty. I sit with a book and nothing stirs but a hair fallen from your brow. You are aging into the end of your thirties in stop motion, dead and young. Both are women, but the older one is more animal than girl.
I count the days of her alcoholism: three simultaneous years. She wanted to be cremated, I wanted a flannel-upholstered coffin. Now that she is dead, both of us are winners. I will dream about her under my wrinkling face. Dreams in which she will disclose to me the secret of her glowing complexion. Deferred instincts, a well-exorcised passion.
Nobody listens to how my muscles excel at sex. Oral dictionaries, tales carved into stone, I heard that Masha divorced from you, sucked you to the bone. Now yours is a vampireless flat, second floor, harsh sun on the porch, a planned vacation. By how many men from inside of you I feel cornered, overrun.
Pursued, and always found although I tried to hide inside an Indian sari. In this situation I cannot commit a slightest motion to your encounter. Long dress calcified, ghostly limbs yet thinner than in the previous girlfriend. She is an obsessive reader of Anna Kavan and an amoureuse of Julien Green. Her poetry is forthcoming in SCAB. This summer poetry started to feel like a cut on the skin of reality. I just had to live and watch out for the quotidian to open. It has been therapeutic for the first time.
Poetry used to drain me. The most recent writing granted me with strength and stability. I am forced towards poetry out of anxiety. I write in order to snatch out some longevity for my body. Present life is a sure thing, fear of change and reincarnation. Death is loosing touch with bookshelves. Death is erasing memories of a deceased lover, - now that there is only me out of the two of us left to remember, the thought of it is unbearable. Maybe it is more about death drive than libidinal drive. On the other hand the writing would not be possible without an addressee.
There is a new one. All of us, even— he looked up—the stars. Spring Chronicle You say you want spring? You say the snow stayed you inside, the ice broke you, the deep-freeze pierced your marrows into subzeros? You say your mind became unhinged. You say that maybe you lost your faith a little, in the bare feet in the soil, in the later light, even in the trillium? What do you say now?
To the earth softening? To the deep light of late afternoon? What do you say to your quickening heartbeat? My roost is a woodpile, my window a wide open meadow Of fresh cut hay and wild flowers, A robin nesting on the rose-vine in its visible hour of budding.
Again, and then this beauty arrives, Without conditions, save your Acknowledgement, walking through it, Praising this miracle of heartbeat And breath after breath. How often All this went on without you, how often You cursed the inconsequential, desired The ephemeral. Now it calls you out, Exposes and forgives, offers up, No matter what, this birdsong. Whatever, they signal, Continuing about their business, An example for us all. Do they, Too, speak of oncoming rain? No telling all we have in common, You and I, you on one side of the veil and me on the other.
Tell me: that thin-necked, pointed-beaked bird That landed silently and silently Flew off without so much as a farewell? Was it a heron? Or was it you again, with instructions? Sometimes, my mother, turning away from the mirror, would ask, the way I sometimes ask my daughters: How did I get so old? I turned toward the moondrenched field, the pond, warming my hands in the pockets, wanting not the emptiness I knew but something I missed— a scrap of paper scripted in his familiar hand that would reveal the secret and simple sentence scrawled in the glory of his youth, wise words only combat would reveal that could teach me how to encounter this last phase of my life.
When he was my age, he had seven years left. What I still called you in those distant years when we were adults together. Here you are again, full moon mirrored in the water, keeping me warm. For her, they were in the stratosphere, right up there in her wish-to-see-before-she-dies list as in that almost impossible-to-find mysterious mushroom, the morel.
But you, who shall also remain nameless, risked your neighborly reputation Page 62 - Nine Mile Magazine. You snuck it in the back of your truck with a bucket of aerated soil and presented it to her, your fellow nurturer of the rare, the terrestrial, for what requires patience and attention and a little luck— this little lady, reserved, modest, vulnerable, pink.
