yesterday I was sick as a dog
so I took all my asthma drugs and watched some tv
I don't usually watch tv because I find it too depressing
all this stuff I am supposed to buy
and those blow waved commentators ratcheting up the fear meter
cancer scares life threatening elevators terrorists &c
but anyway there I was pasted to the sofa
and I saw two programs with poets in them!
one was all about counter-terrorism in Yemen
a handsome poet whose name I didn't write down went out
to tribal villages with his ceremonial knife in his belt
and in a long room would speak his poems to about forty men
who would chew these mildly narcotic leaves
telling the true way of Islam
how it is a religion of peace and tolerance
and how killing people is not Islamic
this poet was a former army officer but was now a man of peace
and he was greatly honoured among the villagers
then I got embarrassed because the Australian journalist
was interviewing some boys in the Islamic school in Yemen
and all he would talk about was Al Qaida
so I switched and there was a program about The Last Poets
and how poetry was about Revolution
and Black Power and how poetry
saved at least one person's life
because it stopped this guy when he was about to drive a knife
into another person's heart because he was a gangster
anyway then they talked about rap and money
and how the whole thing had become corrupt
I was wondering when they were going to talk to Audre Lorde
but in both of these programs there was not one woman
mentioned or spoken to
and nobody seemed to think this was strange
or worth talking about
Alison Croggon, Williamstown, Victoria, 8.30am
More on Snoring
that as a man ages
snoring is normal (the drone
perhaps of fading testosterone?),
in women less so; her David now
voluntarily at bedtime puts on
a plastic patch across his nose.
Looks a bit odd but stops his snores.
My wife says she's off to the pharmacy
to get me one immediately.
I play up to them: OK, and later
I may even wear it to the theatre.
(Where a discreet snore may however stop
others from dropping off.)
But I imagine asking at the chemists' myself:
I want one for my wife,
her nose is quite small.
Oh, they'll say, one size fits all,
staring hard at my long strong nose
which when blown
has been likened to a foghorn.
By day I am a formalist uttering
inhibited formulations; at night
express myself from a deeper level
in open form.
9.15am Max Richards, North Balwyn, Melbourne
the knocking goes on over hours
a drum beating the day
at least I have no headache
someone twists a machine
it hums for a minute at a time
otherwise leaves wash
under the green sun
as processes inside me
tremble and stutter
how could you picture this?
as if capturing souls departing
on wax or an old glass photographic plate
sprites maybe in the garden
asking for rain like birds
or these hours are less deja vu
a badly developed snap
but within it still the traces
fibres of light material
a child prisoned in the green grey
room of sickness
where hours are long and gates
creak all the same
Jill Jones 4.30pm Wed 3 March Marrickville
I wearily prepare for it
or recklessly ignore it.
Tomorrow, my writers group. My turn
for morning tea. The leader woman
is a retired schoolmarm, and if I forget,
I'll shrink under her cultured voice.
So I have biscuits, rum truffles and milk.
And poems I want to read, but am afraid
will also be eaten, or
Wed Mar 3 22:14:08 WST 2004
invocation of dust
how it is that bone
as it often will
to tell me
of what is sundered
and what remains
West Irondequoit, New York, "United" States
Really important and again when you see
historical moment: the period of manifest . . .
Back so you can see how the comparisons work,
each of the Cantos, for purposes here
terrain: the most like Watkins' work,
hundred between 1983 & 1985.
My work--how to reconcile the beauty . . .
History paintings. Transcends
resonance in a way it otherwise might not
near military bases . . .
Extraordinary delight, & feel that water
project the equivalent
Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD US / 3-3-04 (10:43 AM)
I may have finished a series of 4 snapshots out of this photographer's words. Today's text is the third with the same title I've posted to the Snapshot Project. Next Wednesday I hope to present what appears to be the long-delayed conclusion of this serial poem.
What a week!
the body in tatters
Port au Prince
the flails of safe belief
the whips of scorn
no body left
'My God how the money flows in'
Edmonton 08:55 Wednesday March 3 2003
FIND HOME, MAKE HOME
Take things to heart about which no one cares.
Who cares if you feel homeless when there is a roof over your head?
Get over yourself.
Dennis Leary glares at you, whiner, snaps "Shut the fuck up!"
What are you? Not who, what.
To say "The heavens are silent" scratches at it.
Your spiritual self, assuming you have one
on its own, the world as the beehive you envisioned
1967 during an acid trip: everyone in little cells
of the comb, alone together.
It has not changed: today a bunch of people in a church basement
chanting the Our Father: wahoo whoopee,
look at me, I am spiritual.
We want conclusiveness. I do.
There isn't any. If you are lucky
one day leads to its successor
a dynasty of individual lives that ends
but you won't be here to see it.
Be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be: That's all folks!
Kenneth Wolman/Princeton, 3/3/04
card games while answering & doing phone calls
in need of an illusion of playing
which verges onto desperation
on the screen red follows black until you can't distinguish them
fast it has
to be in sedentary subdued moves
a day flowed by without surprises usual steps / reactions no teeth clenching
except for habitual tensions
no colors wonted speech no calls same things
difference resides within the ordinary behavior
Anny Ballardini - 8.25 pm - Bozen - South Tyrol - Italy
ah! warm breeze
by our standards
even though the sun's
a rather poor
dressed as spring
9:15 pm march 3 2004
her email message - re: your submittal ...
she substitutes the word "ruse" with muse in my poem
said she "knows" i must have meant
"sail" instead of sails
i'm thinking staple gun
but she might think it's a compliment
rhyme could be the way to go...
sticky, gooey rhyme - flypaper gooey or sticky sweet
sweet, she'll eat my words like donuts
Deborah Russell - 8:45pm
Baltimore, Maryland USA
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 (email@example.com), while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon (firstname.lastname@example.org). 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.