Three Poems by Alan Britt

TRAPPED IN NOMENCLATURE, CUCUMBER

PLANTS BEGIN TO WITHER

 

That’s the downy woodpecker,

invisible as he cheeps

through a virtual forest

of Japanese maples,

oaks,

cherry trees.

 

Constant clucking

followed by a trill,

the Northeastern sparrow’s

silk ribbon

pulled

through

straw hips

of sunlight.

 

Fingers,

curly green tendrils

of amaranthus,

attempt

to reach

full cacophony

inside the birds’ Purgatory chorus.

 

Suddenly, a tiny red spider

breezes

past the lexicon

of conventional nomenclature.

 

Thank god

he scurries

on all eight legs!

 

 

NEO-FORMALIST POEM

 

*

 

      The topaz streetlight beneath the giant

maple removes her clothes, relaxes in a white

metal chair beside me.

**

      Raindrops sniff white gutters before leaping

down their anaconda throats where, ironically,

they’re held in place, gulp by gulp, by the needle

teeth of topaz light.

***

A pair of rosy finches enters the garden.

The one with blazing red throat and cap preens

a thin wire fence, while his mate pecks at tiny

jade weeds in the glistening black earth.

****

      A boat-tailed grackle waddles through

the yard; his ebony tail crushes the wet grass,

churning raindrops into tiny topaz rivers.

 

 

SPRING CLASSIC

The black

              swallowtail’s

         sign

                   language

filters

                through

                                a

                      doorway.

     A slender brunette

                        with the

                                patience

        of a

               moth

absorbs

            the door’s arch

     with one hand

          while her other

                               hand

   flutters

                 like

                            ashes

          above

                       a

                             burning

            50-gallon drum

   behind

                 the

                         baseball stadium.

The curtains of her voice

                           rustle.

       Tractor trailer

                gears

                            inhale

                                                  damp

                   cool

                            humid

                                       air.

The ribs

                     of a

                                split

                                          rail

                            fence

          are a carcass

                scavenged

     by white

                jackals

                      of lamplight.

              Blue fingernails

                  of lamplight

        comb the

                        petals

                              of an

                                       exploding

          pink

                     rose

                               bush.

A

    child’s

                voice

         is a

                razor

against

               the

                    bare

                         throat

                             of darkness.

     A mockingbird

               immediately

                          begins

        stitching

               the universe.

                     It’s a good

                                  thing

            silence

                    places the

                                    porcelain

                                                      cup

of an

                empty

                                   nightmare

          upon the

                       edge

                                  of an

                                           aluminum

                                sink.

It’s a

            good

                         thing

       the universe

                   consists

             of ashes,

                       papery

                                        ashes

blown like

      toxic

                    dust

                                across

               Europe

           and North America,

                      from the

                          industrial

                                          deserts

                 of South Africa,

from the

               greedy

                              humans

        sucking

                        every

                                     nutrient

   that ever

                     existed

           from

        the earth’s

                           volcanic

                                           soil.

       This is

                   a

                        good

                                  thing

           since

                       otherwise

                   we might be

                                     forced

    to gaze

                  deep

  into the eyes

          of the

                     slender

                                   brunette

    with

                      ashes

          fluttering

from her

                              solitary

                                             hand.

        It is

                  possible

that with

              eye

                         contact

            such as this

    we might

                                 be forced

                  to honor

         smoke rings

             on the

                       jaguar slug’s

            panting ribs

instead of a

                      multimillionaire’s

        name

                   stitched

           on the back

               of a dim-witted

                       third-baseman.

It is

            a

                   damn

                              good

                                         thing

       the average

                          human

             has no

                            aspiration

                   whatsoever

             to transcend

                         the coliseum

                  the domed arena

          the horseshoe stadium

                          with its rainbow

                                                       water

                                                                   falls

                beer vendors

         and ushers

                    as indentured

                                   servants.

        For to

                     ascend

            like an

                          ash

               that dips

                      and rises

                  on a

                             thermal

                                    of freedom

                          brings

                                    with it

                                consequences

                                           a responsibility

                       to touch

                                      the flame

                                 to feel

                                         the swallowtail light

                            in the

                                      dark

                                                hand

                             of the

                                         slender

                                                brunette

                                    who leans

                                          against

                the suffering

                                       arch

                                          of intellect.

