All copyright © 2004 remains with the authors.
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Snapshots
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Red Wheelbarrow
Desire Out of desire no, within desire, during desire, and all its ways. Which ways? fulfilled desire, its smile, and wry effects; the happenstance of its consummation, the rule of its slippery steps, the relief and its sanguinity. Its ache and its final surcease when emotion is motion and the smile turns to sleep. Harriet Zinnes NYC, USA Big Dreams she wants butterflys and a window and maybe a shelf with a vase of flowers painted on the wall, above her sink, in her small kitchen space with a table and two chairs her room is a pink zoo for soft fuzzy animals frilly, fluffy, comfy and nice her small white bed, in the corner, with pillows of big dreams he wants sugar cubes, carrots and apples, small treats for Chauncey he wants to ride in the wind with his new helmet and riding boots, big enough for his toes to wiggle he has dreams to fish, to ski, to run, jump, climb and sail the seas he wants to ride in the big arena ~ outside with butterflies and trees Deborah Russell, Baltimore, Maryland - USA 12:02 am, Wednesday's agenda (grandchildren) fuzz at slant cloud grain and last night's stupidity tracing down I wish I was clearer I wish I was not myself a time of blankets on morning scarving gloving wintering clear as cold That I was clearer That I was not so cold sky lifts dazzle no rain and this day's ache letting down Wish I was not That I was Jill Jones Surry Hills, Sydney, 2.35pm SUR WILLIAM KLEIN seeing people you don't see anywhere else. Under a policeman in a parade roloflex woman in the crowd like a soviet realist . . . Like a kid riding on a bike I am a fashion photographer, anti-chic and absurdist my . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD USA / 7-27, 7-28, 7-29, & 7-30 (1:31 AM) Wednesday! emails arrive pouring in full of wild snapshots daunting! terrifying! and Inside he sits at computer hunting for an idea for a poem and Outside her cat hunting for a moth small moth her cat resembles a statue 'Heroic Cat' all tense concentrated slightest movement tip of tail skillfully steeling himself ready to pounce! but cheerily unaware moth flits away and cat collapses dissappointed devastated exhausted saunters in he and cat sit down to have a drink together man coffee cat milk brothers. patrick mc manus 7am,raynes park ,uk Imitations of Immortality (Some Wordsworthian Thoughts) Yea oft, when on the bog I sit In vacant or in pensive mood, I relax my inward eye and shit. That is the bliss of solitude; And then my arse with pleasure fills, With pebbled-dashed spumatic thrills. It's the nearest thing, I'd say, To sex I'll get this Wednesday. Each time is like a little death, A gasp between gritted teeth And a pinking of the cheeks. It is a releasing and a letting go, Like an arrow's flight when the archer sets down his bow. Out of sight though full of heart, Deny not the toilet's art. And do not fret the bowl's not clean: This simple truth did Anton glean. Anton Brassiere Weds 7.45 GMT Sun-tanned feet - open windows - day-light rolling precipitously in-on- plunged into, when you wake up - the freezer - one-two-three-four-five ice-cubes in the coffee mug - shorts - T-shirt - almost no tel. calls - no fixed appointments - the thin silver chain around your neck makes you sweat - joyous fresh water gurgling and gurgling - thoughts find their way as planets wish breathe your luxurious holiday and enlarge every moment of it anny ballardini - bozen - 5.48pm I don't want to write about today don't want a snapshot to remember the gloom the rain and last nights hangover or the packing Today is too much like Wednesday Jim Bennett 7.54 a.m. An end-of-July cinquain snapshot from New York--- Flip-flops are back. Garbage smell pesters the beach and on her bod a tankini in Gap black. Kathleen Ossip snapshot haiku: wake up sunup slow moving as heat seeps into the mind and the day noise about noise as someone promotes a concert elsewhere heating up Douglas Barbour Edmonton, Canada, 08:50 Snapshot: What My Mother Sees She casts a weather eye: Black over there. Might rain. or squints at the Daily Mirror, sizing up Saddam, his dead sons. Later, her look lights on Jude's pots - Is that a penstemon? and the little birds quarrelling over peanuts. Or she just sits and stares. It always comes back to the weather: dark approaching clouds v. sailor blue, the way it must look from up on deck at 84, to a knocked about, wind-blown, gnarly, sharp-eyed, jagged old salt. Norton Hodges Oakham, Rutland UK 9:45 a.m. There once was a fellow named Fox