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POETRY SWAP MEET: Poetry we don't usually know about, or?

Thought Provoker
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H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)
1886 - 1961

Hermes of the Ways

The hard sand breaks,
And the grains of it
Are clear as wine.

Far off over the leagues of it,
The wind,
Playing on the wide shore,
Piles little ridges,
And the great waves
Break over it.

But more than the many-foamed ways
Of the sea,
I know him
Of the triple path-ways,
Who awaiteth.

Facing three ways,
Welcoming wayfarers,
He whom the sea-orchard
Shelters from the west,
From the east
Weathers sea-wind;
Fronts the great dunes.

Wind rushes
Over the dunes,
And the coarse, salt-crusted grass

It whips round my ankles!


Small is
This white stream,
Flowing below ground
From the poplar-shaded hill,
But the water is sweet.

Apples on the small trees
Are hard,
Too small,
Too late ripened
By a desperate sun
That struggles through sea-mist.

The boughs of the trees
Are twisted
By many bafflings;
Twisted are
The small-leafed boughs.
But the shadow of them
Is not the shadow of the mast head
Nor of the torn sails.

Hermes, Hermes,
The great sea foamed,
Gnashed its teeth about me;
But you have waited,
Where sea-grass tangles with


Born in 1886, Hilda Doolittle was one of the leaders of the Imagist movement. She published numerous poetry collections, including Sea Garden (Constable and Company, 1916) and Helen in Egypt (Grove Press, 1961).
H.D.’s life and work recapitulate the central themes of literary modernism: the emergence from Victorian norms and certainties, the entry into an age characterized by rapid technological change and the violence of two great wars, and the development of literary modes which reflected the disintegration of traditional symbolic systems and the mythmaking quest for new meanings.

jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
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”Sloth”  by Simon Armitage🇬🇧

( This is for you, Josh, a favorite of yours, from Jadey )

See also below🔻

jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
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Simon Robert Armitage (b. 1963), CBE is an English poet, playwright and novelist. He is professor of poetry at the University of Leeds. On 19 June 2015, Armitage was elected to the part-time position of Oxford Professor of Poetry, succeeding Geoffrey Hill.

Fire of Insight
United Kingdom
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On The Fly-Leaf Of Pound's Cantos

   There are the Alps. What is there to say about them?
   They don't make sense. Fatal glaciers, crags cranks climb,
   jumbled boulder and weed, pasture and boulder, scree,
   et l'on entend, maybe, le refrain joyeux et leger.
   Who knows what the ice will have scraped on the rock it is smoothing?

There they are, you will have to go a long way round
if you want to avoid them.
It takes some getting used to. There are the Alps,
fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble!

Basil Bunting (1900 to 1985)

His masterpiece is Briggflatts and a biography I'd recommend is, A Strong Song Tows Us by Richard Burton.
As is obvious from the poem above, he was a pal of Pound and attended the Ezra-versity in Rapallo but fell out with him over politics ... mmmm, how could that possibly happen?

Update: Currently reading a PhD thesis by someone called Annabel Haynes called, "Making Beauty Basil Bunting and the Work of Poetry" https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/30276535.pdf and also found a podcast that may be of interest to those who have an interest in Bunting.  "Howling From the City Walls: Poetry and Counter-Culture in 1960s Newcastle"  (and, yes.  You did get the reference in the title). https://readdurhamenglish.wordpress.com/2014/01/23/new-podcast-howling-from-the-city-walls-poetry-and-counter-culture-in-1960s-newcastle/

Tyrant of Words
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Moniza Alvi (b.1954)


I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miró

Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it's true, but quite uniquely placed.
And from my dark centre

I'd survey the beauty of the linescape
and wonder -- would it be worthwhile
to roll myself towards the lemon stripe,

Centrally poised, and push my curves
against its edge, to give myself
a little attention?

But it's fine where I am.
I'll never make out what's going on
around me, and that's the joy of it.

The fact that I'm not a perfect circle
makes me more interesting in this world.
People will stare forever --

Even the most unemotional get excited.
So here I am, on the edge of animation,
a dream, a dance, a fantastic construction,

A child's adventure.
And nothing in this tawny sky
can get too close, or move too far away.

