The Moon in June
From the Geelong Road we see a vast moon
in a sexy scarf monitoring
the Altona oil refinery and its tall flame.
From the Westgate Bridge we see the moon
above Station Pier presiding over
the safe loading of the night ferry to Tasmania.
From the Bolte Bridge the gilded moon,
elusive good-luck medallion,
is skirting the casino towers at Crown.
From Alexandra Parade we see the moon
over housing commission
blocks supervising the encounters
of addicted persons and their dealers
near the North Richmond
community health centre.
From the Eastern Freeway the moon
is beaming on the sprawling suburban
fortresses of supporters of law and order.
At Harp Junction the moon is benign
over Dunnings the old wood merchants, and
stands reflectingly over the shiny new police station
currently under investigation
for entrenched corruption,
and over the quiet East Kew home?
of the police informer
who with his wife recently died under
their executioner's revolver.
And then we're home. Light the fire,
bless Mr Dining's red-gum delivery,
drop the blinds, shut out the moon.
7.20 am Wednesday June 9, 2004
North Balwyn, Melbourne
'You'll Come To Love Your Shadow' Snapshot
Now let us see:
a snapshot needs
focus - perhaps even
depth of perception.
A snapshot may have
an innocent informal air,
a casual perspective
on things momentary.
A snapshot is not
slingshot or snipper's
bullet, although in the hands
of a PI it can be lethal.
Mostly, a snapshot is
definition. No tripod
or double entendre:
just aim and shoot,
amateur and free,
casual comment on
a causal interest.
Then, let it lie.
Time will play
its own tricks ...
the frame, stories
Steady now. Smile.
Say 'cheese'. Damn -
my shadow's in
the frame again.
Andrew Burke, Perth WA
she eagerly awaited
the proofs of
her next novel a
mammoth science fantasy
'Shifting Sands Of Time'
it finally arrived
she opened the
brown paper parcel
glossy cover on it
glowed shone out
'Shitting Sons Of Thine'
she glumly realised
that there would be
probably quite a
lot of editing
raynes park uk
something like that blue
cloud, thunder rolling
through our valley, hail
in the flower beds, or this
lukewarm tea in the Chinese
mug on the brass table --
something like this sun
or this gnat on the page,
scents of solomon seal
and cigarette smoke entwining
in the garden, wind rustling
the birches --
something like the neighbor's
dog barking at the noisy pickup
and rap music from a radio,
somewhere -- black pavement
gleaming after rain, something
like that -- this solitary life
back and again
that shadow in the frame
down on the portrayed cave
whispering behind your back
clearly seen in front
or sliding sideways
or preceding somewhere
projections of many
slammed against the marble
a fountain inside falling
hyper sensitized hyper viper
the tide of outgoing students
rafting for better notes
in your brain cells
to the hands of a colleague:
_How much better I am_ she says
to the devastating force
of neighboring uncivilized drains
_money_ call out most
this June in the heat of hell
* with a thanks to A. Burke for his shadow in the frame which was decontextualized and brought somewhere else.
Anny Ballardini, Bozen, Italy
such a small dark
mess / age of
dotting the bright page
in a slow arc
across that reflective
glow the eyes
can't apprehend alone
a sign then
&now a sign
that so small
a defect drains
some light from
the sense of
Edmonton 19:30 Wednesday June 9 2004
MORNING HAS BROKEN all previous records
for rosy effulgence, casts rays
across a broad spectrum, warming
cockles and muscles alike.
Picture brave boys in soviet
realist poses, caught on the yellow
spokes of the sun. It's warm
too where he has gone, into eccentric
orbit around another, self-swallowing, star.
Dominic Fox, Leicester, UK
OF GABRIEL OROZCO
[via Juan Carlos Martin]OF GABRIEL OROZCO
First time I came to work,
great joy to learn how to
beautiful accidents / surprising
Look at this film. Again
offended, and took that piece as a sign of arrogance.
Residual: the remains of an action,
old &worn with what looks new.
Convince, but example compels.
Of beginnings appeals to me.
OF GABRIEL OROZCO
Fragments of things they have found.
Goes down, and it turns, and again it holds,
Benefits some and takes away from others.
Represent Mexico but not that's been promoted.
I think I am part of
like that--The Penske Picker.
One can change the world with an apparently small gesture;
result is going to be interesting.
Of choosing--it ceases to be trash.
Zoom in. I like to date them.
Create a style: because then you are trying to do style,
on the roof of a building in Rotterdam.
