Daily Archives: December 9, 2016

Considering the face of Mars by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

driving into a range of variant spectral where light breaks
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like ice & vice versa so when the tyrant reigns
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it is only lie: near the Chinese Restaurant, Peking something, the hill cut
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child-life into impasse, i considered days of Tennessee clay red red
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yarn mote the corner of his eye.
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what is assault, when borne against love?
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what is love, but a diluted obsession? now i am no child, as they say,
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have put away childish things, yet
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how we destroy each other, sometimes, as rain erodes
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great structures amidst the dunes — are they dunes, seen, we see,
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the face of Mars?
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eroded by what, but that wish for faraway?
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you clear the brush & ivy & thick sapling trunks
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from the backyard
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where the day-star wind chimes stir, stirring
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the rising heat…

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Walking the track, no, flying by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

you know, it’s been said before. but it was that, like that — molting rhinoceros horns, albino dragons. a man tilts before me on the railroad, shirt red as the boxcar: propels his hands like airline wings, like feather dusters, like the hands of a woman toppling, nearly, catching grit of God in her palms. i saw her on 29th, down by the river where they found that girl’s body, a girl nearly my age: you look like you’re flying, i said, i am, she said, just found out i don’t have cancer. that’s how it goes. toss aside the worn metaphor, wear the white sneakers Alex’s anthropologist father wore the day he died, & dance, grimace covered by the aboriginal mask, mouth ajar as the door without hinges, the pink door, no door, a plank of molecules slipping.

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Laying claim to language by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

someone said it (not i) it is all about losses (i just glimpsed the word in a poem) it is not her word though it is not mine. one i read the word snowman in a poem then the word kerosene: i put them together like lemon & tea & was attacked for it. it is my word, snowman, said Lisa. it is my word, kerosene.
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…………………………………………it’s like that. working from the underground of the inarticulate, working for the snuffed birthdays of Pompeii. celebrating fire with fire, even as the fire came down! i sat at a table in a Chinese Restaurant, Irvine, California, able to hear the cabbage speak.
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……………………..what? you’ve never been there, that place, suffused in plastic wrap, wax paper. lain like a kid’s prom rose, yellow, between dictionary pages, where language is unclaimed like land behind my grandmother’s outhouse, or my mother’s…

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Not like this, the Death i’ve seen by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

not like this, the death i’ve seen: not like this. all day, weak, weakening i guess, i did not suppose. a steady weakness. (don’t hit it, my child says, don’t hit the deer, running silver like a travesty of justice) an afternoon, exhaustion, sun like conch shells singing in my ear, her ear. the nurse visits, blood pressure, temperature, says she’s ok, just weak, weakening, i guess. a week hospitalized tires you out, you know, a roommate’s news headlines blaring, the screams down the hall, the ear buds yanked from your memory. (i saw her, i say, i saw the doe) an afternoon, lilting falls of the chest, is she breathing, yes, yes, she is breathing, does she respond as i call her name, name. six pm i say hey, Beth, your favorite show is playing, Father Brown, it’s six pm, Sunday dusk, the shaded slats stringed shut, the small…

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Disco Balls Swinging by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

i’ve never i guess i suppose
never felt like this before: ducking as bomb descends, slow, red shaft of gnats & shadow, upon what i’ve known as real, valid. that ball swings upon my dwelling, a disco ball sparkling upon my yellow dwelling. when i was 22 & ill, i felt terminal. when i was 50 & my hound fell sick, my Netherlands friend said “he is terminal, Carolyn.” & he was. i worked with those living with AIDS, when it was “struck”, struck as by thunder: i heard Ray, as he ran to the car stopped, ran, pounded on the windows eyes kaleidoscopic we drove spinning away. away from lights, stopped; from the lightning of a grown man, pounding for the reason, soon taped into paper pull-up diapers. i write of such things because we must: own the sirens, sing for the sirens, rather than be possessed by them…

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Peeping Toms by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

i hear someone calling Mommy. a child, an adult, i cannot say. pay it forward, the seller tells me, dropping charges for the greyhound bust, detailed, i am giving my brother.
Mommy! an arc almost husked, like Indian corn, ethereal & inedible.
i am counting down like the countdown of Major Tom, of the shuttle’s delirious advent. each birthday is a victory, but do i want the challenge? i lay down the fencing sword.
over my shoulder, peeping through my windows, first story apartment, where the yellow eyed black cat named after a squirrel comes & goes: the term of endearment,
is that my husband’s voice, my daughter’s; is that the howl of my dog on the pissed bank, the tracks like moon shadows leading away?
pay it forward; i do. the twenty comes in a blank card, unsigned. i stuff it into another envelope, a business envelope, with no…

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