Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Magdalena Ball - Aqua Dragons #2: The Transit Technique

The Transit Technique

the amount of light lost
through transit

motion as a state of permanence
elsewhere, en route

in the effort of becoming 
losing time

twisted into a helical shape
by the singularity 
and how I lost you
not lost as in past tense
losing as continuum

this is what we’ve looked for
the whole of our lives

on the back porch
eyes heavenward
wanting always
a little more
face frozen in rictusas if something were missing

the small temporal drop
in the star’s brightness
the eclipse
limb-darkening 

you know it’s there
it must be

it’s too late for us
of course

ask the fish, the phytoplankton
the trees
the few species left
will tell the truth

but a comfort nonetheless
to know that somewhere
a light is pulsing

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Kit Kelen - for after them - one polished star and one star falling


one polished star and one star falling

in memory of Dimitri Tsaloumas

same as it ever was
this day, this sun
weak signs of life
but honey gathering the hours
we follow through
buzzing alleys of timber
then the forest wakes
and birds take on
cloud, blue and bright
arcs lent from the magic
of knowing
not knowing
what’s next

one polished star
and one star falling
the mirror all hands to catch

hear the dogs whistling
night falls for the last time
and this is common
still hospital bright in the mind

there is a certain
late afternoon glow
forest reverting
to its many mansions
carved each from the golden light
the centuries have given

sleep is a leaning gully
sloping gold to shade
in the secret map of this life

then age confines me to this corner
anywhere in the world

where’s the lightswitch?
where’s the kettle?

these are my ashes
flesh from paper
I gather among words again

bloated with sky I’ll be
bone above
grey of low tide

winter in the sea’s dark churn
these are my aches

the moon long on its flea-bitten journey
bird of the drought who calls
'too late!'

the miles in the tank
each to own repose
or emperor
to his new clothes

let angels be
my punka-wallahs

one polished star
and one star falling 

Nathanael O'Reilly #11 School Days

School Days

I.
Callies, Kallies, Kellies and Kellys,
Jasons, Justins, Brents and Bretts
swamped the school during my years
wearing bottle-green woollen jumpers,
grey trousers, grey shirts, grey corduroy
Levi’s, black Batas and elastic-sided boots.
The Cs and Ks and Js and Bs
controlled the cliques, ruled
over downball, cricket, basketball
and footy, decided Deb Ball
and party invitations, led the bullying
on the courts, on the fields,
in the change rooms, at the lockers,
behind the portables, in the classrooms,
on the bus, at the pool. Whether
you were in or out or somewhere
inbetween was up to the daily whims
of the Cs and Ks and Js and Bs.

II.
After school we rode our bikes
south through town down
the Goulburn Valley Highway
to hang out at the mall scarfing
a buck’s worth of chips doused
with soy sauce, check out the girls
from Shepp High, Grammar
and Notre Dame, even the Kates,
Kristys, Sarahs and Sallys
who shared our classrooms.
On weekends and weeknights
we paid the price of admission
at the skating rink, bowling alley
and cinema, hoping for some
attention. Once we hit sixteen,
our mob of outcasts took to drinking
beer beside the Broken and Goulburn,
staggered from pub to pub on Saturday
nights, attempting to avoid fights,
transcend the rituals and traps of country
town life, survive the final school days
before escaping to the big smoke.







Friday, March 24, 2017

Béatrice Machet # 16 inspired by G.STEIN (4)




# 16     
                                                                  “Read it for changes […] Aloud is organized for louder”
G.STEIN ( in History or Messages From History )

Let me clarify.
Little doubt but no arrogance.
It’s carved out whether distant past or near future. 
Names and changes in stormy cloudscapes. Voices loudmouthing.
Acclamations here.
Emphasis here.
Restlessness here.


RESET RESET RESET RESET REFRESH  RESET RESET RESET RESET

             Repetition till bursting out even though a respectful pressure. 
Be fresh as ever.
                     Be multiple-minded        without clashes         though history comes to an end and
yet the day was not made easy :
                                      Power and comfort are satisfaction          not to be confused     with              happiness.  