Chrysanthemums and roses in black vases, six solar lights, a statue of Jesus, a metal pumpkin, a wind chime. Daily, unpredictable hours— sunrise, mid-afternoon, after dark. At Christmas he shoveled a path and hung lights and decorations on the nearest tree. Once, we heard a gun going off. We rushed to the grave but there he was, quiet, meditating. I steer my dog off towards another field, leave him alone in his grief. Page 64 - Nine Mile Magazine. In Heartbeat And Flight The struggle for company. As now, late afternoon, late October, Dusk slowly settling in as you write Above the pond, the trees emerging Among the ripples.
Your page, Too, will be swallowed by the dark. That fawn, feeding in the field— Why so solitary? Through the gaps? Can this be her, Searching into the distance? On occasion, he performs his poetry with the Jazz Group the Barkeyville Triangle. And what my imagination gravitates toward: the physical, the spiritual, the mystical; in my case, these—images, metaphors—are often colored by Jewish sources: the narratives, the rituals, the holy and unholy symbols.
But the muse also gravitates towards the drama of the quotidian: the children waiting for the schoolbus, the koi in the pond. And of course the compelling figure: the mourner in the cemetery, the ancient woman who left her Whitman book in the barn for me to find, the obscure and desired lady slipper. And so out of this broth I try to scratch a few lines, a few words, fill up one page at a time, a notebook of pages, in the hopes that a poem that carries the freight emotional, spiritual, intellectual, mystical… of its sources, quivering like any live thing, and then shared, a new being that adds just a little towards the sustainability of this fragile world.
The Quarrel The Big Dipper spilling into a grammar of almonds and valley wind, muscatel and bougainvillea— Near the lordly bell tower, under the polestar rovers, we were quarreling in the path of billowing jacarandas—blue-violet shreds italicizing the town walkways under our moonlit sandals. Half-drunk, en route to the hill of the hard-at-work windmill, dear ghost, tell me, what were we at loggerheads about? Your last surviving sister, Maria del Sol, still witty and perceptive, still unfettered in her approach to Catalan life and politics, not in the least provincial, embraced me at the wrought-iron gate but at supper, she whispered, slyly: Batman and Robin, Estragon and Vladimir, Sancho and Quixote: Half the island debated if it was love, the pants-off kind!
I have my theories. An even greater one than him. Possession almost! Torch-Pass Did your death stop my singing? Speak the language of the empire! The Keats Mirror What god would make a Keats and subtract his breath? There in the lulling corner near the cat-loved pyramid of Caius Cestius, in the Protestant Cemetery, we overheard a little towheaded schoolboy ask, And where is Mr.
In heaven? Why are we meant to live and feel the myriad ways we die? The Hill of Muses With our small coterie of dreaming-out-loud scholars and writers, we quit prodigal Rome and blatant Naples for fabled Greece. In the island moonlight, you halted, to emphasize your point; your insurgent bangs cascaded over your impressive forehead and penetrating eyes, then, all at once, you jettisoned your fail-safe, wire-rimmed glasses, and pulled my wary face to yours, like a Roman or a Neapolitan! Here, Sir Fire! My unstinting hooves, my breakneck soul insisted I could be masterless, free of reins.
Mud Pie by Francesc Parcerisas The gush pouring fearlessly from this old hose forms a see-through basin of bright water. Comparing little pies, they compare their own burgeoning power with the reality that the terror of darkness and undying waves, of unfathomable love, will forever exist and go on repeating. And we, the puissant gods, who spy on the children, partly envious, Page 84 - Nine Mile Magazine. Taxidermist by Francesc Parcerisas Go to the end of the carpet with its patterned palm trees, as far as the display case, shadowy with dreams, where time has stripped away customs in a raucous carnival of stuffed animals.
Countless memories surface when you witness kids pressing their noses to the glass! He is a professor of English at Texas State University. I don't know if it's a balancing act or a need to ameliorate, but the goal is memorable language, emotional richness, spiritual heft, and a linguistic beauty that is not ornamental.
