Daily Archives: March 8, 2017

All across da jigsaw country by Joe Balaz

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

I’m off to da killing fields
or da hunting grounds

or watevah you tink it might be
to find out wats going on.

In regards to trajectory and aim
I’m beginning to notice

dat society is suddenly polarized
into separate camps

and all da bullets
are prepped and ready to hit dere  marks.

Everyone has wun love gun
or wun hate gun

dat dey are pointing
across da great divide.

Rest assured
all da chambers are fully loaded.

I see red and white targets
imprinted on da  pupils of da gathering crowd.

I also see da same concentric circles
on da fronts and backs of countless people.

Armament metaphors abound

cause it sure looks like it’s going to be
wun hell rising showdown

in wun full on gunpowder festival
all across da jigsaw country.

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She’s got dream boys in da attic by Joe Balaz

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

She’s got dream boys in da attic
and some new intentions too—

looks like da kid
going be hard to handle.

Pull in da parental reigns

and watch dat filly’s hooves
go crashing through da wall

as she breaks free

and goes running into da night
crazed and rebellious.

Hoping dat she wuz still wun virgin
has just been canceled

and now da wish is
dat she no get pregnant.

But let’s not get too one-sided
and overly critical

cause somebody is partnering
wit somebody.

All da palomino colts
are sowing dere wild oats

in plain view
of wun double standard

so let’s tag dose studs too
wit some equal responsibility.

It’s wun powerful
two-way issue

dat good old court and spark

and everyone
wants to be prancing in da pasture.

Look at da spirit
in dose intense eyes

da flowing mane
and da flared nostrils.

She’s kicking up her legs
like wun…

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Thief In The Interior by Phillip B. Williams reviewed by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Thief In The Interior
Phillip B. Williams
Alice James Books
Farmington, ME
82 pp

“I love my brother who wasn’t a brother of mine./Walking in an alley alone at night I bury my hands/in my pockets to appear brotherless, bordered/by the decay blowing from the stench.” Thief In The Interior, p 41

In separate articles, critics Natalia Cecire and Paul Stephens recently addressed the difficulty of defining “experimental” or “avant garde” writing. Quoting Cecire, “’Experimental,’ when applied to US writing, means many things, but tends to aggregate a relatively (but only relatively!) stable set of critical expectations, including, formal disjuncture, a sense of political or ethical commitment, and an association, but not strict, identification, with the experimental sciences.” To the extent that there might be consensus about this statement, it seems clear that, because of its inherent qualifications, experimental writing, in our case, poetry, may…

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Angels by Mike Gallagher

I am not a silent poet

Mattresses airing at open windows –
this lingering vision has scarred his sixty years;
his abiding childhood recollection:
if it rains today, we’ll all sleep wet again tonight,
his mother had traipsed this same long hall,
was told: Sit there, sign that. Give him up!
Barely two weeks earlier, she had transgressed,
screamed in labour; frog-marched to an outhouse;
legs apart, she gave birth standing over
a steel commode, torn, left unstitched;
and the cold-eyed nun moved slow from bead to bead,
asked if it now was worth the few minutes
of passing pleasure.
Kept behind locked doors and iron gates,
a hundred pounds would have bought her freedom –
its lack condemned her to a lifetime of scrubbing
floors or clothes, cutting grass on hands and knees,
mending potholes; no letters, no talk, no bras,
name changed, hair cut, experiments – other parallels;
this the penance for her…

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When the Voice Comes by Amy Ford

I am not a silent poet

Laying still and curled up small,

the world dims and becomes quiet,

heart beating so hard it numbs




the rib cage.

The disembodied voice




  the room

demanding what it calls ‘forgiveness’,

for another chance,

while trying to hide the deceit

that lies so heavy on its tongue

drying out its throat to cease the words.

It is only seeking the power

that it once had:

a throne and a crown

of delusion,


and pain

that I usurped,

keep locked away

no matter how much the voice pleads.

To destroy the throne and crown

is a temptation and desire,

but even just a glimpse of those

metals with their peeling gold plating

is enough to bring the voice back

to drown this room once more.

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In Other Words, Freedom by Maria Stadnicka

I am not a silent poet

The fatal morning Europe woke up and thought it had something to say,

there was nobody else left in the world able to listen.

Oh, earth, the bones had gathered to queue for bread,

by the front door at Saint Joseph seminary.

An ordinary day for ordinary death.

The bakery opened and closed.

The workers arrived on time for a last shift then went home.

The ovens had no traces of grain.

The ink stained hope filled up rusty water pipes.

The crowds’ whisper went on, up the hill, out of the city.

After that, freedom meant nothing.

It all came down to

who could hold the front running place the longest.

freedomMaria Stadnicka is a writer, freelance journalist and lecturer.  She started writing at the age of seven and published her first poems in 1995.

Between 1996 and 2003 Maria lived in Iasi and Botosani, Romania and won 12…

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