Portrait of Mid-Autumn (Sean Ali)

Drink in these mid-autumn hues
Where the sky conceals its radiance
            with droll draperies
A voice,
            and the essence of accidence
                        are steadily infused
With constant extravagance
Like a forgotten design in an abandoned papery

My dialogues with ghosts,
            an admixture of fear and reverie,
Have left me longing
            for what I’ve been denied the most

And this incessant pride,
            this turbulent oscillation
                        between the things I expose
                                    and the things that I hide
This incredulous faith that leads me further out
Where the ice is weak and thawing thin
This tireless defense grows timeworn
And recalls bitter memories with this amorous fragrance
For a heart that is lovetorn
And a soul desolate, outcast, and forlorn

Deluge of Time (by Sean Ali)

Would that I could abate this rotting time
Pungent with putrefaction,
            and rancid at the center
The seconds are brief and mellifluous
My occupation of them superfluous
The minutes are composite with misery
And after gazing wide-eyed into the sun
Make feeble attempts to see
            while the hours gain momentum
                        begin to run

O, that I could abate this sickly time
Rotting me from the outside in
Where the days stack upon each other
            building a new tower of Babel
The weeks march on tiredly
            to their inevitability
My existence dons shrouds
            of invisibility
And my heart grows frantic
While my soul is wrought
            with instability

The months slowly kick up their dying horse
Whose knees ache
            from the crack of whip,
                        dead weight,
                                    and pitiless force
Struggling to gallop where the past is darkness
And the future deeper darkness still
Our salted earth yields naught for crops
            despite our sweat and till
The years gather density like some great mound of mud
That will never be higher than the waterline
            of the rising flood

(Ex)colere, exercere, studere - by Eliot Cardinaux

Cast in a glimpse,

bronze angles,

cry for us –

what was tempered

from the dust;

we were not,

our eyes were not,

all that did not belong to us.

Gathered, they gathered

the wheat, the moonlight,

the word spoke,

primaevus,

the young, was a drab shawl

and marked the man, Abel’s brother

for what crime he didst commit.

And Hesse, in doubt,

called to an older friend,

from his youth

and called not.

And was no sermon

and Pilate was not there,

the students

and Pound’s beard,

but a stubble.

And envy spoke not,

silent, Academicus,

analysis, and spoke of it all,

and was not of shame.

And I awoke, seeing the birds around me,

burdenless, and the mountain was not,

and was not survival,

and the beholder stared upon the perceived

like a child with his mouth open,

and the birds around me,

turned not their eyes.

And drank, they drank coffee

in the room, furnished with old oak,

and the book, covered with dust,

and on the shelf,

a bust of Ceasar,

soggy with whining.

Amherst, November 2009-January 6^th, 2010

10) (Light lies and Time lies) by Daniel Levine

Upon the wingtips of the hen that laid the precious egg

A raven landed with message of portent to take

Singing night songs into the mothers ear

For crying's sake

Wishing away the mem'ry of the plague.

Within the precious egg life cooed.

Discretely exploding awareness' drum.

Through the forest the overtones hum

Awake

The chick's night songs in the hen brewed

It was early and the hen awoke alone.

The light was bleak

The mother touched her belly with her beak

From deep within, the rattling spoke,

The moment sprung a vicious stroke

Upon the helpless hen two whom

The precious egg was borne.

The fluttering between the sky and ground

At dawn, the day pounds

It's imminence

Remember this

At night when you are giving birth to phoenix's departures.

Remember standing bare before dusk's archers.

The light between pure night and proudest day

Is the vestibule of time I seem to inhabit

Myself and bugs bunny the rabbit,

Passing the universe away.

Awake.

Freed from skin I travel with simple colors,

Children's delights, pinwheels and kaleidoscopes,

For sake

Of nothing anyone to tell of guilt or hope

Or anything to bother.

Spectrum of lines, light lies and time lies

Awake, it makes us. And what we call sin:

Delightful and terrible illusions take us in.

       
          February 10th, 2010

Gasping for Breath (by Eliot Cardinaux)

The distance crowds around me
like filth.  The form takes shape
like a light in my heart,
invisible, arching to the depths.


A green machinery
that moves in alliance
with its purpose
beats out its dull tones.


I am of the mind that it is somehow me,
but this sound is only
the beating of my heart,
gasping for its breath.

