Daily Archives: June 5, 2017

Last words from the shore by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

The world saw

This apparently everyday scene

A child being held

Asleep perhaps? Unwell?

But, dead – really dead.

Looking at the scene of which I was a part.

Tomorrow: now, never comes.

And somehow the age will change

Against our canvas

Of our making

Cut in the devils playground

Somehow playgrounds

Devoid of this scene

That is our life

And his that fell short

Here the scene:

Whether landscape, portrait, or abstract

He’ll never this out

Nor kick a ball, kiss, or read a book.

View original post

For the ghosts of they who passed by the night before by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

Early SundayMorning 1930 by Edward Hopper

You don’t see us

Along life’s rails

The sleepers and paths

That veers away from

The split infinite.

Of the fire and

Passed by; under the window’s

Eyes, closed on the world.

The rats and foxes

On night maneuverers.

You cannot see them in doorways

Sanctuaries of the bum.

v. absenteeists.

Words that smooth and caress

All lovers are blind except for Echo –

A cast in these vast stone artefacts.

These places to store…

Created for building & making.

And ‘no’ not us, we’re the bums – lost, strayed.

Just the bums invisible, yet there.

There is reason. There must be. Reason!

Kant’s mind occupied him a lifetime

Sorting those colossal pieces of,

Bishop & knight …

We feel – the fork

No address: no, no, no,

Begging breeds, no ingenuity

The cream always finds

The way up – the wise will

View original post 64 more words

Somewhere somewhere by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

The dull dives

of the east, west, and southside:

A loud unharmonious

Noise was heard to beat, beat, beat

What monsters the TV

Breeds and in this


Swamp that needs cleaning?

Somewhere – somewhere

In streets and sidewalks

He spoke to me and will

Look after me – me – me

When breeding the though

And airing to the masses who

Want to hear – hear – hear

that they are not us. Not us.

They can fight our misguided

Wars without being part

Of out central cause. The words

short as they fall down the drain.

View original post

For every eye of the world by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting. Buddha

The world is the distance trod by the passionate pilgrim
This eternal geographer
After Henri Cartier – Bresson

□ From the loneliness of the Frontier Post, □ to those

Spanish gypsies: a sharp glint in their eyes

To their endgame. □ Seeing the women of Epirus

in Greece beating their sodden washing to the rhyme

of some ancient rite, or from the very eye of Lorca’s

women. □ As do the women of Suzdal in Russian wash

in Icewater. □ A man caught between shadows (somewhere

between Debussy and Grieg’s Morning Song) striding

on into anonymity. □ St Georges Day Georgia 72 –

The Alaverdi Monastery the boy swinging in the car door

Paul Newman perhaps? The monastery unable to look away.

□ unassuming, in the Palais-Royal…

View original post 72 more words

Outline of a city by Jonathan Beale

I am not a silent poet

…of consumption creeps in, drips from the side of the moon that doesn’t sleep. A faucet with fangs cannot be turned off. From Alligator: by A. J. Huffman.

Syria today – tomorrow

That human nebulous experience among the rubble

As everyday as the football gossip or the markets rise and fall

Empires in their being rise and fall. Not even walls hold firm

The world is fighting its own bill of rights. In every tiny corner

Once, here was a great and glorious pulsating heathing metropolis.

The city will rise again from the blood permeated in the earth


Jonathan Beale has numerous poems published over 50 journals around the world. His work can be found in such books as ‘Drowning’ and ‘The Poet as Sociopath’ (Scar publications). His first collection of poetry ‘The Destinations of Raxiera’ is published by Hammer & Anvil. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Destinations-Raxiera-Jonathan-Beale-ebook/dp/B018F6GWQ6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1452199641&sr=1-1&keywords=jonathan+beale

His second volume is…

View original post 50 more words

Race¹ by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

The game changed when race became fluid

And you learned to fry catfish in Chile

Before Lorna Simpson was shown at Sean’s gallery

Her “Cloud, 2005” praised by ArtSpace®

Hal Foster calling it signifier of cultural discourse

After Rosalind Krauss wrote the work is gray on a gray field.

The “serigraph on felt” inspired like e-streams

Disrupting abstract projects

But Mykki Blanco’s poems had interpretive power

Inhabiting non-binary boxes—

Like Selk’nam women doing the work of men.

Nam Chau’s mordant memory of Germany

Presaged climate change

Though poets were making plastic art

While children in Beijing died from toxic air.

You saw paintings you needed to have

And good taste has taken you far

But it’s time to move forward—

Avoid protest art

And weigh the cost of each installation.

¹Inspired by Art in America (December 2006)

Bio: Clara B. Jones practices poetry in Silver Spring, MD…

View original post 48 more words

Local Landscape by Sophie Livingston

I am not a silent poet

Oh what my eyes have seen.

The severed heads of men

On stems, like seedpods

Sprouting from a roundabout.

Oh what my eyes have seen.

A tree on which the bloody leaves

Are cleaved from wrists and hang to point

The road to Hell.

I have seen the song ripped from the throats of children.

The earth suck girls like cherries from the stone.

I have seen a vision of a thing too terrible to name

Perched dark upon the crater’s rim.

Oh what my eyes have seen.

Let me pluck them out and set my foot upon them.

Let me take this knife and gouge them free.

Let me hang them in the marketplace.

Allow me to


View original post