This work was instigated by the experience of attending a poetry reading by the Hirshhorn Museum curator Phyllis Rosenzweig in which she read her poem-in-progress on Gabriel Orozco. That in turn led me to attend the film on Orozco by Juan Carlos Martin when it was screened at the National Gallery of Art months ago, without any connection to the forthcoming show at the Hirshhorn.
Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD US / 6-9-04 (9:51 AM) *** THE ROSE GARDEN
(after R. W. Reagan, 1911-2004, in memory of the Rose Garden Martyrs)
The Legend on an Icon
"In the early morning hours of November 16, 1989, government troops forced their way into the Jesuit residence of the Central American University in San Salvador and brutally murdered six priests and two women. 75,000 others had already been killed in El Salvador's civil war and while each death was equally tragic, these eight murders immediately took on special symbolic importance. Shot in the head with M16s at close range, their brains had been blown out of their skulls. It was as if the army had wanted to wipe out the intellectual life of their country, trampling on all that the university and western civilization represented."
There is a rose garden at Universidad Jose Simeon Caņas,
San Salvador's Jesuit university.
It is a place to rest the eyes, collect the spirit,
perhaps--no, surely in this place--a space for prayer.
Perhaps, after all these years, it is so again.
Who Knelt in This Garden?
Six priests, scholars, trained
as the Jesuits have always done,
to think critically, even when
the result is danger, theological,
or to ones life.
Two women, one (Celina) only 15, daughter
of Elba the housekeeper.
People can leer: "Housekeeper, yeah right."
Does a hollow-point bullet
care about chastity?
It has its own chastening effect.
When you are shot through the back of the head,
when your brains are splattered among the roses,
it is the ultimate absolution
and the ultimate sin.
Who Was Not There
Jon Sobrino, priest and Jesuit,
also on the Army's short list,
but on that night away from the University:
become Ishmael, escaped alone to tell thee,
a bony pointing finger
haunted to a fury by the murder of his
friends, his community,
finding perhaps the seed of forgiveness.
Who Will Answer?
The Army of El Salvador said
it was the Communists.
They probably said this when
Archbishop Oscar Romero was shot
at the altar in a hospital chapel
while saying Mass:
"The Communists got him,
but we are true Catholics."
By now this joke is so tired
that only the large portion
of the American population
that has a "Duh" balloon over its head
is stupid enough to believe it.
By the night of the slaughter
Reagan is gone from office.
But he built this nightmare country,
he held power while the 75,000
Salvadorians preceded the eight.
They ended up Disappeared
in the city dump of El Playon,
scented with Eau de Buchenwald.
Reagan cannot escape:
from his hands the money poured
into Salvador to supply an army
that did not buy its M16s from
the back pages of Soldier of Fortune.
In a field of roses, six men, two women,
shot in the back of the head at close range.
The term is Sophiacide, the murder of Wisdom.
Wisdom is telling the truth of what one sees.
Wisdom is naming, wisdom is
not letting these names be lost.
Wisdom is pointing the bony finger
at the smiling drawling orator
cowboy hero (yee-ha)
and seeing justice: that for these
eight who lost their brains in an instant
in the University's rose garden,
who lost their brains to protect
the reign of capitalism, pietism,
shit in the streets,
daughters whoring to feed their families,
his own brain was forfeit,
he owed 10 years losing it.
Maybe at the end he could sense the
quid pro quo exacted on him as
he exacted it upon many.
Maybe he heard the voice of his inner creature,
maybe he saw at last that
the thorns that sprang forth that night
in the Caņas rose garden stuck in
his heart, tore out his mind,
but live in our memories.
Watching the live feed
of those filing past
the flag-draped casket
of former President Reagan
I can't help seeing--
superimposed on each
of those paying respects--
reasons I regret he
ever took office: * those
who died of TB in Chaguitillo;
* the homeless begging in
cheese lines; * bleated about
family values, ignoring his own
children; * busting unions; *
declared war on the poor;
* brought starvation back to
America, so every millionaire
could rack up another million;
* condoned the maniac
* Antonin Scalia; and
on and on, each one filing
past, paying our last
-- Gerald Schwartz
9 June 2004, 11:30 am
west Irondequoit, New York, United States
I am not a river.
I am not time.
I am a body in time that is,
in time that is not.
The river flows.
The blood in my body flows.
I am not a river.
The blood in my body flows.
There is time.
There is no time.
The blood in my body flows.
Time demurs. It waits.
The blood in my body flows
Sunday, June 13, 2004
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 (firstname.lastname@example.org), while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon (email@example.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.