Pakistani-British poet (b.1954). Born in Lahore, Pakistan; came to England when a few months old. Pakistani father, English mother. She tutors for The Poetry School and lives in Norfolk. (The photo is from her website - moniza.co.uk - photographer unknown)

My audio of this poem can be found here:

jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
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Bruce Cohen


In those existential black & white days
It was indulgent luxury when television
Succumbed to its own insomnia.
My family adopted the Labor Day Telethon,
The day off, children with no bed times
Huddled around the talking box ‪till 3 a.m.‬
Surrounded by our personal repartee
Of salty snacks. Members of the rat pack
Would radiate on stage, comedians who’d end
Their shtick with a somber note on the kids,
& a few tame rock n’ roll bands.
I must confess we never pledged a red cent
& when solicited my father said he gave
At work. I must confess when the crippled
Kids (it was okay to say that then) paraded
Across stage I made a fat, slow sandwich in
The kitchen so I’d be spared the drooling,
Slurred incoherent speech, their contorted
Bodies supported by utterly exhausted parents,
Their crutches & wheelchairs just out of reach.
Look at us we’re walking. Look at us
We’re talking. We who’ve never walked
Or talked before. I was curious about one
Thing: Jerry never revealed his personal conviction:
Why he volunteered his heart year after year.
People asked him always & he was stoically
Evasive. It was the scoop. It sucked you in.
I loved the 24-hour evolution of his tuxedo.
When the telethon was new & hopeful,
It was neatly pressed, shiny crow-black,
His bow-tie so perfect it must have been tied
By someone else. By the next bleary morning,
His face unshaved, bags swelled under his eyes,
The tie undone, of course, you could smell
His stale Marlborough breath through the TV.
But Jerry could do anything. Just his face
Made us laugh. Astaire-like dancer, uncanny mimic,
A singer, according to my father, better than Frank
or Dean, he’d duet with whoever graced
His couch. Jerry was especially moved by
Unexpected stars & hugged & kissed even men.
I wanted to be Jerry. The wacky voices, the fake
Buck teeth. Unabashed generosity. I must confess
I got chills during the drum roll before the new
Total was announced. I even prayed a little
For the cure though I suspected none of the kids
Were Jewish so I worried my God might
Not be watching the show. But Jerry was
Jewish. So was Sammy Davis. I loved how
We adopted him too, glass eye & all, the way he
Threw in a Yiddish phrase when he spoke
& we all smiled his same crooked smile.
After three hours of sleep I would stumble
Downstairs & flip on the show. None of the big
Names were there ‪at 5 a.m.‬ Only Jerry. Only
Some pudgy Vinnie from Local 526 who pledged
744 bucks that he personally collected from
Customers on his bread route, only a scout master
From troop 13 whose boys collected 121 dollars
From returning Coke bottles at two cents a pop.
The early morning acts were crummy. Jerry needed
Filler. A girl, who would be described in those
Days as negro, was twirling a baton while doing
Cartwheels. Jerry was twirling a baton as well.
He could do anything. During her penultimate
Cartwheel the girl’s top slid down.
She quickly pulled it back up but I saw her breast.
It was brief I admit but I saw it on TV.
I had never seen a breast outside of my family
Before & she ran off the stage in quick humiliation
But Jerry, the gentleman that he was, ignored the indignity,
Applauded & asked for the new total. All my life
I wanted to ask contemporaries if they happened
To be awake at that precise moment, if they had
Seen what I’d seen, if it really happened.
You know the business about the tree falling
& if it makes a sound if no one is around?
Don’t we need a witness to validate our lives?
Each of us is so expert at deceiving ourselves.


Bruce Cohen:“Mostly I generate poems out of quirky language, often a musically interesting phrase I overhear, so I rarely, initially, have any sense of the subject matter until well into the composition. The first sentence, like a jingle, had been knocking around my head for a while when suddenly it exploded quickly into a poem that virtually wrote itself, based on a memory of a naďve America from my childhood. It is rare that my poems stick to their narrative. I had no idea where the poem was headed and was surprised by the girl at the end who I had not remembered until the moment she appeared on the pages. She became the only person who was not, somehow, a romanticized cartoon. Vulnerable, yet dignified.”[/i]

jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
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Heather Bell


When I think of you
I think of the Cassowary, known to kill
humans with blows from its dagger-like feet.

A bird, but a bird that chooses
to say no instead of run away.

