"kern" poems
Mickey,
I will not get guns for Scout and Finch to shoot
the blue jays, I will not raise them with guns, ever.
I want to read them Eddie’s messages to his Mum
Before ‘he’ came and killed him, them, killed us.
They should learn what the world felt next morning,
Let them weep, sob and finally feel love, for our world.
This is where I cannot compare myself to people,
I weep as I write to you, my bones weak, skin tearing,
The 20-year-old girl did not understand but agreed
With your Mum when you said “even rapists don’t
Deserve death penalty”, it took me three years to
Realize and not agree with your Mum’s Spanish TV.
I didn’t sleep yesterday night, I watched a film with A,
At night, I could hear the boys screaming from
Tents of their Afghan allies, the scream, pain and
Moaning an elite clout wanted every night.
I threw up dinner, they called it their ‘culture’, I-
Couldn’t look at those boys dancing with bells on feet.
There’s nowhere I feel safe with Finch and Scout,
When will ‘he’ feel love and not think to “fire who?”
I fail every day unable to scream, being a coward, but
I feel good, sense hope when I see HUMAN BEINGS,
I feel exactly what Kern felt when he saw Valentine
Walk safe from the ferry, I feel home, I feel safe.
Maybe that's what people call peace
Maybe that's what people call bliss
I need sleep, I want to sleep peacefully.
Love,
Gaye
13th June 2016, 10:56 pm
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
You cut a dashing figure
between em and en and
oh, by the way
Your abbreviated smile
has me wondering what
it stands for
as I place my finger on
your ellipsis … you lead me on,
there is no doubt
I feel left out
But as we track and kern
our forms, ascending,
make ligatures to avoid
an overlap of strokes
a diphthong doth emerge
o’er our line o’ type
and what was once
paragraphed into separateness,
our thoughts juxtaposed
begins to merge
(bind in parentheses)
you’n’me make syncope
and, once the story forms,
the digraphs make shapes
with our mouths.
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 4:53 PM UTC
Zu viel Finsternis in einem dunklen Kern.
Es ist nicht so einfach.
Nicht so schwierig, leicht, schwer.
Nicht verschwinden.
Du willst nicht verschwinden.
Du darfst nicht verschwinden.
Ich darf nicht verschwinden.
Niemandsgesicht, Niemandsgesicht
Du hast es oder siehst es nicht.
Eis zu brechen. Eis zu sprechen.
Das Wort ist Eis in deinem Mund.
Es liegt wie Eis in meinem Ohr.
Translation:
Too much darkness in a black core.
It´s not that easy.
Not so hard, light, heavy.
Don´t disappear.
You don´t want to disappear.
You must not disappear.
I must not disappear.
Nobodyface, nobodyface,
You have it or you don´t see it.
Breaking ice. Speaking ice.
The word is ice in your mouth.
It is ice in my ear.
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 7:24 PM UTC
Stole some fixed verse, from a nicked purse
Drown me in turpentine
Told to react first, and act terse
Barren with no arginine
…
Diluted grape juice poured like nectar
Drips faithfully down to a rat in its cell
Forged delusions, lidless projector
Purgatory bound through this, a stint in hell
Outward embodiment shown as a spectre
Wilted flowering of a southern belle
Bedpost batters, it earns too deep a notch
Piggies arrive too late, they smell of scotch.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
N man kan ook net soveel vat.
Of kan hy meer?
Stof vergader in my kern
My bene toe onder n wit sy net.
N hartklop van gewigte wat val,
My teen die bed vasdruk.
Elke versreël eindig met n punt.
Elke strofe sonder rym.
Dit is nie n gedig nie,
So hoekom hou ek aan met skryf.
In n amper-liefdesbrief:
N deuntjie sonder noot.
*** okal die besonderse seer.
In my antwoord wil ek skree.
Ek stagneer jou meer,
maar stilstand is my dood.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
To Whom it May Concern,
My blood begins to burn
and I’m compelled to spurn
the current plans to turn
our mascot to a worm.
The members from my firm
cannot stay taciturn
when our alumni learn
that strangers overturned
the past we had governed
because they’re all stubborn,
seeking to be modern
and spread, exploit and churn
their folly and their germs.
I urge you to discern
the consequence you’ll earn
unless you can confirm
our legacy long-term.
We will not adjourn
until it’s reaffirmed
that history is stern
and keeps our old pattern.
If you do not concur
and submit to our terms,
then surely you will yearn
for courtesy interns
as funding will downturn
and we will watch you squirm
like spiders in an urn
at the point of no return.
Sincerely, Dr. Kern
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 12:37 PM UTC
Joseph Kern had never seen The Starry Night,
Had he been there, the parsonage across
Van Gogh’s memory, leading to Arles or somewhere else,
Had he been there, he could have thrown the pebbles he
Collected that flew through his window
In the afternoons he eavesdropped.
I like to think that Joseph Kern has seen The Starry Night
While somebody played the
Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Major, BWV 1042: II. Adagio
I like to imagine him amongst the thickly applied whorls of paint,
I like him across the English Channel, waiting with one of
Rita’s puppies, echoing the sky-
Not as it looks but how as it feels.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
wieder entreisst ein sturm
den dingen ihren sinn
wieder entledigt die hülle
sich seinem kern
und wieder fällt wie graues flieder
ein tiefer schleier ab
und streicht und beisst das gefieder
bis der schwere es unterlag
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
dead what's it ?
inside the clasped lid
of never to part darkness
inching each breath
presses
pressing
with each breath
towards that titanic chasm
(into which leaps
every humdrum
scintillating eruption
of drab being)
I cannot imagine
anything more absurd than
perhaps ******* or sitting
outside on the pale veranda
of a minute café
tucked into the
silent crease of
a dying city
the light stroking
carelessly the **** soil
boils
with extremely sleepy
afternoon
every where–
and occasionally
a child
can be heard
murdering silence
with its long shriek
of rapid youth–
i wonder and play.
my hands neatly in the comely foil.
i bend and kern
each brilliantly lashed
marvel of coalesced laughter–
a tiny poem is sitting
slant wise their
across thighs
with deliberate health
of constant ***
there is a mountain hurled
studiously *****
aggressively swept
by moonshadow
and nightdust: (amongst the reeds
a tired frog
is lilting
across the ether
its ancient song ) I wonder,
can you hear it to
ever think
upon the frail note
of its enormous throat
that to live is to die
constantly as–
a truck turns south
into the friscalating
dusklight its shadow
is minute;
and how can it
the insane probability
that we naked forevers
might suddenly be
in each distilled
anthem of terrible life,
the brute
the heap
of chaff
off from the stock
reaped by unthinkable hands
(but i think and i wonder
and my hands play amongst the
cool beds of immortal rivers
endless coils of blinding self
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Mag ik bijschuiven,
ook eens proberen,
naar je wuiven
wanneer onze vluchten elkaar scheren?
Wil je me kennen, leren,
temmen, verwennen, verweren
en remmen wanneer nodig?
Zal je me beschermen in afgesproken termen?
Mag het dat de cirkel verder glijdt,
dichter bij de kern, tot de dood ons scheidt
of tot we 'het is genoeg geweest' uitkermen.
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC