"assemblages" poems - Hello Poetry

In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles

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Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC

meagan-moore

Diaspora Vocation

In the divet between mountains Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls A venerably ancient ritual My nascent clandestine vocation Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary Along glacier-fed stream Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode And I - Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles

34

After all, poetry is a savage calling. -Edel Garcellano Let poetry be an interstice. Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call. Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves. What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth. Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth. Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry. An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring. A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations. “The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry. We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies. Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold. Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal. We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows. Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example. To answer this question is the task of poetry. Let poetry be an interstice.

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Oct 1, 2016

Oct 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC

guido-orifice

Interstice

After all, poetry is a savage calling. -Edel Garcellano Let poetry be an interstice. Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call. Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves. What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth. Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth. Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry. An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring. A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations. “The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry. We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies. Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold. Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal. We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows. Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example. To answer this question is the task of poetry. Let poetry be an interstice.

17

Comment peux-tu, âme brûlée aux yeux crevés, vivre encore ? La tête noyée Cratère géant Ame gênante Le diable est entré en moi A dévoré mes entrailles Quant il eut fini de moi Il m’a laissé là gisant le ventre à l’air et la jupe retroussée à l’aurore d’une nuit étoilée Penses-tu parfois à moi ? Je voudrais te dire Ma vie n’a pas de suite Personne n’a jamais rien voulu savoir Après chaque nuit tombée, un énième jour Après chaque enfant au corps volé, d’énièmes assemblages de cochons sauvages La vie est une fable informe et infâme Maintenant Eteins-moi. Je déteste l’homme Pour ce qu’il m’a fait Je vais mourir de l’horreur cette nuit. J’aurais tant voulu que tu m’aides Mais ils n’entreront plus jamais en moi Personne n’a jamais voulu prendre le temps de comprendre PRENDRE LE TEMPS Ecouter cette petite voix qui dans la plus profonde de vos nuits vous criait de lui venir en aide Alors allez tous au Diable Cette nuit est ma dernière Je la dédie entière à ma folie …/… Mes mots sont là.

0

Mar 23, 2012

Mar 23, 2012 at 12:24 PM UTC

solenn-fresnay

170311- Journal

Comment peux-tu, âme brûlée aux yeux crevés, vivre encore ? La tête noyée Cratère géant Ame gênante Le diable est entré en moi A dévoré mes entrailles Quant il eut fini de moi Il m’a laissé là gisant le ventre à l’air et la jupe retroussée à l’aurore d’une nuit étoilée Penses-tu parfois à moi ? Je voudrais te dire Ma vie n’a pas de suite Personne n’a jamais rien voulu savoir Après chaque nuit tombée, un énième jour Après chaque enfant au corps volé, d’énièmes assemblages de cochons sauvages La vie est une fable informe et infâme Maintenant Eteins-moi. Je déteste l’homme Pour ce qu’il m’a fait Je vais mourir de l’horreur cette nuit. J’aurais tant voulu que tu m’aides Mais ils n’entreront plus jamais en moi Personne n’a jamais voulu prendre le temps de comprendre PRENDRE LE TEMPS Ecouter cette petite voix qui dans la plus profonde de vos nuits vous criait de lui venir en aide Alors allez tous au Diable Cette nuit est ma dernière Je la dédie entière à ma folie …/… Mes mots sont là.

30

When we cast our minds eye deep into squared stone, into bleached canvas or lumped clay... into shiny new spools of thread or empty manuscript pages, we sometimes hear the silent electricity of some elusive spirit calling on us to shape it from the emptiness before us. Dragons and fairies beg us for eyes and wings. Clouds beg us for open air. Wolves and women beg us for large hungry mouths. Delinquent young malcontents beg us for careless countenances and eternal cigarettes. Ambiguous protagonists beg us for meaningful lives. These assemblages, endeavors and desecrations we generously decree "art" and we hold them high above the humdrum utilitarian and accidental incarnations of matter that belong in the dimensions of nature and industry. These incarnations hold court as the kings and queens of matter. These are the celebrations of mans love affair with time, with space, with insanity and with immortality. The spider finds his art in the hopeless **** of the captured fly against the sticky trappings of the web. For him, it's desperate black buzz holds all of the sway of a fine orchestra flawlessly reciting some intricate overture.

0

Nov 18, 2014

Nov 18, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC

jacob-lewis

With God's Eye

When we cast our minds eye deep into squared stone, into bleached canvas or lumped clay... into shiny new spools of thread or empty manuscript pages, we sometimes hear the silent electricity of some elusive spirit calling on us to shape it from the emptiness before us. Dragons and fairies beg us for eyes and wings. Clouds beg us for open air. Wolves and women beg us for large hungry mouths. Delinquent young malcontents beg us for careless countenances and eternal cigarettes. Ambiguous protagonists beg us for meaningful lives. These assemblages, endeavors and desecrations we generously decree "art" and we hold them high above the humdrum utilitarian and accidental incarnations of matter that belong in the dimensions of nature and industry. These incarnations hold court as the kings and queens of matter. These are the celebrations of mans love affair with time, with space, with insanity and with immortality. The spider finds his art in the hopeless **** of the captured fly against the sticky trappings of the web. For him, it's desperate black buzz holds all of the sway of a fine orchestra flawlessly reciting some intricate overture.

18