Tivoli Sonnet¹ by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

  1.    Tadao Ando created a planet within a solar system.

2.  Luis Barragán preserved the landscape of Mexico City.

3.  Constantin Brancusi experimented with “essential truth.”

4.  Donald Judd remodeled Marta.

5.  Adalberto Libera designed property for Curzio Malaparte.

6.  Hans van der Laan was a Benedictine monk.

7.  John Pawson designed Pawson House.

8.  Bruce Nauman manipulated space.

9.  Hans Wegner designed the Y-chair.

10. Waverly Abbey is both concrete and abstract.

11. Hadrian lived in Tivoli.

12a. Japanese tea bowls symbolize Wabi Sabi.

12b. Kyoto’s Katsura Palace symbolizes Wabi Sabi.

12c. Kyoto’s Ryoanji Temple symbolizes Wabi Sabi.

13. Cameroon chief houses are constructed like colonnades.

14. In this classic art book of 325 pages, only 2 women are named.

¹Inspired by Pawson J (1996) Minimum. Phaidon, London.

Bio: Clara B. Jones practices poetry in Silver Spring, MD (USA). As a woman of color, she writes about the…

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The Good Father by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I am not a silent poet

for Vladimir J. Cimera

 

My father left this world ten years ago.

He died when the trees were blooming

in late April.  What a world this is now.

The Americans, the Russians, the

Syrians (poor Syrians).  Jesus, all of it.

If my father came back, he’d be surprised

that I should be shocked by any of it.

He let me read The Painted Bird, the

poetry of Tadeusz Różewicz when I was a

kid, he told me all about it, the fuckery,

the terribleness of people, things they do.

The things we do.  He loved books and

gave that to me.  He showed me how to

love this world, despite it all.  God, he was

a good father.

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Da FBI Like to Eat POI by Joe Balaz

I am not a silent poet

Da FBI like to eat POI.

One fingah, two fingah,

three fingah,

even whole hand kine POI.

If you stay holding wun protest sign
da FBI going eat you too.

Dey going swallow you down

and all da info going inside wun big stomach
in wun huge secret building

wit all kine sophisticated computers.

Da FBI like to eat POI.

One fingah, two fingah,
three fingah,

anykine fingah POI.

Make too much criticism
or make too much sense

and dey going fingah you too

cause da FBI like to eat POI.

Dey get all kine files
and all kine reasons foa keep wun eye on you

cause da FBI like to make luau in da shadows
and dey just look forward to eating moa POI.

If you stay marching
in da latest public demonstration

you suddenly might be wun person of interest         

cause foa sure
even dough you no can…

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Why da Poi Stay Stale by Joe Balaz

I am not a silent poet

Wun speaker at da rally

can give you some reasons
as to why da poi stay stale

if you just listen.

He going start wit boots on da ground

and wun warship
wit its guns aimed at Iolani Palace

Manifest destiny
works really well

wen you got da military might
to simply take wat you like.

Uncle Sammy
going crush you undah his feet

if you try resist.
Tecumseh, Crazy Horse,
and Geronimo,

can tell you all about dat.

Scars and slights forevah
is da unfortunate result.
Nowadays

da island natives in da streets                                                                                                            continue to protest foa dere rights.

Adah people look at dem
and tink dey all stay disillusioned.

Dats wat happens
wen da blanket of assimilation

settles in ovah time.
Da guy blowing wun couch shell
in front of wun defiant crowd

not going agree wit dat.
As long as da faithful
know dere history

you kannot kill…

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11+ by Louisa Campbell

I am not a silent poet

At a quarter past the hour
every Sunday afternoon,
a car pulls up,
and a boy gets out
and knocks at the red front door.
..
There to see the tutor
for help with the future,
for help with the test,
to do better than the rest,
to be top.

At a quarter past the hour
every Sunday afternoon,
a car pulls up,
and a man gets out
and knocks on the white front door.
..
Seeing the therapist
to overcome his failing,
for help with his fears,
to try and get his tears
to stop.

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That’s the Way to Do It by Louisa Campbell

I am not a silent poet

Up on his soapbox,
the snollygoster puppet stands.
Inside, a schoolboy
works the pudgy little hands;
booms with the Smug School voice he learned,
loud enough to carry over all he’s earned,
over well-heeled hedges, grown high to block the view
of despair hung on washing lines in No Hope Mews.

..

Louisa Campbell hangs around English spa towns. Her poetry has appeared in journals including Prole, Acumen,and Three Drops From a Cauldron. Her first pamphlet, The Happy Bus, is forthcoming with Picaroon Poetry.

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Left and Right Wings by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

Imagine if a dove was your country soaring into thunder clouds and it started to tear itself bare. Imagine this, red from bleeding and bruised blue both wings stopped moving and left the squall to go it alone into the storm. Pummelled by harsh winds of change the heart of the dove was strong but had forgotten what made it navigate through savage storms. The left and right wing had forgotten that they were an extension of the heart and were there to serve the body of the dove and it’s vital organs shaped like counties. The Dove had forgotten that it’s songs began in the blood and ended at the beak where ballads of Calais and Dunkirk and places like India were written by bloodied quills. When the wings move together the Dove can stop falling but this does not mean it will arrive safely. This is down to…

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