Four Poems by Mark Ge

The Damp Grass

I will shower until I am finished

I will sleep until I am ready

I had a lover once but he is gone

into/outside of

these walls of desire

that shake with the sounds of a cackling hyena

on turpentine grass

red rivers are blood streams that flow inside of us

our hairs on their end

like a kitten by a window sill

looking out to a gray, rainy afternoon

Flower Paths

It is easy to say to yourself these things

that you say

to yourself

but once in awhile let me intrude

and make a point or two

that no one is coming in the end

that the sun will be warm for a long time

that people will probably not even exist in the very end

when things get sucked inside of black holes

where money gets poured into lottery tickets

when thickets surround you

after you lose your life

Bird Bath Death

An unskilled laborer 

tastes his first bird bath

and reacts to it excitingly

A pope stands on his two feet

dressing like RuPaul

reading scriptures to a massive crowd

An architect wearing his helm

designs the bird bath

and places it into the production line

And then she goes to the store

to buy it

and data loggers measure her strides

Because a bird bath is made for two

when a big dummy sits in it

splashing water on his thighs

Face the Planet

You're dressed like the movies

only nothing surrounds you

no one to notice your appearance

the electricity hums and the dandelions are monstrous

the tunnel is even creepier

radiation killed a nation

microwaves

ten thousand balloons are released in North Korea

a facade, a boring replication

that irks big brother

and makes him want to kick some ass

across the seas where paper ships wrinkle

and fall into the ocean

For the Pioneer Valley

The richness of the land

we came upon

from different angles

pioneers sloshing forth

on uncharted territories

in Appalachian mountains

the spirit of signing

and marking the path

with a stick

first things first, eh?

We infiltrate the political system

disrupt the corrupted

feed fuel in the liberal fire

to consume a nation

The Bridge (Eliot Cardinaux)

The hum of summer,
arched brow of the transparent bridge,

half-finished to heaven.

I learn again

what I know of knowledge,

leaning against the mystery.

I find it open,

this door to the desert

from the myths.

It’s not the water

smoking in the east,

the sun is not a thing like this,

an idea that drinks itself

from the borders.

Calm like a Moorish song,

I watch an old dance.

The flowers growing up,

the sky with clouds flowing

at a faster pace than I.

The bridge is my road –

two musics, of land and of sky

mount a horse that left me

on my way from the forest.

And I must play

on the strings of night

the sorrow of the land

to clear the air

of a laugh that wounds

a million stars.

The bridge is where a stranger

once stumbled upon himself

in the music of the stranger

and learned again

what he knew of knowledge

on which a mystery now leans.                 

EC, July 2010

Three recent (political) poems, and one not so‏ (by Jim Krull)

Quick to (calling) disease,
                    Summarization repeating,

                    Tell why that was said, ---

                        SERVE AN

                        ATHEIST FOR

                        CHRISTMAS.

 111010

        (Find 4Loko Illegal)

In the little Washington town,

Laser said, their was puke all

Over the ceiling, walls,

The cop said all over everything,

Because those teen-agers

Drank that drink.

 111010

Isn't enough enough for him

He has his evil, with which

To deride (continuously)

Similar to Mr's Hitchens

and Dawkins;

They cannot know God

Since they are a

success.

111010

In the small Bolivian town

The festival starts at the Church

And heads to the street and square,

          Carry the skulls,

          Carry the skulls;

Wait, for the broadcast hasá

                                yet to begin,  

          Carry the skulls,

          Carry the skulls;

Humble prayer in low voice(s)

Add,

The parade and members of Congress

Are walking

          Carry the skulls

          Carry the skulls.

110510

JEK

For Jim Krull (I) - Eliot Cardinaux

Smile so

the daft and pure

expanse of watering,

this – town is like a swell of music,

  panting for warm phrase

           

exudes –

wanderers,

not strictly,

Catapult the empty sugar jar

into the sky

for to uncover

is to sing

and you,    not daft,

                  not pure,

don’t let the other ring.

Raised head for what was true,

            old things, not accrue.

                               September 9th, '10

Untitled - Mark Ge

I’d never heard of this record before

only running from here to there, from school and back

mesmerized by the wheels on upturned gravel

where I can find a peace of mind

the jitters after work

nothing to do

so I go down to the store and pick out my favorite guitar

of course drive on back

and set it next to the radiator, coffee

guess the next curmudgeon, a mishapen dome

thought i thought we all thought

next to nothing, nothing! i’m not sure poet on poet

the evening transcends, a smoker’s outpost upturned

school again, on campus, malfunctioning wardrobe

just some slacks and her warm raddish lips around my cock

splinters in the sun, my eye glints against the dashboard of the truck

the warm summer nights every night

descending on lonely hill sometimes

we all sink and dive beneath the waves, a cock

a hero on wheels going to construction fun land hard hats left them there like that

incredible must protrude, no? a hippie’s delight

place mats, alcohol

we finally met, melted together, and then crossed paths, evening again

we finally am able to talk, he made a mistake

so be it

please let him live this one down

doctor says, too high and above it

no need for the surgery thankfully

guess the red ribbons are here for a reason, in the end there walked a man

just a man