she lifts the white cup/ a surreptitious smile/how does murder relate/to flower arranging…
nonchalant style – just deliver the goods/ oh baby why do I miss you like I do/ right. bearded. snowman, scarecrow or blackbird it peers into the house/sucks out colours memory collections of elvis hardcore hillbilly the sex pistols jason and the scorchers the original fuzzy dice/ was that great or what? how the brain still rinses carrots under the tap. happy to exchange bawdy views on life sex juxtaposing words/pickle/toothpaste. alarming. warm-up band personality eyes sideways from mild to wild so how old are you: the age of the flower blossom. world vision bubble tea opt out of paying more not opt in. you, devil-furred, asleep on a quilted pillow book/wordless as a pun of white and yellow daises/shadows on the inside/looking out/proud and scared/ think of it as liquid or prose.
From Grant D. Savage, this photograph (also on the haikukado.wordpress.com blog as a shahai) and a poem from a lyric series:
black swan, a gathered darkness, upon the lake
tarnished silver … the feathers once so white
… a shimmering vision, veiled to sight
… silver memory … pale in its wake
darker still the night, the bird floats unseen
curved neck across wings, love’s ebbing, into sleep
disturbed by sighs, wings unfold, webbing the deep
water, and light on water, and waking, on dreams
hold still, don’t breathe, the swim of ripples
will calm itself … into the moon … and soon
as the white serpent-neck, of a crescent swan
become your psyche, and complete, the circle
of the god’s sleep; as sleep’s feather caress
wakes into your arms, and perfect, stillness
From the Vehicule Press blog: Sunday Poem April 29, 2012, a great poem for today by Susan Gillis:
Yesterday I burned the toast
so I went down to the rapids.
It was not a bright morning.
Close to shore a small twig
spun on an eddy. The eddy
was frilled like a doily, and seethed.
The twig was helpless to go anywhere
except around and around.
On the horizon plumes of smoke
rose like poplar trees. There was
the sun, punched into the sky
like the sky’s navel. The river,
pricked and lifted by windhooks.
Mist puffing up, the sky black then white.
Columns of air I could have walked
like pathways to waiting jets,
walked into the skyhold. I’m telling you:
then the river reared up like a dragon,
scales flapping, the sun, smoke,
the far faint islands, all
collapsed in the froth of its lashing.
I had never been so small,
atomic. I was tossed. I have to
say “maelstrom.” I wanted out.
I wanted time to turn back.
When I felt the ground again I was
shaking. It seemed I could reach
in any direction and touch the opposite
shore, the islands, the mist and smoke.
The gaps among things had closed.
I’m telling you this because I have not
been able to separate them, and now
all wounds are nothing, are blips,
leaf-toss. Nothing resists.
When I leave, understand, I will not be gone.
From the chapbook Twenty Views of the Lachine Rapids (Gaspereau, 2012) by Susan Gillis.
A quote from Allen Ginsberg: (But) Empty Mirror is like a good first book, like scratchings, little notations, trying to get some little active line. Not trying to get, but trying to collect out of the things I’d actually written already, sort of skimming off my journals, just a few pieces that were active, a few little realistic notes.