who thought so far out of his box that the surf-happy slob quit his programming job for another, which totally rocks. (A fellow more full of conceit than this Fox you're unlikely to meet: he rates himself highly enough to date Kylie then dump her, for someone more l33t). * * * "l33t": l33t-speak for "elite". Popular usage amongst haxor-d00dz, a.k.a. script kiddies. script kiddie: teenaged (or younger!) exploiter of buffer overrun-based security vulnerabilities in Microsoft server products. Dominic Fox Leicester, UK i'm still in the process of packing of unpacking of seeking then finding and losing again for weeks i have missed wednesdays with far flung friends having no time for even a couple of lines the lost scrap of paper with a melody the lost internet connection correspondance interrupted iiiiii'mmmmm baaaccccckkkkk Sláinte Deborah now on Grafton Ave Newark 07104 6:15 pm It's a sense of decorum causes us to divide the vegetables * Left to right right to left she rubs her nose. * Away from home and other bteeth wsill eat my tomatoes. * Almost the white of the oleander just a hint of green but nonetheless becomes invisible when it folds its wings. Something here, I guess it guesses, would eat a butterfly. * A scant rain, discrete drops, a hammer-blow to a hummingbird. * The second generation of flowers on my night-blooming cereus wait for dark, a flower a night, and between its ridges tiny snails suck for nutriment. Mark Weiss San Diego, USA NOTHING A day of not procrastination but of nothing, dryness, one of my frequent strolls into the Desert. So not to get grandiose: I was not tempted by the allure of Principalities and Powers, I was not shown women waved in my face as they've been before, I was not even overloaded by work. I was content. I slept for the first time in two weeks. Do I, I wonder, need irritation to write? A finger upraised by another driver, an argument with my S.O., having to clean up cat puke at 6:15 AM? None of this. How do people with nothing to bitch about lead creative lives? Do I lead a creative life even when I'm bitching about something? I want to solve...
The one I can't solve becomes the poetry, what someone called the argument with oneself. I think. Kenneth Wolman USA SNAPSHOT 14 in the way those skewed namesakes Georg and Igor and Jorge too are farmers in essence separately caring for their bountiful lands tending the earth gathering harvest unwitting brothers in arms yet severed yet split by languages separated through time I am severed in time between languages caught between the said and the unsaid the sayable and the unsayable the lived and the yet to be the text and the assumed undertext awaiting to hear my lookout yelling land land a new found land a new sound land my lieu mound land you hound land where all's said and yet said again a gainsay land a see-saw land a twofold land three fold (even) land where all's found yet keep searching till it's you found land all over again your very own new found land where a commune is called Georg and Igor and Jorge pay him a visit sometimes and their spirited stories and sensitive laughter fill the forest making the field grow [Note: by happy chance 'fold' is a proper word in Icelandic too where it means earth'] Árni Ibsen Around midnight Hafnarfjördur Iceland Poetryetc is a listserv relating to poetry and poetics which provides a forum for poets to debate their critical and creative work. The list has over the years run a number of projects for its members, of which Snapshots has been the most enduring. Every Wednesday, Poetryetc members were invited to post short poems on any subject or in any form they chose. The idea was to make a poetic collage of instamatic “snaps” of that day that reflected the international membership of the list. The project has generated an astounding number of poems. The first two runs, of six weeks each, and the first ten weeks of the third run, are archived at Wild Honey Press www.wildhoneypress.com under Poetryetc Project. The rest - amounting in all to a run of a year - are archived here. Poetryetc, like its affiliate Salt Publishing (http://www.saltpublishing.com), was founded by Australian poet John Kinsella. Salt is managed by Christopher Hamilton-Emery (cemery@saltpublishing.com), while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon (ajcroggon@bigpond.com). Poetryetc is now archived at http://www.jiscmail.ac.uk/lists/poetryetc.html. and anyone interested can join from that url. To contact the listowner: Alison Croggon These pages are designed, maintained, and hosted by Rebecca Seiferle, the Editor of The Drunken Boat. To email. 
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