After authoring several essays in addition to books of poetry on the movement, she will also be featured in Electric Gurlesque Saturnalia, forthcoming , the follow-up anthology to Gurlesque: the new grrly, grotesque, burlesque poetics Saturnalia, Find her at dylankrieger. So, for my follow-up project soft-focus slaughterhouse, 76 pp. What spatial, tactile, and linguistic messages could be used to assure that everyone has access to the news about colliding neutron stars, without sight or sound?
Astrophysicists explain the vibrations, and, yes, I am relieved, as I was with learning of solar eclipses' multisensory lives. There's even an app. A lattice, my hands, depicts shadowed crescents on cement, the fascism and eugenics so prevalent in the news are again refused.
I remain conflicted about astronomy, considering people without food or shelter. The discovery of the origins of the universe nevertheless is unmistakably profound. If gold and platinum shatter in fragments careening off colliding neutron stars, those bits swallowed up by the black holes left behind are likely inhabited by fairies. Devonian remains of molluscs might have lithic gold and platinum traces, for all we know. But the poetics of the first question seem lost, Golem thinks, quietly beside me in the woods.
We are, after all, talking about the music of the stars. Finally, I know what tired feels like, not just how it means. No sled to drive me home, flying. No bottled messages, thrown, oceanic. We dogs follow ourselves all of these lives, hoping, and then, boom, we are encircled at the tapestry corner, muddy mouthed, sated. You laugh when I say I didn't know you were the Marshmallow Man, hunting ghosts, despite resemblance to the Tire Guy, believing your own materials. No animals or trees were harmed in the making of this broken record movie. Tired of being the joker, I set the needle right, come back into the room to find you covered in lotus emerging sleep.
I turn out my feet to smile. I'll speak the truth to you, nothing else, in broken strings, wilted beet greens, and the smell of garlic rushing through the house with its own children. We'll take your sloping roller coaster, though it and I cannot soothe divergent insomnias, or stop that loud banging noise, achy wheel rims, a rusty timing belt mind with its fish eyes, never resting.
Golem, you say all this to me, but not just because you can, and I let you. We know I'll stay. Maybe I should have thought you to myself. I don't believe in keeping, Golem, I collect books that I have no time to read. Imagining you within this world that can be no one else's, why tell anyone, but I want to share what cannot be held. We think together about things besides unfurled caterpillars sick plants rescued worms approaching sand. These are not just lists affirming strategic refusal verbs being nouns double meanings plaid stamps fear plays or even arteries.
I'm done with hiding places, preferring refuge. You move my chin under the word spigot, the widening faucet washer won't be replaced. I don't have to be told twice to drink up. I don't know how it happens, expecting carpets, escalators, pterodactyls. The dragons are busy with their seasons, and pay us no mind. We pass by no echoes, but know Ironwoods or Mesquites must have nursed these gigantic Saguaros, now grown and peppered up top with Opuntia.
There are no dust specks or poppy fields, Peter Pan has clearly left town. An egret family watches. I'm so pleased. We arrive, sit. My relief at having nothing to do reflects a pile of thick old wishes headed in a dire direction. I choose another me, leave familiarity on wet stones by the edge.
A fleeting allowance, I accept this cold lake gift, bite into an apple, rest. Even you must know night breaks up terror into particulate matter, reconfigures shadowy shapes, a set of unexpected knives thrown about the floor of a barren house you don't actually have. I visited the horror movie garage, the tree grown through the western wall, roots upending any hope of foundation.
Golem came by with a whistle, we fled, easily. If only I could forget the creatures blown onto adjacent shores, swollen gills open, odd beauty, sinewed optics intact. Even if I lower the thermostat, white heat is on, however many ways there are to imagine escape, Golem, we could not care, get or be lost. Sweeping in wide turns, we scoop up the smallest animals, bring them to the breathing fields, past hills, offset altogether from captors, plenty of grazing.
The third go round, tendons lengthen, my feet, firm on your scapulae, hold me up. Strength is no surprise, we can't hurt each other, nothing is wrong, no bad will come, it's alright, here we go. As the beloveds say, there, there. It could be a chilly Shabbat.
- Snow Hill (Then and Now)?
- Nothing on Earth (Siren Publishing Menage Amour).
- Katherine Bacher – Katherine Bacher.
- Emmy Awards Nominations — Primetime Full List – Deadline.
- Concert Listings;
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- List of artists who reached number one on the UK Singles Chart;
Then, I ask, What do you think about spiritual utilitarianism, Golem? The greatest good for the greatest number, in the afterlife, where or when every soul is created equal, has a fair pacifist shot.
I explain, wait, look eagerly at you. You are swinging your legs, eating a bag of chips, one eyebrow raised, hands sticky with curiosity. A fair shot at what? You ask, amused, kind. Isn't death what humans call the great equalizer, anyway? You continue, fists full of chips, And, if we're not talking about redemption, what, then? Considering you, your responsiveness, I put my hands on my temples, close my eyes.
I look up, again. The trees are bare, the radio plays top 40 hits from I have a tape of all of this, the little scenes I've concocted. One way to take myself less seriously, while taking life to heart, accumulated. Pass the crunchy. Pacing with undimmed lenses beside a violet chorus, tempest Golem refracts. Golem hopscotches poker, checkers, backgammon. Glossy cards bridge shuffling to juggling.
Ambivalence about aquaria aside, we know no nautilus visit happens, except by passing street signs. Maybe that chemistry building really was a flash cube, near the oak held up honestly with my bare hands. Don't spill any beans over candied lands from this height, Golem cautions, Someone could get hurt without training in the proper use of ladders and chutes. The mystery of how that seesaw flew against the tide with its swinging comrades will not be solved today. Affairs transmogrified, here peers a salty lighthouse business. This contraption like a shorter drawn life lot exceeds and loses in tandem, its secular grace hope's intercessor.
If and when we do the puzzle, again, we may get identical outcomes with different results, completion a goal assailed. Tie the bows, hem your brushed brown trousers. Lean in, I'm here. She is thrilled and honored to have a selection of her Golem poems included in this very special issue of Nine Mile.
In addition to her love of poetry, Diane self-identifies as an educator, social worker, advocate, singer, bassist, and artist, among other roles. She has longstanding commitments to mindfulness, interfaith and secular contemplation, humanism, and exegesis. Diane blogged for the Huffington Post between May of and January In the collection, I begin with "A Note to Welcome the Reader," crafted at the suggestion of and in collaboration with my close friend, poet Elizabeth Anne Socolow.
This introduction—more a kind of a linear situating—has been transformed and expanded, below. In some facets of Jewish culture, Golems are among the fantastical figures that influence our sense of reality. They are, in a way, lifeless and immortal, dead but not zombies. In order for them to become animated, spiritual power words might be written across their sometimes muddy; possibly wooden foreheads; at other times, mystical invocations are placed Page - Nine Mile Magazine. As releasers of cosmic time, space, and imagination, they can visit you, make things go bump in the night, or disappear from your drawers and then reappear in your closets.
Golems have been among us since the Middle Ages. In these poems, I welcome a Golem as a friend, traveling with her wherever she takes me, terrifying, unfamiliar, and, yes, as familiar as vegetables. During a six week period in the fall of , 61 of the poems animated feverishly, reflecting themes and messages that go beyond the interlocutory. And, while Golems have at times been depicted as limited in speech or as voiceless, and even as unintelligent, the Golem in these poems is quite actively and simultaneously an addresser, an addressee, and a subject.
If she is disabled, which is debatable, her disablement is an accepted, integrated part of her wild identities and honest labors. We got coffee and broke a twenty in a shop a block away, just about where the tailfin fell on halftone sixties snow. In the nineties, a sculptor snipped off the remnants of its wrought iron fence to cover his windows at They keep everything out, he told City Desk this morning.
They fit perfectly. We were born the same year. It wasn't built to last either, but PostChallenger, Post-Columbia, it's what we have. It was lighter, weaker. I know now weakness can help one survive. It lacked thrusters and other useful things. While we may mourn ideals, we are only ever left with relics, a heatshield built for show.
Think about Unalaska. Think about all the prisoners hearing one-way messages meant for other prisoners; the reverse of that song those two mice sang about the sky. They popped toward lonely signals or empty fry, the odd ugly blast when no one registered anything but the lack of refrigerant in the A. It was still those cool cans of freon back then. Somehow it was o. On video, the Very Large Array nods and nods out, its nodes in heavy unison.
Twenty-seven antennae set to listen for masers and black holes, attuned to supernova remnants. The rare official car slowly patrols sun-cracked roads among them. Every tinny robocall timeshifts to voicemail and is marked unheard. Break in for anything is what most cars convey when left unattended. Limp, with no eye. Some wires must have crossed themselves in the violence, otherwise how would the battery Page - Nine Mile Magazine. Its whisper is a barely broadcast plea: Get close.
The Jewel of the Olympic Peninsula: Port Townsend, WA
Close your eyes. Against Method Secure the home, rather than attempt escape into another dream. Work out your new synesthetic parallax. In average households, folks pour little bowls of cider vinegar to wick black musk from indoor air. How is that not worse? They flavor the gas for exactly this. Wait curbside, Page - Nine Mile Magazine.
A spray near the intake launches stench direct to any upper floors, they tell you. Mix a solution to scrub the steps, the wall, some of the lawn. Let snow melt it away or bury it. Puff that Ozium junk. To say the wind decides what lasts. You think of what it must be like to choose an end like this, as much as she was able to choose. She was able to shape it.
You try to think of someone else who managed to lead a life in quadruplicate: schoolteacher, mother, computer science professor, traveller. You think about the time she ended up on your couch in your knucklehead college house because her cruisemate fell on deck. You can't imagine you had any clean sheets. You think about your father was holding the room phone to her ear, connected to her best friend, in her final moments. He let the friend keep talking. You think about dragging her through wind and cold across Times Square at Christmas, through Syracuse at Thanksgiving, on one last trip to up to the Vulcan statue.
Always cold, always headed somewhere. Poring over browning papers, full of familiar witness marks and unfamiliar stains, one looks to me, "It's math. Is it calculus? What do you think it means? Night Game The unspectators patrol in orbits—the field, the loge, the cheapest seats—casting upward stares as eighty thousand, post-frisk, struggle with the climb in full network glow.
They figure brinks of fights, step absently between sides and ride out drones. Toxins waft low and sting the eyes of anyone still searching as the last traffic is flagged away. Pairwise Comparisons Photo arrays show us enough to choose a likely concatenation of those we've seen. Life Hacks Fill your world with people whose voices are quickly discernible from phishing schemes.
Make sure to save extra coffee filters to wipe away your parents' tears. Tattoo your passwords in reverse and upside-down on the insides your eyelids to hide them. Fax state and local representatives every day with evidence of breath. Unplug your surge protectors and unlock your doors before you choose to disappear. Crisis Actors Acting Up They search on scooters for tall bystanders.
They scour downtown for everyone's phones. Basically guarantees coverage. Now the broadcast is paused on a silent state seal. All the objections were Boolean, and the star witness was bland. The court reporter cried on the transcript; said she'd slashed all the tires of the network newsvans waiting outside. Outside Avon Disparate cornstalk tips transmit topography as fluid contour in wind. Thumb-thick weeds turn tree and take eyesore homes wholly. Ivy-climbed silos cede eyeshare, drop their domes, and near disappear.
Bales protrude as pinion teeth held still by loamy torque beneath. Matte-beige tanks rust to betray ancient leaks and recent rain. Who needs lit pilots in firetraps? Those tandem tanks, so long empty. They even closed the BQE, inflaming morning traffic maps.