…“THE DEATH OF LOVE OF ANYTHING…”written on the front of a cute girl's t-shirt.I hate people who wear sloganed t-shirtsas if it speaks volumes about their “life philosophy.”The kind of people who might say“I went to the University of Life” but work in an office.You cannot experience the death of anything you live beyond | [...]
Memories of the dead while hiking (4:04 p.m.) …As her friend was dying | grasping desperately to a silly belief | she put a status on her Kakao Talk asking everyone she knew to “picture armies of cancer killing antibiotics in rank & file at the crenellation of her cancer’s fortress —each antibiotic soldier | [...]
The above pic is not from Yeongsil Trail, but Donnaeko Trail, which is connected. The pic captures a hazy view of Seogwipo, the 2nd, other, southern city of Jeju. Donnaeko is, for roughly 6km a steep path, sheltered by dark umbrage most of the way—you suddenly come out of the trial & are met with [...]
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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This is not a Christmas poem (i'll pretend that isn't happening), neither is it exclusively about Shelley, despite the Louis Edouard Fournier painting suggesting otherwise. i suppose, if the man being cremated is a poet, then the funeral rite, through contagious magic, becomes a work of art. ∞ A funeral rite was once an art but [...]
∞ A spartan living room | old 3 bar fire on full pelt | a Wedgewood Elizabeth II 50th anniversary coronation plate on the mantelpiece with a chipped edge | next to a pair of dice & an incomplete Rubik’s Cube. Rodge |late middle age & peculiar | far away glazed expression | is sat [...]
If you don't know what the voice of a Pansori singer sounds like, i recommend you search it on Youtube. It has an overwhelming effect on me whenever i hear it. i become frozen, my skin horripilates & i just want to weep. The force with which they sing is far more intense & emotional [...]
A new poem. Photograph by me. Let’s call it a sacrifice It must have worked, whatever killed it : the drought has lost its footing; except now, the once named, being dead, is just that —or a sacrifice, sufficient enough to sate the appetite of a god. i don’t believe in such fads, but many [...]
This poem just happened. i have been so angry about this, the senselessness of it & the cruel irony that some of these people immigrated to England for a better, safer & more secure life & then this happened to them, when a few basic requirements would have averted the tragedy. This is what greed [...]
One of the poems from my short series on Wallace Stevens. Here we have Wallace returning from the dead. In the category Mining the Library of Babel, if you scroll through, any post with this photo of Wallace accompanying the poem, is also from this series. Opus posthumous I A student fist bumped Wallace & [...]