And at night while you sleep
you press your leg to my leg,
no matter how far I move away,

moving because of your heat, my terror.
The only thing that frightens me is

your absence, you going away,
instead of pinning me down
and saying no no.

This is the poem where I admit
I love you,
am in love with your
dangerous hands at my neck,

your scent of wild and cigars
and the moment from anger to not.
I love you
as you sleep delicate snores.

I love you
as you drink black coffee
and I want to touch you
but always am too frightened.

I love you
as you sit outside smoking
and the sky looks like
it is touching you, the cloth of it,
a delicate towel.

But the thing about
 dangerous birds is that
they protect their own.

I press my foot to yours while you sleep
and you sigh as though
you had been waiting for it.

Heather Bell: “It’s a funny thing watching a decade long marriage fall apart. We all do what we can. We find comfort where we can. These poems are for Dan, thanks for holding your arms out when I was barreling toward the sun. Love poems were impossible until I met you.”

Tyrant of Words
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Nightline: An Interview With The General
(a villanelle)
by Ronald Wallace (1945- ). Professor of Poetry & English at University of Wisconsin-Madison.

The retired general is talking about restraint,
how he could have blown them all to kingdom come.
Read between the lines: this man's a saint.

War is, after all, not for the faint-
hearted. It's more than glory, fife and drum,
and tired generals talking of restraint.

Make no mistake. He's never been one to paint
a rosy picture, mince words, or play dumb.
Caught behind the lines no man's a saint.

But why should strong offensives ever taint
a country pressed by Leftists, Red, and Hun?
He's generally tired of talking about restraint,

tired of being muzzled by every constraint
put on him. He thinks the time has come
to draw the line between the devil and the saint

to silence protest, demonstration, and complaint,
beneath a smooth, efficient, military hum.
The general's retired all talk of restraint.
He aligns himself with God. And God's no saint.

jade tiger
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Nickole Brown

( Received her MFA from the Vermont College, studied literature at Oxford University, and was the editorial assistant for the late Hunter S. Thompson.)



Samson, I admit it: I flirted with you
in Sunday School, crayoned tan your He-Man pecs,
picked the box’s best to dye bright
your Pantene-perfect waves. But even then, I didn’t touch

those kamikaze columns, left blank those two
marble pillars snapped with your sledgehammer fists
to crush a whole damn crowd. Yes, even then

I was a real red-letter girl
timid in the back pew, hiding behind the blue cloak
of the only one I ever felt safe enough to pray to—

HailMary, keep me from Judges
and every other book in the OT
gut-piled and slick as a slaughterhouse floor;

dear MaryMotherOf, save me from
those men like him who slit
the throats of lambs then struck
a pyre to burn the poor beasts, calling
what they’ve done

Even now I’m trying to understand

these jacked-up swathes
of the Bible everyone shoves
under the rug—like your barbarian
move to snag 300 fox and bind
them in terrified pairs, then,
roping a lit torch between their tails,
freed them
screaming to burn
grain fields and olive groves, to
burn alive.

Samson, did I ever tell you
after hearing that story
of yours, my cousin bolted
out of church to try to shove
firecrackers up the poodle’s ass? When I cried,
my aunt called the dog from the yard, said,

Don’t mind them boys; they’re just
proving themselves.

The only boy I knew back then with nothing
to prove lived down the street, and in the sleeve
of his jean jacket, he kept a foundling
squirrel, nursed it pan-warm milk
with a syringe.

That little boy’s name was Pete,
but everyone called him faggot.


So, tell me. That donkey’s jaw —
did you ever think it wrong to wield a thing
accustomed to the peace of fresh hay

and swing it like a thug does
a baseball bat? And is it really a miracle

to pry open the proud mouth of a lion and rip
apart his face? And why, a year later, did you
return to the scene? Just to toy with the trophy
of his corpse? Either way, you pillaged
a hive that had made sanctuary in what was left
of his chest. I see you there, Samson,

squatting inside the broken cage of
ribs, reaching to where the great cat’s heart
once was to snatch another stinging
comb, the crust of dead
bees and their honey in your beard.

Because you didn’t just spring hot from
the mouth of wrath to slay the enemy
of your tribe, did you? No, Samson,

you came to kill

those beasts who were our first
gods—those forms we used to paint
on cave walls, those animals who were not
made as sacrifice for your altars but were

the temples themselves.


