All copyright © 2003 remains with the authors.
All copyright © 2004 remains with the authors.



Snapshots
10/15/03






green rim
plate spring
onion
chili
cast here
binding
tongue burn
that I
miss in
the line
burden
risk frag-
ment track
over
road air
sweetness
and smoke
glass of
tea slight
lemon
taste on
tongue hold-
ing up
the day

Jill Jones, 2.15pm, Sydney

***


SNAPSHOT





pmcmanus 08:03 raynes park uk thanks john cage

***


last night
that woman
read new

poems from
poems she
read through

their first
lines to
take them

elsewhere in
to her
own heart

land of
eccentric turns
of phrase

and choice
her family
will not

comprehend they
pray they
must resist

the turn
to every
freedom walk

she takes
through words
and life

Douglas Barbour
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.
End elegance:
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
a leaf-folded
onion erect on
its stem plate with
(like thoughts) in season
flowers & seeds
that sprout from its tip
procreating
allium cepa
sweet syllables
evoking seepage
rolling through all
in onion-shaped drops
i will not move my
army without
onions said grant so
if you know your
onions so rich in
pure quercitin
(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
Gerald Schwartz

***


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
Bozen, Italy

***


SNAPSHOT 25

a result possibly
of global warming
regulus regulus
aka the goldcrest
is beginning to
settle in iceland
according to the paper
excellent news since
it thrives on the
invisible evil
pine weevil and
given time may
possibly restore the
colour of my pines

Árni Ibsen hafnarfjördur iceland 8:50 pm

***


THE LURE

1

She wears
her heart
on her left
breast, pink
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.

2

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--"
just sayin':

"Nice kinda Pink
Floyddy Brother
Cerulean zish +
more beat o hey!
street but yeah, plush--
unholy moss
to try out

gentling a new velvet
between notes
like patting chestnut
horses & few words
or (all six) walls--

an' ah
don't have to be
anywhere less'n
I want to
good mood it.

In a nice low flo
red dress.

Alot."

& me I'm O walking in button
downs

on asphalt crumbs
& ear
just
so after two
curbs,

random beginnings of hubcap shoutout
potholes
no doubt Victorian

is a spray in a deodorizing manufactury
mall
somewhere past the cease-
less vanilla traffic
on Cooper
Street's welcome

to Omigod Arlington
Texas US
Chris Murray
Dallas, TX
1137 p.m.


***


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.

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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