 

 

Alan Britt's interview with Grace Cavalieri for The Poet and the Poem will air on Pacifica Radio in January 2013 (http://www.loc.gov/poetry/poetpoem.html). He read poems at the World Trade Center/Tribute WTC Visitor Center (TributeWTC.org) in Manhattan/NYC, April 2012, at the We Are You Project (WeAreYouProject.Org) Wilmer Jennings Gallery, East Village/NYC, April 2012, and at New Jersey City University's Ten Year 9/11 Commemoration in Jersey City, NJ, September 2011. His poem, "September 11, 2001," appeared in International Gallerie: Poetry in Art/Art in Poetry Issue, v13 No.2 (India): 2011. His recent books are Alone with the Terrible Universe (2011), Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). The Poetry Library (www.poetrymagazines.org.uk) providing a free access digital library of 20^th & 21^st century English poetry magazines with the aim of preserving them for the future has included Britt’s work published in Fire (UK) in their project. Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, The Robin Hood Book: Poets in Support of the Robin Hood Tax, by Caparison, United Kingdom, 2012, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, Chicago/Athens/Dublin, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008. Readings & Presentations: Panel Chair for Poetry Studies & Creative Poetry for the PCA/ACA Conference 2008 in Boston, Ramapo College in Mahwah, NJ (2009 & 2012), the WPA Gallery/Ward-Pound Ridge Reservation in Cross River, NY (2008), Ultra Violet Studio, Chelsea/NYC (2008 & 2009), White Marsh Library, Baltimore (2011 & 2012), Enoch Pratt Free Library (Canton Branch) Baltimore (2011), Pedestal Magazine Reading at the Writers Center, Bethesda, MD (2012). Alan currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University and lives in Reisterstown, Maryland with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres, one Bichon Frise and two formerly feral cats. Links: http://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/potw.html#fp1;

http://spectrumofpoeticfire.com/Reader%20Directory/Alan_Britt.htm;

http://theliteraryunderground.org/wiki/index.php?title=Alan_Britt;

http://www.therecusant.org.uk/#/morrison-on-saponia-and-britt/4556998367; and

http://aliensareus.wordpress.com/

 

A Poem by Tamara Simpson

Fragments

 

The   world   is   gone   hopes   and   dreams

 

shattered   eternal   life   swallowed   by 

 

the   flame   I   lie 

 

in   pieces   stones   among

 

the   ruins   resurrection   of   the   living

 

a   hopeless   toil

 

 

Evrèmonde   Evrèmonde   ye   show

 

no   mercy   to   the   fallen 

 

child   paid   the   price   in 

 

exile

 

 

torn   heart   body   fragmented

 

mind   advocates   of   the   tortured

 

soul   whirlwind   scattered   thoughts   among

 

the   dusty   air.

 

 

 

 

Tamara Simpson is a current student University of Western Australia who spends most of her time writing poetry and fiction when she should be studying.

She has had previous work published in the Road Not Taken Journal of Formal Poetry, Every Day Poets Magazine, and Open Minds Quarterly.

 

Two Poems by Duane Locke

TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATION, NO 271

The diary
               Was a
                         Stumbling block, the familiar was lost
And his thinking about his seeing of Signorelli bodies in Orvietto
Turned his mind into brown ovals and brown contours.

He meant to record the event but it was scratched out by white wine.
His mind begin to leak, like the leaking roof at his home he now avoided.
His mind fell out of his head and dropped in drips to chill his bare feet.
His shoes
Was placed on bare broad floor
Adjacent to wad of paper once a love letter
The shoes was to serve as a model for his next painting, hoping they
Would be immortalized in the philosophy of some future Martin Heidegger.

Recalled the charm of her when they watched a skylark arise from grass
Over the Stonehenge to disappear in an upper distance.

He ran over, picked up his shoes, and put on his feet
To warm the cold caused by the drops that dripped from his mind
Leaking out of his gray haired head.



TERRESTRIAL ILLUMIATION, NO 272

My mind was a fallen farm house
                                                             And red
Morning-sunlit comb of a white rooster as we, whoever she was, sat
On a light grey circular cushion looking at an early Mondrian
In which the swerving pencil marks caused recall of a lost forest
In the building that housed the Guggenheim collection before
Frank Lloyd Wright built a circle and called it an art gallery.

Life was yet to be unrolled in a long blank scroll. There would be
A few dots on pages where a pen point touched and meant to scribble,
But became awkward and paralyzed and would leave revised, blurred memories.