Come here, big man. It is time you
wake. It is time you find a different answer,
time to solve your own riddle
once again:

Out of the eater, something to eat;
out of the strong, something sweet. 

Because the answer is no longer
fear curdled into rage,
a murdered lion with a swarm
sugaring his remains.

Answer me. Because I see you,
you action-figure lackey, you lonely tenderheart
duped by your girlfriend’s shears. I wait
next to your sleeping head to gather
what she cuts from you, and outside,
I set it free.

Can you say it? Do you see? Your hair

spun with spider silk and lichen to make
a hummingbird’s thumbnail home; your hair

matted into the tatters of chewed-through clothes
to cradle a litter naked and pink; your hair

tucked into musky dens, a spun-gold currency
flown among crows; your hair the soft

bed where strays bleed and possums piss;
your hair lining every hollow, warming
a throne of owls.

You see, Samson? A whole kingdom
steals away your locks
by tooth and talon and claw:

Your strength, taken from you,
but given back to whom
it rightfully belongs.

—from To Those Who Were Our First Gods
2018 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

Nickole Brown: “For the past three years, I’ve been at work on a bestiary of sorts, investigating the complex, interdependent, and often fraught relationship between human and non-human animals. In this chapbook you’ll find the first results of this project—nine poems focusing on the experience of creatures in a world shaped (and increasingly destroyed) by us.”

jade tiger
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Judy Kronenfeld

Judy Kronenfeld is a poet, writer, scholar, and retired teacher of English and Creative Writing (Lecturer Emerita, Creative Writing Department, UC Riverside). She is a first generation American--an ex-New Yorker transplanted decades ago to Southern California.


I take round trips on the Tube
during morning rush hour. I stand up,
for maximum contact—for the warmth
and pressure of other bodies—
and inhale the steam
of coffee-and-cigarette-breaths.

I offer to walk my busy neighbor’s kids
to school. Their brittle voices ring
in the icy air, as if belonging
to another universe.

I try to strike up conversations
at the market where I buy
a single item daily, a bun
or tart. I stick to apolitical
topics: the BMW’s windscreen smashed
by a flying cabbage, Saddam Hussein’s
romantic novel.

Then I am home alone again.
I put on the kettle for a cuppa.
But the quiet is not lovely.
Nor the enclosure
of my own body. Everything’s
supposed to be relative—
unless one’s loneliness
is absolute.


Judy Kronenfeld“I write poems because I am moved by poems, because the lines of other poets sing in my mind and comfort and awe me with their beauty and truth—reaching across generations and places. I love the process of listening to myself and the world, catching the stray impulse, letting it develop, and then, most of the time, revising with all the intuitive and more conscious understandings I have, so that my poem might move others. And I love the process in spite of the fact that there are days when listening is dampened by some kind of fog, all signals are weak, and getting the poem halfway right is torturous. The impulse for this poem came from a Los Angeles Times article concerning a ‘new ministerial portfolio’ in the British Cabinet: ‘combating loneliness.’ The idea of a Minister of Loneliness was immediately attractive and compelled me, right after reading the newspaper at breakfast, into a quick first draft in which the Ministry gives advice. But the irony of my approach felt too tight-lipped, so I found myself changing strategy and letting my speaker, in extremis, be the voice of the poem. I spent a few more hours tightening and sharpening the poem’s language, and, rather unusually, I was done.”

jade tiger
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Brady Achterberg

Trips to Hell and What I Found There

I was born in the dining room. My first sight was fan rotors chasing shadows. My first breath I smelled stucco grain and wine corks and the dry poison exhale of the drum heater as it warped the floor into floral sea and sank like a reactor rod into the basement and I got taller and taller around it.

Imagine trying to live and not even knowing the place you were born.

I was born with a clubfoot and no eyes. The midwife carved my foot with a potato knife. For eyes she found two garlic cloves.

I didn’t remember them until I was nine and sitting by the pond and some little creature on the other side asked for my eyes. He wanted them. He wanted to know where I keep them. I told him to go away and he grasped at me across the lake and said, “I am the first of you; you are my last.”

Since then I’ve known I was special, I’ve known to watch water and mirrors.

