Saturday, April 30, 2005

been there, done that?

If artists once thought they could make one with the universe, what happened to that? Drown in the stars.
What one, what universe - the cop out, the cop out.
Scared of beauty and guts (oh verboten, verboten).
All around me, a strange kind of bitterness.
In the grid of language, what surprise!

star sonnet

thro' star catalogue numbers
we fly as guests
an extensive list
of rocks, and how they died

collected ink blasts
beliefs, quests, the lather
they say 'in the Stars'
broadcasts memory

the entire astro high
constellates its show
serving states of matter

it's an expensive game
3D sailing
through the Division

Monday, April 25, 2005

almost avoiding anzac day

down by the bay
trawl of airport light

tomorrow a school day
two-up and club noise

full moan groaning
a drink then

home via traffic
walking with night

a sunny day

Who couldn't resist this?
"Detailed book on how to have sex with any woman instanlty" from Reassessing G. Cuckold.

I am steadying my hand now after having gone all shivery.
The sun is out and it's a fine day here in the world.
Although I'm reassessing many things
every spelling error sparkels.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

the paper thang

Gosh, there's a lot of poetry books around. That paper thing still happens.

I love paper. I'm a stationer's delight. I thought of making my own little book, just for me and a mate or two, but my printer re-e-e-ally didn't like double-sided printing. I think there's too much humidity about.

Also think maybe I shouldn't make a book. Because there's too many books around, too many good ones.

beckett and tabios

Tom Beckett at e-x-c-h-a-n-g-e v-a-l-u-e-s has been busier than me. (See his comment below.) His latest interview is with ms chatelaine, ms hay(na)ku, ms very busy, Eileen Tabios.

Eileen talks of being attentive:

"I don’t think poetry begins (or ends) somewhere or sometime. I think poetry exists all around us and my job as a poet is to be attentive enough to recognize its facets. For me, this is the difference between a “poem” and “poetry.” A poem is a snapshot, a manifestation frozen in time. The poetry experience -- as in the engagement with any one poem -- continues beyond where the poem (if it’s a written manifestation) ends on a page."

My thoughts, going in other directions:

If I am not attentive here, I'm attending some where else.

How does one keep the balls in the air? Yet, that isn't the point.

An old saying, 'be here now', in language and weather and the events that pass for, in, through history.

There's a temptation to mix up attention with intention. But they are so different, especially for the poem.


extremities

the end comes around, simply and directly
eyes on obscurity dream more of something

change masses on a mark that colours the edge
nevertheless, a fog offers the coast its rhetorc

form is given a lucky discovery
nucleus of the machine, conduits of dark

an old abundance after sex supression
we’re gone, we don’t create desire no more

courtesy of flight, vibrating spiders
pulverise the earth and its noises

you are proof of a learned Baroque
conveying models of the other

a question

if identity is identical ...

who will identify me
at point of sale

I am my own phantom.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

later

there's a rumble
and a shine
tonight
if not anxious
night
if not dark then
night
what do I
want to
listen to
the light and
tiny insecting
slips between
house and air
and land and
stir ridge
shoulder
heart
hall walks
and the shrug
of old TV
preparing
morning