I watched unseen a yellow-stripped black butterfly flutters in an
invisible atmosphere.
I was trying to translate the unheard sounds of the imagined bassoon
whose sounds were French.



Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida near anhinga,
gallinules, raccoons, alligators, etc.
He has published 6,680 poems, includes 29 books of poems. His latest
book publication, April 2012,
Is DUANE LOCKE, THE FIRST DECADE, 1968-1978, BITTER OLEANDER PRESS.
This book is a republication
Of his first eleven books, contains 333 pages. Order from
http://www.bitteroleander.com/releases.html,
Or Amazon.

A Poem by Heller Levinson

perpenDICuLARity 

 

uprise               zenith stealth                stilt wagon

                        lurch riddle

                       Agastache cheeks

pointing indicative thrust push/pull toward perpetual portend

perspensation precipitation the perpendicular provides the

isosceles triangle urban punctuation erotic gender switchbacks

merrily morning glories

 

vertical    horticultural    strategical heretical       remote demote

reinforce pushup reinstate

holidays ://: gunshot          spurious ://: ramrod     counterfeit

enables law enforcement the bones make no bears about it

broadside barely bareback       a mark a jot a hand up a holdup

upright bass mast baton flagpoles candles headstones

oppositional

to flat

 

 

Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines including Alligatorzine, The Cartier Street Review, Counterexample Poetics, ditch poetry, First Literary Review-East, Hunger, Jacket,The Jivin’ Ladybug, Mad Hatters’ Review, Mad Swirl, Mid-June, Moria, Omega, Otoliths, Poets for Living Water, Skidrow Penthouse, Street Cake Magazine, Sugar Mule, Sulfur, Talisman, Tears In The Fence, The Wandering Hermit, The Toronto Quarterly, A Trunk Full of Delirium, Venereal Kittens, andWood Coin. His publication, Smelling Mary (Howling Dog Press, 2008), was nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Black Widow Press published his from stone this running in 2011. Additionally, he is the originator of Hinge Theory

 

 

Three Poems by Michael Mc Aloran

all sung-

(‘the winds have ruffled my assassin hair‘).

                                                            Georges Bataille
ache unto/
                     bled

(dry cough in a barren white roomscape)

a black turning
           of lungs lashed from the caress of

night’s sheer
       bone heart(less)

liquid flowers of decimated shit
                 I/ eye of vortices

meat to caress from out of which to turn from lack or longing
    (blanked the eye…)

subtle as a snapped neck’s whispering
    (heave-ho)

drag/ drag/ drag alone
       of the bitten blood

semblance of dry light
                         and the smoke of

(pyre unto absence/
                                         of…)



dead zone-

I-skinned

I silent as the none of it/
                             all sung

         (to skin the…)

fallen from/
               denuded silences
and the pulse of
                      dreaming

locked till eye/
                     forgotten

dreamed speech and the buttress of transparent words
yet still the nothing of which ever-dreamed of

steel blade
the fingers severed
asked of

of the return till knock
silenced then

I spoken for/ aloft

and the buckled eye/ shadowed/ emptily
       (bring out your dead…)

the carcass of it dripping blood upon

night/ temperate
the sealed eye’s whisperings

I out of which
dead zone
rocking the cradle of listless echoes



if/ ever

welt/ breath of silent winds
stun/
        else


till mark/ spun/ exigent
of the ruin rush ash and the wilting blood


asked of
spasm lock till claimed


(image of a sky’s black longing set to light)


kicking dust from sunk eye till break of none
spun aloud/
               naught


silenced lest the petals birth the rot of hours
    stitched colourings


ruin of
as if there ever was


scattered remnants of what/
                    or else/ if /ever/…


Michael Mc Aloran was Belfast born, (1976). His most recent work has appeared in ditch, Meat Songs, Gobbet Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, Ygdrasil, Establishment, Carcinogenic, etc. He has authored a number of chapbooks, including 'The Gathered Bones', (Calliope Nerve Media), 'Final Fragments', (Calliope Nerve) & 'Unto Naught', (Erbacce-Press). A full length collection of poems, 'Attributes', was published by 'Desperanto' in 2011. 'Lapwing Publications, (Ireland), will also be publishing a collection of his poems, 'The Non Herein', in 2012. Writing Knights Press has recently released another chapbook, 'Breath(en) Fall' & The Knives, Forks & Spoons Press, (U.K), will release 'Emblems' and also an ekphrastic book of text/ art, 'Machinations' later this summer.