I was raised Baptist. It was the 80's and Satan ruled the world. No one could tell from the place they were standing until Halloween ripped the faces off the mothers and fathers and let the patient hellscapes breathe out from their white fences. They had bought smoke machines but they were already burning, they dressed up as the demons they already were.

I knew it all, knew it from the tapes my parents ordered from the ministry and watched with me, from the little comics I left on public sinks and car dashes and handed out to strangers at pews. Rockers were calling the End Times with a backwards dirge. Witches were snatching babies from daycares to oil their brooms.  Homosexuals were diverting the scourge of God, were infecting every blood bank with AIDS.

I was in the bathroom at a Piggly Wiggly setting out tracts and watching the mirrors and my reflection pulled both the cloves out of his eyes. I turned and watched me. I was leaving the cloves under the soap. My sockets were brown, they were old blood. I took two tiny rocks and put them in place. When I walked out of the bathroom I wasn’t a Baptist anymore.

I didn’t know where to go next at first. I went for Satanism, since it’d always seemed like the pavement of society. And if it was paved with baby skeletons it was paved with baby skeletons. All it was paved with was a bunch of morons running around in graveyards and a book on how to make atheism look ridiculous.

I switched to Quakerism. Then Buddhism. Then Evangelism, Psychick Youth, Scientology, Nation of Yahweh, Raëlism, Vampirism, Church of All Worlds, all kinds of cults with longer names.

I found rags in caverns. I found eggs in sewers. I put them all in my eyes.

There was a rabbit hole. Karl Marx was wrong about a lot of things, and if religion were opium, it’d be $50 a gram. There’s a
hallucinogenic ingredient for sure. It was eating right through my brain. I saw cherubs playing on headstones. I saw the Lake of Fire behind a gas station in Iowa like a highway mirage up close. I saw a flaming wheel of eyes follow me like the moon, southbound on 287.

I saw a meteor shower where all the stars fell at once, smudging as they neared the ground, like wet chalk thinning into stains. They arrived like little rivers on a window. They left a ring around the horizon that was the dawn.

For eyes I had coals, padlocks, newspapers.  In my feet I had voices.

I saw God only once. In Yellowstone, sitting cross-legged by the Snake River, which was tonight a perfect mirror to a perfect sky. I looked into the river and I saw one eye, and another eye, and then a nose and a mouth, camouflaged all in stars. God looked like me but a little thinner, distorted, like a police sketch.

He looked to me and said: “The years have changed Me as much as they have you, My son.”
And then He disappeared and I was left with only water.

My faith returned to my outline, my eyes dried overnight, hard and worn like the arms of a junkie, bland and gone like the graffiti of my ancestors, so many dots and lines in light and blood.


Brady Achterberg, recognized as a National Merit Scholarship finalist for 2015. is a creative writing and mathematics major at Susquehanna University, Pennsylvania, where he's entering his sophomore year.

Thought Provoker
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Sean Kelbley


was hard. Only kids could have
invented it. The girl sat on the toilet

and the boy sat on the bath mat,
criss-cross-applesauce. The father

filled a Dixie cup and stepped
into the closet. Most days,

he closed the door and walked
straight through and opened/

shut the bedroom door and gave
the pill and came right back.

Other days, he stood between the
doors a while and thought of Narnia,

or being airlocked in a passage
on the Space Station.

The girl would shake the plastic bottle,
which had once held fish oil supplements,

impatiently. It made the dad remember when
the cat went missing, and his mother

wouldn’t call for it, but shook and shook
its dry food in the little silver bowl. And

he would picture how the kids had scraped
the jelly beans across the kitchen island,

counting batches out like pharmacists.
It seemed too big, the thing that made his

wife inert and gray and distant as the mashed
potatoes everyone kept pushing farther back

inside the fridge. But he’d agreed to take
the medicine. They drank the jelly beans

with water from the cup the mother/
wife had used, because that was a rule.

I’m feeling happier, the girl
or boy would say. Me, too,

the other would agree.
Then they’d do happy things,

like scoop mud from the creek
if it was nice outside,

and turn a Frisbee upside-down
to make a pottery wheel.

They played The Happy Game
until it just turned into life.

