|
Snapshots
|
Skinny-Dipping Recalled
SNAPSHOT snapping shut long shots last shots oh shit oh shat last calls last gasps keep focus hand steady closing time shutting down cameras could gather dust garner rust films mildew fall apart but maybe on an inspired sunny morning the odd potshot would be ok!! pmcmanus 08-17 raynes park london uk this shiver is an agreement self in weather let me at least understand still how to walk quietly maybe you remember that too how to raise a hand through that shifty window between seasons somehow cool under the soft tongue as in weeks to come winter begins its layers, holding them as dark pads in earlier and earlier licking our lids and curling up leaves ah, to stretch out inside subtle blankets of space maybe you remember that too instead of this shiver of panic how to move this creature along this load, this other big bird that will pull us out of here it will be relief hanging on clouds out on the world but how to walk softly here in this now Jill Jones, Wed 14 April 5.50pm, Surry Hills 'obdurate' is one word only for a face pretending strength behind a lectern turn ing away from what hand held fact a then and now so similar as the temperature here falls from spring as if as if that 'Fog' turned hard into snow the ground covered again whitely here 'the [fall] of war' blinding sight over and over again Douglas Barbour Edmonton 09:30 Wednesday April 14 2004 SUITCASE WITH SANDSTONE I've come home to a terraced house, and I've brought a pink marzipan castle with me. It fits inside my head, but won't fit into the space between these walls. I look out of the window straight onto the back of the opposite house; and I'm pushing cliffs, trees, caves, a sheer drop to the river valley, into the lane between. They won't go in. In spite of the deep gorge scoring it, the memory won't fold up, the trees bristle and get in the way. And there's no room for the birds, that I watched from above on the springs of thermals, with the sun on their backs. Here I've only the little birds at ground level, jackdaws and gulls on ridgepole and phonewire and a castle in the air inside my head. Joanna Boulter Darlington UK 6.50 pm 14 April The Tree Surgeon has pruned most of the branches, safety rope slung over one remaining limb. He is up there now, fifty feet above the village. He pulls his chainsaw to him, starts it, begins cutting himself down. Peter Howard 2004/04/14 13:15 the wheelie-bin sits on the pavement waiting all day for the bin-men who do not come i carry the phone around in my shirt pocket waiting all day for my calls to be returned the postman does not come till nearly one like an umbrella the willow tree hangs low over wilting daffodils grey day turns to grey evening Gerald England Hyde, UK 8pm Wednesday 14th April 2004 Maxine the wind blows down the plant on the balcony branches are hurt arms heavily folded on the floor a friend knocks down lofty walls - walls climb higher a Russian thimble on the desk with an elephant engraved some stones, iron, tiger eye - calcite, lighters, pens, selenite, papers, four agendas, Maxine is four days old sun outside and the winds blow and trees dance, it is dark it's almost night a silent night Anny Ballardini, Italy, 9.32 pm OBSTRUCT JORGEN [LETH] via Lars von Trier'sOccupied. Manually. Be shot in Cuba. Said it, "No set!" The first one, then, ruining it from the start. Understand in a few days -- can't see how you can. That was vicious of me. Jacket old Leth--film really on the ropes. Give therapist the cards. Ethics to the test. Not describing something not there. Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD US / 4-14-04 (4:52 PM) unfamiliar wind catching us cold a street we dont know your hand in my pocket for the warmth of red velvet Liz Kirby Glasgow 14th April 2004 22.20 one creamy daffodil scent of clematis goldfish spawning ~ rippling reflections on stone dozens of photos hoping for one perfect snapshot of this perfect day Sharon Brogan Salt-filled memories For Edith and John Sydenham Grandfather got sick of hiring Bullions’ boats. From a photograph gone to rust, he says, "all summer, the crowd took them at dawn"’ I can picture him standing around bailing his own, that fine piece of hardwood he rowed and baited in, exploding estuary and bay with a waist logic of anchor and chain. My grandmother stashed Sunday leftovers on the best plank, away from the sun and mop of wave. I reflect on her life, know nothing of his, only they grew closer in '32, fishing for hours until the moon paled over Saratoga, or the whiting skittered past the lighthouse to Box Head. He died there in the boat as the light twirled silver, as the rip deepened, as the bream paced his line, as the briny sea opened its mouth. I remember the lawn hanky at my Grandmother's nose, wondering how she faced the agony of oars. In khaki shorts, Wellington boots dressed for bagging worms, the snapper run, the point's salt-filled memory, she unravels the lines of her mouth. I turned with the food, with a hot cup of tea, I saw him slumped, asleep.’ In the burning bay, slightly sweating hair, my grandmother placed a consideration of sunstroke in her hands, moistened his curling lip, as if he was not yet gone. Helen Hagemann, Perth Wednesday, 14/4/04 JIFFYLUBE Ogle the pretty girls faces fixed in blank stares or the not so pretty or young cashier but with a smile that could melt the concrete that is your heart and stomach when you hear the damage the $29.95 oil change has become something ridiculous. Hunting World magazine filled with ads for overpriced outdoor gear articles on survival rifles because you might be out camping and have to shoot a drug dealer or take down a charging grizzly bear and you won't get a choice. Another day without choices you cannot afford to have the transmission fail the engine seize the car is hateful it is the means to your livelihood a weapon of survival outside nothing but a downpour Route 1 night and fog at noon steer the weapon back into traffic Kenneth Wolman/Princeton & Sea Bright, NJ/4-14-04 C'n'W for jen She said pooetry (that's how she said it) she said it was like - are you ready for this? - country'n'western. I had to laugh, Huh! No way! We're better than that! And then my car wouldn't start my dog died, and she left me. The point is life is so country'n'western some days. Andrew Burke, Perth, WA SNAPSHOT 51 it's next morning already i'm saying to myself you're feeling you're behind again thinking i'd better make it snappy writing a brief text that'll assume the guise of a poem like this day which seen from a window looks so like summer so bright so clear forever is visible but the wind betrays the disguise and i know a biting northerly is snapping at the buds and come afternoon the sun will be dimmed by dust loose soil brought to us by windy airmail from the interior but sitting down to write my trouser button snaps and i must sow it on again making the waist wider before anything else can happen árni ibsen first light april 15 2004 hafnarfjördur iceland A reaction to Deborah's poem...not a snap but written like a snap, fast enough so I could not think too hard about it. We are "condemned" to return to the same material over and over, or so I've heard. This is another take on something I described years ago. The Look For years I cannot say this because I also live with it the Fear my mother's eyes Passaic General Hospital in the Emergency Room to which I have been summoned the night of my 48th birthday looking into those eyes there is articulacy beyond the speech she has lost the acid tongue is gone sarcasm vanished removed finally stripped the eyes say everything knowledge that this is the end Fear burning outward into me who grew up afraid Fear of what is beyond the great Nullity of her belief but mercy that denies Nully even Fear removed coma for the last two days now the eyes shut only the ears open heeding me who tells her it is time for her to go. Ken Wolman/4-15-04 Early this morning my daughter phoned to ask, "When did your hair begin to turn grey?" I lied. After all, she is only thirty three. Deborah Russell, 04-15-04 Baltimore, Maryland USA 10 pm "Surf's up, dude" "What's that island called?" "Lundy plain, sign of rain." "So, just like it is everyday, then." Convex combe rippled hillside, long line of yellow gorse, sheep. Swallows dive and rise over tents. Franz Ferdinand was an Archduke, assassinated by a Serb at Sarajevo. That's right. It's where you go to ski. Waves reach ankle height a long curl of white stunted surf. Witches' tits, the life sucked out of them, infertile, male doctors scorning competition. Red gold stripes the grey sea. A fire. "Pressure treated wood doesn't burn well" A barbecue bench was, huh, barbecued. Cold nights, foot-pumps heaving testosterone into the glowing wood, oil drum glowing orange. A spliff is passed between mute singers. Krazy golf is mulled over, cheerleaders urge songs. Erskine Childers warns of a German invasion a gun-running protestant shot coming back from the pub one night. Rounders endlessly suggested. "He's given up farming, going to work as a rep for my father." Long walks along the sand, a blue kite diving and rising in the chill grey air. You bought me an ice-cream. "Lundy high, sign of dry." A spliff is passed amongst the mute whisperers. An AS400 forms the centrepiece of a European-wide network of XP-embedded thin clients. Todays mergers are engineering problems. Redolent wrecks and wounded eagles grace bars, lounge on bean bags. Loiter patterns of a bustard. Dr Zog's Sex Wax slipping somewhere between Widdecombe and Bell's Bay via Baja California. "Oh, you'll go a-waltzing Matilda with me." "Whatever." Roger Day 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. 
|