we talk about beasts in winter
or breasts for months in heat
but today's ions rattle the hinges
and wings belly under wind
sleeky clouds, white pointers
nothing holds when a sky streaks
wind eats up thought and spit
Jill Jones, Sydney, 5.00pm
First you're in a corner - soft and warm,
interesting pattern on the carpet,
could study it all day (after which there's
the skirting boards ), then someone
steams in and drags you out, maybe
your lover or your maiden aunt, leaving you
in the middle of the Axminster, awestruck,
blinded by the glory of an Osram bulb.
Norton Hodges, Oakham, Rutland UK ,17.09.03. 9:10 a.m.
The lizard licks the air
then darts to its crack -
large limbs loom & crunch -
the air of leggierezza
when the hubbub has passed.
There would be no pepper for Budapest, pesto in Bogota, no rutabagas in baggage. There are no words for rage, color for clear, seeds in bananas, and no sound in sleep. Consumed, I began cleaning; as a portrait of moments flicking out a drifting life, a lake, an edited reality skidding time upon our time until everything was cool, brilliant and bold; forms would curve careers as coffee urns flooding over with flavored antacids. While reading, there would be moments for a soundtrack and applause. There would be money hiding in roadway rest stops in those nothing corners wearing wool disillusionment socks keeping warm.
Geoffrey Gatza, Buffalo, NY 6:05AM
The Feral Pigeons at Auburn
Auburn! wasn't that the name
of Goldsmith's Deserted Village?
'Auburn, loveliest village of the plain.'
Forgetting it was all about decay,
some home-sick migrant
Irish land developer
hustling by the Yarra,
succumbed to his nostalgia
and named you Auburn.
Auburn, unlovely village
by the Yarra, Goldsmith
were he writing now might envy
patronised by the sorority
of the race-going community
who flock here to the shopping-
drag with three milliners in a row.
Millinery! millinery! millinery!
Auburn Road is such a plod
as I search for cheap dog-food
past edifices 'Erected
1891', and no wonder
my poor old feet feel tender,
and my ditto heart dejected:
my credit card's rejected.
And how so?
on a dog-food merchant's say-so:
please do not ask for credit
as a refusal may offend.
The cashless economy
stops short of the brothers' granary.
My admiring eyes dwell
on the well-fed pigeon squad,
twenty- or thirty-odd
that forever pertly patrol
the corner citadel
of Murphy Bros Grain Merchant
and bulk dog-food agent.
And so I'm lamely loitering
with ambivalent intent,
though Murphys' granary is full
while brilliant birds are pottering
and cooing and canoodling,
strutting the brick battlements
and the concrete nether regions.
O successfully scavenging pigeons
sustained by the Murphys' spilled
seed, spilled (o sons of Auburn)
on the ground, the barren ground
your hearts have not grown old.
No hungry generation
treads you down, you pigeon nation.
Away, away, my card and I
will delight some other merchant's eye.
Care to offer me a quotation?
11pm, 17 September 2003
Max Richards, Melbourne
too grey a morning
to think clear
beyond the snow
too early seen
I think I'll go
put on a parka
throw my hands in the air & whine
or an anorak
for the rain
now falling perhaps
Douglas Barbour, Edmonton Canada 08:23
a poetic mind
a white poem snaps
blind flames gather
a Phoenix of verbs
flip, snip, spin - leaves turn
Deborah Russell, 9-17-03 10:18 am
Do not add them to your memory
of word shapes.
Taste them. Taste them.
applique, embroidery, batik, pigment.
Do not swallow them.
Let the lips maneuver them.
Let them lie on the lips,
but do not bite them
Let them wallow wallow wallow.
The taste will be the surprise.
What will be swallowed
will be sound.
the memory of sound,
the unheard noise of sound.
Applique, embroidery, batik, pigment.
11:54 a m.
New York City
it is good to begin with poetry, water the garden, taste some
coffee, play a few notes on the flute, B sharp, G
the wild flowers
night you are
and long only in dreams leaning
against the black walnut tree you
hear my words World could we
wish for more?
3:20 am, West Irondequoit, New York, USA Gerald Schwartz
too tired -I say- to write a snapshot and anyhow who'd care,
mine isn't theory, or rare game, mane of -Ada or ardor
á rebours- that is how it should have to be due
from now to the start and then all the way through
to undo and redo and try and once
always without gain
the house demolished -rebuild- the book read
she is tired why should I make her read more
lack of lore in the dark - a bed - downtown
anny ballardini 10.30 pm - bozen, italy
Marianne Moore cut the line from her revision of "Poetry":
"Beyond all this fiddle."
I can intuit why: the lady,
when she wasn't at Mets games
or buying funny hats,
must have shopped at Jersey malls.
Monmouth County is all fiddle.
We await with almost excitement
the hurricane that probably will not come.
Some will be disappointed if it's only rain,
not the ewige vernichtung of a Cat5 killer storm.
My car needs a brake job.
The dentist botched my root canal
and tomorrow I shall give her a chance
to finish the job.
These are things of no moment.
Even now they are of no moment to me.
I browse displays of hammered dulcimers
and dream of the celestial sounds
that drown out the click of failing brakes
or the sickening whirr of the drill.
are you that one
of gravity's most
recording your one cricket self tonight as if I lived near
a field of green gone full amber
sleeves lightweight some other fabric not reminders
of wool necessity, how apple limbs will
droop to ground, autumn--
are you that one,
& comb-toothed legs,
walking off unreadable
longer nights as if new
to the drumming gulf-sky rains--
are you that one, toeing a course
along vacated garden mounds
potato, jicama beyond the warm
clear-wide-eyed, oh you!--
is it you?--
dressing up for a night
of out-right body cry, sing:
or somehow is all that still very north--
granted: daily moving closer,
we could not know
what code to make then kissed
instead for the lank of winter self
where you wedge or rest in the year's
lone hollow, cedar linger
scatterings on the loose
you in the shiny
anchor round of balance, wood stove,
its fourth magnificent, round weight of silver foot--
are you that one?
chris murray, Dallas TX, 18 Sept. 2003, 1:47 a.m.
darkness closing in
yet still so still
soft so soft now
we're wrapped in velvet
contracting discretely until
we're in its tight
grip as if inside
an old cold stone
september 17 - 11:30 p.m.
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.
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