The times the father cried
were fast and quiet.

jade tiger
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jade tiger
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Megan Fernandes


I tell Malik I’m going to stop. I tell him that I do it
because I am sad and because someone
was mean to me at a lecture after five men
spoke during the Q&A so I said something, finally,
about energy and petrocultures and didn’t the infrastructure
of the moon landing look just like the oil fields
of Alberta and some older Italian man said no, said I was
projecting as if projection was not interpretation
but it was in front of a lot of people and what
was the point of all my degrees and giving up a decade
of life to school if I could be so easily humiliated and maybe
I shouldn’t have worn jeans shredded at my thighs
or that navy sweater, sleeves blooming with moth holes
but if these are our left institutions, if these are the men
on our side, I said, then of course, I am going to drink.

Malik tells me you can’t quit before thirty five
because you’re not going to stay quit
and something about me trusts him because
he was at the Ear Inn back when it was the Ear Inn,
back in the old New York and he tells me I am
the new New York and I don’t even know how
to tell him that I am not even that.

I say, humiliation is like the nausea of childhood with
those delayed epiphanies. I hate the violence of insight—
how the lesson is always how one is ugly or dishonest,
the short-comings that could build a civilization and then did.

Malik is not even so much older, forty-something but there have been
many Maliks and therefore he claims ancientness. He says it’s all real.
My parents and those men and yes, even the feeble species.
He keeps a notebook and writes down all the great Irish bits
spiraling out of Helen’s mouth at dinner. He sits cross-legged
on a pillow, cradles lemons and snacks on pickle, waxes poetic
while he assesses the spice level of a green Peruvian sauce I make
which he only ranks a three for spice but insists
that it is a ten in taste because he knows I am fragile.

He does impressions of nutritionists and people who get jazzed
about gym memberships but I know, though we are laughing,
that he is really sad. Sad that this is the theater of his multitasking
that the corruptions are multiplying faster than our jokes
so we have become creatures who can slip through
dimensions, our times thick with simultaneity, so ready
we are to be brutalized many times a day. Even with laughter.

Malik says maybe it’s time to leave New York. He can tell
we’re all getting tilted there, and by that he means
becoming products, paralyzed by false moonlight in the streets.

I tell Malik I drink because I am tired and because they hate us anyways
and we are outside while others smoke at the opening
of The Red Wheelbarrow in Paris and I’m wearing a polka dot dress
and I forgot to put on a bra this morning and it is freezing
and I see myself, the mess of my complaints and temperatures, the way
I am not making any sense these days. He says yes and yes and yes.
He keeps saying it is all okay, all real, tells me to turn my insights
into continents, into paintings. Get sloppy, delicate. Be a feral amateur.

When I get back to New York, he is the only one I still talk to on the regular.
He says “Listen to this” and “Read this” and his brain is so addicted to joy
and we both get nominated for a prize in the same week and it works
it really does work, the way his spirit skims octaves across the ocean
into my heart, into this poem, the way he said my Jesus year
now that I’m thirty-three is going to reveal something about me
which it just did and do you know, this time the revelation
didn’t hurt so much. Which is what Malik might call aging
a process not nearly as dire as they want you to believe.


Megan Fernandes: ”I wrote this New Year’s poem after the British Film Institute announced its new programming on ‘Bitches,’ which will feature films only directed by men about ‘shrewd, social climbing broads’ and ‘self-destructive chicks’ for June 2019. And it’s also a partial homage to a new friend in Paris, Malik, who seems to understand that crux of disappointment, rage, and frustration women feel about these institutions, which by the nature of being institutions, are conservative and patriarchal. I so am tired of this dollar store cultural discourse of liberation.”

Strange Creature
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Clark Coolidge


a couple a latest issues of the mud manual
small mellons sizing up the barrel -- capsize!
& think boards & rest until your rent gets paid

small restful orange stanchions, riding
over from the squeeky
clean black harvard attacks in hail
    "I used to worry"

I read the sign said hour mouth
opened to close (only) the first night (only the first time)

mothers embellish & dust the copper
things & laugh, waiting
for me but you won't be (for, or have been)
flaming carrots & peas in the closet put your little brother out
on the cloudy flange I'm free but sunday

ants trail ripening & bit my sack
3 years later (too late?) I'll seek your sister...

horror phlegm rousens & that brand cheese cloth over lips
gone to the back for a room to   & forget me
classnight darkness & free belly hair hands
fragment collapse   & don't
forget to get up when the year gets light

                        -- 1966

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