As evidences of human crisis: projects and technological progress. What or who to sacrifice seems the only reasonable ethical question when it comes about living in a living world you’re thriving on. Reality is as fictional as any other fiction and we as human consciousness could not end this process without killing the abstraction skill which made what human beings are as distinct from other animals. A fiction doesn’t suffer. Does reality suffer? Human beings do suffer. A lot. Don’t harm potentially suffering beings for non-suffering entities ‘sake. Rules and laws are fictions that allow some aims to be legitimized. Do you want to play this “reality game”?

As evidences of human lives: … ______________________________________________
… Do you want to play this “real life”? Do you really want to live? For what fiction?


                              “Le lire pour des changements […] A voix haute est organisé pour plus fort ”
G.STEIN ( in History or Messages From History )

Laissez-moi clarifier.
Peu de doute mais aucune arrogance.
C’est gravé que ce soit dans le passé lointain ou dans le futur proche.
Noms et changements en des paysages nuageorageux. Des voix fortes en bouches.
Acclamations ici.
Emphase ici.
Mouvement ici.

RELANCEZ  RELANCEZ  RAFRAICHIR  RELANCEZ  RELANCEZ

             Répétition jusqu’à explosion bien que pression respectueuse.
Soyez frais comme toujours.
            Ayez l’esprit multi-orienté       sans ruptures       bien que l’histoire tire à sa fin      
encore  que la journée n’ait  pas été rendue facile:
                      Pouvoir et confort  sont des satisfactions  à ne pas confondre      avec le
bonheur. 

Les preuves des crises humaines: projets et progrès technologiques. Quoi ou qui sacrifier semble être la seule question éthique  raisonnable quand il s’agit de vivre dans un monde vivant où prospérer. La réalité est aussi fictionnelle que n’importe quelle autre fiction et en tant que consciences humaines nous ne pouvons pas faire l’économie de ce procédé sans tuer la capacité d’abstraction qui a fait de nous  ce que nous sommes pour les autres animaux. Une fiction ne souffre pas. La réalité souffre-t-elle? Les humains souffrent.  Beaucoup. Ne faites pas du mal aux souffrants potentiels pour le bénéfice d’entités non-souffrantes. Les règles et les lois sont des fictions qui autorisent la légitimation de buts. Voulez-vous jouer ce « jeu de réalité » ? 

Les preuves des vies humaines : … ____________________________________________
… Voulez-vous jouer à cette “vie réelle”? Voulez-vous réellement vivre ? Pour quelle fiction? 

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Chrysogonus Siddha #11 - pucung

pucung
~ the last song ~

the last line
in my longest poem

one I will lose
the right to claim

it will be written
on a seal of stone

standing proud
on a mound of earth

stiff blanket

for my longest sleep

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Jeff Skewes#10 Crossing


Flags surrendered
without a plan without a friend
ill wind howls
one way tickets

near the cauldron
the afternoon white caps
shred across boat bows
chins sticking out

entire fleets of buccaneers
in an instant loose their way
playing fear dreams wringing hands
burning off but what stays

lighting shines on wars within 
that night of crossing
between death and sin life begins
without a trace without a rhyme

bleary eyed exiles tire too
make beds their ghostly friends
but sleep falls only to those near
where this will end

catastrophe is an artifact
extinction's only a while
eternity unsustainable
clocks tick ever so slowly

they say a dream's second part
is a raft to second sight
for those who tune
Moon's undimmed rays

these are the old ways
risen by eternal chants
discerning bells softly singing
the hope of faraway wanderers

just before the dawn
poetry was always penned
heard only by some
who gave their island

washed onto foreign shores
now it would take till sunrise
to stand again
and wonder why

so the story begins...







Image: The Crossing detail 3. -  synthetic polymer paint on canvas 9 ply panel  jskewes