Much obliged to Kate Garrett the hard working editor-poet-mother for finding value enough in my poem & giving it a pew in this congregation of poets; especially pleased to see Amy Soricelli in the issue, it's a breath-taker. You can & should read the issue here.
A new poem, written since moving back to England. My themes are altered & I am now beginning to find my stride with them, especially owing to my access to books being greatly improved; having a marked effect on my perceptions. I apologize for my tardiness, I read with gusto, insatiably; finding little time for [...]
Before the next poem from Yoon Yong I should mention that Marie Marshall has asked me to be editor for the zen space spring edition. So what I need from people are little poems: haiku, tanka, sijo. Send these poems to my email address: email@example.com if you want to get your tiny poems into zen space [...]
Happy New Year. Going to refrain from repeating my message from last year (something about not celebrating the passage of precious time). I find myself this year, back home after 8 years living in Korea, teething in my own culture & wondering what the future has in store. This period of adjustment is challenging & [...]
(The following is taken from a thread on the blog of the poet Cynthia Jobin https://littleoldladydotnet.wordpress.com/) According to my favorite Book of Forms (Lewis Turco, 1968)….DROIGNEACH (pronounced dray-ee-nock) is Irish. Syllabic. A loose stanza form. The single line may consist of from nine to thirteen syllables, and it always ends in a tri-syllabic word. There is [...]
Thanks to Krishna Prasad for taking these 5, which, I don't think are very easy poems & particularly the last poem, which is about the Seorak War Memorial in which the poet imagines histories superimposed in real time. I went through a stage of submitting poems without titles, simply using the lemniscate & this has [...]
Pleased to have Underfoot on Ion’s long list of publications.
If you’d like us to publish your poems, you know the drill. We’d be happy to read you in all your best threads.
In this still bay, limestone blue,
the fall of mountain steep with scree.
Clumps of hard grass grip the slope, shorn
like valleys I have seen in eastern Turkey.
Don’t tell the Greeks, don’t tell the Turks;
some of them at least. The far mountains,
covered in a haze of sun and clouds,
look like the Anatolia I have seen.
In this still bay, mountains rise,
while men sit around, drink coffee, complain;
until one day the earth trembles,
rips the land apart, and the mountains
sink into the sea.
Birds roost in caves, menace to keep their space,
until they too move on, or are banished.
We talk about this place, but we talk too much.
This place is about mountains, born from the sea,
from Venetians, Ottomans, Turks, Greeks;
everything that belongs to yesterday.
Everything that belongs to today.
One day a volcano exploded under the…
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Pleased to have Michael Vecchio’s poems up at Underfoot this week. Fluid poems packed with natural imagery, inquisitive & with a sense of attachment to place.
If you’d like to be published by us, please see our submissions & read a few of the poets here to get a sense of what we want.
A Mythical Bird
A mythical bird
said to breed
In a nest floating
on the sea
is more actual than sand
builds a canopy
because belief removes
any doubt that wings
will be feathered full
and the glass they cover
From ‘An Allegiance to Some’, Selected Poems, 2010-2013
Somnambulistic Tendencies Near to the Hudson
1. The Adirondacks in the absence of chlorophyll
reveal a hidden visual fire
beneath which run
the origin waters of the Hudson.
2. The middle opens
like a flower desire
into fingered reaches.
3. As can be imagined
reveal many greenish-grays
leaving the impression of shoulders
leaning through collars of vegetation.
4. Waiting for the deer to spring
blindly from the dark
into the hidden mire
my metallic carriage hurls forward.
5. Once the way…
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Pleased to finally have Stephanie on board, with her characteristic syntactic deftness on display in verses fat with complex scansion, thick with the sodden energies of so many images, these poems saturate you in words & meaning.
& as if that weren’t treat enough, there are 2 poems collaborated on with Bob Okaji from the blog O at the Edges, which really just makes this a special day. Get reading, get face to face with a couple of corking poets.
To the Dead White-Throated Sparrow
in my driveway: Would you at least do me the courtesy of an explanation?
What’s with your belly-mound-cenotaph arisen from the stony gloom spiel? And why
this exquisite bundle of yours, with its still-tender russets folded in the unbounded repose
of a napping cherub, as if you didn’t believe you were still reaching for the clouds?
I mean, was your plump little belly’s sky tribute supposed to un-stone the gloom
underfoot (as if your heavenward-splayed finger-knobs, all ruddy-bottomed
like a napping cherub, never knew their very purpose was reaching for the clouds)?
The spectacle of your tiny black lids pressed shut in sudden, brutal resignation to croaking
underfoot (even consecrated by such skyward-clasping, ruddy-bottomed branchlessness)
hardly passes for transubstantiation… Why package a fully-intact cadaver’s senselessness in
the spectacle of black-faced brutality’s sudden, penitent resignation to permanent blindness
for stealing a glimpse of the sun?…
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Earnest & revealing poems by Hannah Rousselot at Underfoot this week.
There is tension in these poems exploring contemporary issues with piercing directness: the problems of indulgence, queer identity, social etiquette, body image & religion are all treated with a confident voice.
I hope you enjoy them as much as we do.
Glasses clink and
mouths smile and
jewelry sparkles and
eyes are hungry hawks.
This dress is too tight.
My smile is too tight.
My stomach is too tight.
I wish I could peel off my skin
to stretch it out over the curve of the Earth.
Maybe I would finally be skinny enough.
I wish I could give away pieces of my brain
until the light that shines behind my eyes
no longer reflects me, standing alone in the mirror.
The voices of the choir echo eerily
around the hollow chamber.
I feel surrounded here. The windows
are stained with stories I don’t know.
There is a hidden script in this place.
The Priest speaks to the crowd,
and they all know what to say back.
I scramble to keep up.
I decide to just mouth “watermelon”
like my theater director taught me.
In the middle of the…
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