here we are from normal
again
a hard dessert the long
knives
bleed
………….out
a liquid life
the sound
of fear
running.the wheels
where no wheels go
be here
tomorrow for more time
& quiet.no go for safety
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.
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
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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
Self-perpetuating
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.
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…
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…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…
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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…
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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
Unsee.
grow naturally here. it is a wild garden
not as big as yours. surrounds me.
i like the colour amongst the green, while
having no photo again.i say cut me quick
stab me clean.
there are no razors , only scissors.
here. -}
sbm.
reubenwoolley 