pmcmanus 08:03 raynes park uk thanks john cage
Edmonton Canada 07:50
BLOOD OF A POET [Jean Cocteau's]
Bouche de la statue,
lessons de vol.
One runs the risk
of becoming one himself.
Dargelos was the cock
of the walk.
Fist-blow was a snowball,
ainsi, at the heart,
profanation de la host,
of the nocturnal figure.
tedium of immortality.
Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD USA / 10-15 (12:08 PM)
sausage and onions
was today's lunch
the andouillette is
composed of cow's
innards in a trans
parent skin that
spill out when you knife
or fork it a
poem is more like
onion erect on
its stem plate with
(like thoughts) in season
flowers & seeds
that sprout from its tip
rolling through all
in onion-shaped drops
i will not move my
onions said grant so
if you know your
onions so rich in
(theyre saving your skin)
ponder their worth
these layers of light
wrapped round a void
mine eyes smell onions
(hearts of the earth)
I shall weep anon
sorrow & mirth
mixing in droplets
falling & gone
Martin Walker~ Lagorce, post-prandial
this morning still hours before the storm moon moon basking large bright spinning beyond finger's reach-- and I know I know more now but know no better-- what's seen is merely softened gloss past shifting yes every atom down our shining length was once grouped elsewhere with other shining atoms down other shining lengths
5:35 a.m.(EST) ,West Irondequoit, New York, United States
I cannot remember because I was there
I can go back there and from here talk to you
and I can go to when I was reading about T.
and remember what I read and resume
at present the substance of past with swift
dislocating movements while sitting still
If I want to relate of here I have to get out
and move to a staring posture which is not now
indefinite and atemporal when the wind brings
me back and I repeat _the wind brings me back_
and type it
Anny Ballardini - 11.28pm
a result possibly
of global warming
aka the goldcrest
is beginning to
settle in iceland
according to the paper
excellent news since
it thrives on the
pine weevil and
given time may
possibly restore the
colour of my pines
Árni Ibsen hafnarfjördur iceland 8:50 pm
on her left
as her nipple,
as her organdy dress,
and pierced by an arrow
that could be the hook
for whatever fish. Try
not to look
at it, she says, try
not to touch it.
Later she tells me that she wears her heart
to keep her students focused
on what she has to teach them.
Mark Weiss, USA
to her she is
"I'm likin' this
*Dirty Vegas* CD--
O ya kno--"
"Nice kinda Pink
Cerulean zish +
more beat o hey!
street but yeah, plush--
to try out
gentling a new velvet
like patting chestnut
horses & few words
or (all six) walls--
don't have to be
I want to
good mood it.
In a nice low flo
& me I'm O walking in button
on asphalt crumbs
so after two
random beginnings of hubcap shoutout
no doubt Victorian
is a spray in a deodorizing manufactury
somewhere past the cease-
less vanilla traffic
to Omigod Arlington
I've just had Andrew Graham-Dixon on the phone,
droning on and on about how Alice Rawsthorn
was chosen to take part in the discussion
about the Turner Prize at Tate Britain
rather than him. 'And that bloody Tim Marlow...'
he blabs on (he's the guy doing the interview).
I thought it the prerogative of the artist
to be such a self-centred egotist
not that blood munching parasitic
insect, the bloody art critic.
Jeeeesus! I only became a conceptual
artist so that I could play my own oedipal
fantasies out in public. Take my, 'Mummy, mummy,
why don't you look at me?' (Various crash-test dummies
in a wide range of sexual positions.) Really,
that was just my way of saying: 'Me, me, me!'
What's the point of putting myself on the line
if some bloke with a smart suit, a PhD and a fine
way of talking to camera is going steal
the limelight from yours truly by the way he deals
with (my) awkward subject matter
through his own erudite & witty chatter.
Damn your eyes, Marlow, Dixon, Robert Hughes,
poking your noses into my own self-abuse!
Anton Brassiere, UK
Our Trash Their Treasure
In New Zealand they call it
the grass verge, and I still smile at
the Aussie term nature strip.
Time just now for the council's
kerbside hard waste collection,
when the mighty cruncher comes.
Everyone but us is clearing
houses and sheds of broken bunks,
last generation white-goods,
defunct tv.s and fax machines,
children's furniture outgrown,
lumpen lamp-shades, grotty garden gear.
Could they ever have loved these things?
Clapped-out vehicles with trailers
bring scavengers from poorer suburbs.
They're welcome, provided they're not noisy
our trash their treasure. Knowing
my hard-up friend's requirements,
I nearly pounced on my neighbour's
discarded bright-blue drop-side cot.
It vanished before dusk. I've seen the cruncher
four streets away, strong gloved men feeding it.
It hurts to see last decade's ruined patio chairs
vanishing between the giant jaws.
I can't bear to throw ours out.
I never loved them but they seem
still to bear our shadows.
Max Richards, North Balwyn, Melbourne 6.55 am Wednesday 15 October 2003
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.
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