percent age scribbly gum

lost 33 percent age scribbly gum

we cut nature up. humour me, predict when caravans will fly; it’s a test, eggs laid between layers of old and new bark, the tracks of her gravid roaming revealed. words in wrong and senseless combinations, pacific plastic patch as big as texas; still the frantic crawl collide and crash headlong into the walls of the tract, head-butt into each other, push on past, stop, swerve a little, hit each other from behind. words beginning with /b/ in every language involve explosions, birth and loud noises, zigzag tracks. prey plankton, fish eggs, sea skaters, larvae of the scribbly gum moth. light flimsy flakes. tunnels whirl, accelerate and decelerate. scribbly gum moth, slang-worded as soon as she hits bark, the. gnomonicity by a percentage of pavement; self-similarity in upside-down scale. as in fractals the bark falls away– no practical obstacle now to the creation of an efficient index to all human knowledge, ideas and achievements―to the creation of a complete planetary memory.

if ‘nem’ were a size, what size would it be

small; small; little; little; little; little; little;
small; little; little; small; little; little; little; little;
little, of course; little; little; little; little; little; little; little; small;
small; little; little; medium small; small; small; little; little; little;
little; little (size of a mouse); little; little; little; little;
little, n implies negation; small; small; small but not tiny;
med-small; little; little; little; little; little; little, little, little; little;
little; little; little; little; small; small; little;
little; little; little; little; little; little
or maybe medium; medium small; med-small
or maybe
big; big; big; big; big,
neither, na, both

Found poem based on the work of Margaret Magnus,

(Photo:foramin, very very very small, maybe nem-sized.)

If you are interested:

Poetry Parnassus interactive map: a verse from each olympic nation…

Two poems, a longer one and one nem-sized:

Many of us know Rick Black as a haiku poet and publisher but here is a lyric poem from Before There Is Nowhere to Stand, an anthology of poems arising out of Israel / Palestine. Rick is a book artist and poet, and the founding editor of Turtle Light Press. He lived in Israel for six years, studying literature at Hebrew University and then working as a journalist in the Jerusalem bureau of the New York Times..


Candles are not yet
aglow like sapphires,
the braided challah is still uncut,
quiet beckons

and the last #18 bus
is packed.
People are returning from Mahane Yehuda,
the outdoor market of Jerusalem —
inhale the scents of cinnamon, cardamom and curry,
piled high in mounds,
the barrels of pickles, sour and half sour,
the pickled herring, creamed herring, matjes herring
and piles of fresh dates, smooth and sweet,
and chocolate ruggelach and babke, oval sesame rolls
challahs with raisins, and hot pita

and crowds shoving, bustling, hustling, bargaining, shouting, mobbing,
elbowing each other, shuffling along beneath the bare electric bulbs
suspended like the lights of the George Washington Bridge
above the ducans,
“Melafifon — 40 shekels.”
“Tut, tutim — fresh strawberries. Pilpale — peppers.”

Dressed in streimels, flowing robes, silk skirts, pushing
baby carriages, shlepping plastic shopping bags,
speaking a mélange of tongues — Hebrew, Arabic, French, English and German —
shoppers ebb and flow like waves rushing and receding
from shore,
from one merchant to another. They gather like flocks
of seagulls, then disperse past the green-leaved clumps
of garlic, bulbous clumps, dry, hard like the noses of passersby,
bright, shiny eggplants, globular. Go ahead,
imbibe the scent of fresh cut oranges, tongue the bits of halvah,
gently press the avocado skins and squeeze the tomatoes
at dusk on Shabbat,
and taste the loaves of challah woven into the prayer shawl
of our people’s history.

Emitting plumes of black diesel smoke
the bus leaves the market, stops at the Central Bus Station
and chugs up Mt. Herzl into the ethereal, blood-soaked air
of Jerusalem
and there —
in the fading, tarnished light descending
on the city and the Jerusalem pines —
just past Yad Vashem —
the bus, its red and white sides gleaming,
clinging to the hill stubbornly
and climbing it like bougainvillea,
the bus explodes:
skewering flesh, shattering glass, shrieking in the quiescent streets,
and sobbing,
overturned like a beetle
helpless, writhing, unsilent

like a crushed violin
its mangled strings
shrieking in the sky
and the ambulances wail
“Holy, holy, holy!”

and the pines
in the golden, Sabbath sunlight,
(for candles will soon be lit),

glow ineffably, more beautiful
than ever,

and God remains
in his own way, silent.

We are near Ein Kerem,
Ein keloheinu, ein, ein, ein…
There is no
like our God.

There is no
like our king.
There is no
like our redeemer.”

And the angels cry
and the ambulances wail
and survivors lie on the pavement, wounded,
having fallen back down
in the Vitebsk street,

a violin’s strings
broken. But, if you listen
perhaps you’ll hear wind
in the pines,
perhaps you’ll see
starlight glisten
off shattered glass,
and off bougainvillea petals
that are still climbing,
reaching up

in prayer.


New Rooms

By Kay Ryan

The mind must
set itself up
wherever it goes
and it would be
most convenient
to impose its
old rooms—just
tack them up
like an interior
tent. Oh but
the new holes
aren’t where
the windows

Source: Poetry (July/August 2012).

Please leave comments! About anything!

[b, d, g, p, t, k]

lost 32 [b, d, g, p, t, k]

in fact, all words sound like what they mean and if she resembles a possum, that rememberable thing that w. wordsworth mentions in the preludes, and is sniffting around my real estate agent’s kitchen, she may be a possum. one leaf will move in. hasten then sir/madam to e-bay for the ten-tonne metal bridge thieves took yesterday, (will melt down), plastic bags fluttering as if filled with wind, impatient futurists, and/or billions of wicked thoughts. on water, in air, a different direction from another, pronounce the stopped consonant, block the flow of air through your mouth. is this my grandfather? i have made this passage longer; i don’t have time to make it shorter. thank you pascal, but if leaves fall from a tree, or an open metal flute is made to sound an octave above its length, think midpoint. they, understood, kneel backwards on the bus, inspect a larger p bound in sturdy maroon as was meant to be. again i recall your mind suspended in a scene from a christmas globe, the snow ever slow-falling inside p,t,k (its tiny world).

Photo credit mine, with Carol A. Stephen’s new camera!


a type of building material piece of furniture like a lamp table a point a locus a site tree sap to remove tree sap for making syrup type of telescope a little hill just part of what we do casual in spanish clay material a mid-sized grass-covered valley between two knolls to be cool as in she’s got cass a gear found in swedish clocks a grandfather you’ve never known an attempt to seduce the proper name for a female to fish sediment in beer root beer ginger beer a warm earthy woman of middle years and ample proportions to take a picture furnished with excellency wealth prestige a sepia photograph is this my grandfather?

Thanks to Margo’s Magical letter Page, by Margot Magnus

Enough then of these confounding pieces, and on to a poem for the season that I’ve always liked: (I also like to rename this poem and read it as as It Is A Small Planet)

It Is a Small Plant
by William Carlos Williams

It is a small plant
delicately branched and
tapering conically
to a point, each branch
and the peak a wire for
green pods, blind lanterns
starting upward from
the stalk each way to
a pair of prickly edged blue
flowerets: it is her regard,
a little plant without leaves,
a finished thing guarding
its secret. Blue eyes—
but there are twenty looks
in one, alike as forty flowers
on twenty stems—Blue eyes
a little closed upon a wish
achieved and half lost again,
stemming back, garlanded
with green sacks of
satisfaction gone to seed,
back to a straight stem—if
one looks into you, trumpets—!
No. It is the pale hollow of
desire itself counting
over and over the moneys of
a stale achievement. Three
small lavender imploring tips
below and above them two
slender colored arrows
of disdain with anthers
between them and
at the edge of the goblet
a white lip, to drink from—!
And summer lifts her look
forty times over, forty times

Here is a poem by Jonathan Wells from his collection Train Dance. The statue called Echo lived in New York’s Central Park until recently.


White as x ray bone she rises through
The trees in stone as if she were sublime,
As if she knew what this grace was
And she was only nine, framed
Between her errands and her games.
Her nymph’s body surges underground
Not knowing what this buried love
Is for.
Beneath her neighbors play Frisbee
On the grass and strangers take her
Photograph. The final sun pours
Into her sealed eyes and mouth as though
She were the saint of radiant stillness
Who says this marble flesh is a prison
Stone yet the mind flies with
The confetti of birds, soars into
The beliefs of summer.
Silence succumbs to air and the blossoms
Sail down, the clocktower’s fretted hands
Notched against her ribs.
Questions flood her blood
And darkness, flee and then she’s gone,
Taken from our vanquished arms but
She still speaks in the autumn leaves,
In the furrowed bark, in the singsong
Of the childrens’ swings.

Jonathan Wells’s collection, Train Dance, will be published by Four Way Books in October. Photo and poem from: