The new season shivers and leaps
Over jetstreams like skipping rope.
We can only watch, winter weak,
As the season shivers and leaps
It keeps no promises, but creeps
Inconstantly from rain to snow.
The new season shivers and leaps
Over jetstreams like skipping rope
***This is my skipping, almost triolet for NapoWriMo, day 25.
We think more of ourselves
than things rolled from clay and spit should.
That sound that sparked galaxies,
seeded worlds, impersonal as fish
releasing roe into an indifferent ocean–
what of it? Whether it was a bang or a shout
is irrelevant, unheard but for echoes
strung under matter in theory
and perhaps practice, though my ears
are not tuned to its vibration;
but the happening that drops apples onto grass
cushioned and unbruised in September
in a point choreographed, (un)planned and available
for my hands to lift and choose fruit so many measures of time
away from the creation of trees,
from the evolution of sugar cane and wheat
to the idea of fingers and opposable thumbs
and the use of fire,
the Cro Magnon who first tasted cassia;
all of it leads to this moment
of meeting, directed or spontaneous.
The miracle rests in knowing
to start from base,
to begin from breath
it takes millennia to make anything.
**Inspired by the Carl Sagan quote:
“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.”
Wow. just…wow. Anna is brilliant.
van Gogh paints stars on the interior of a hadron collider,
excitation modes divining the luminous day of the psyche,
ebullience of the creative moment as comets seed the earth
kaleidoscopic supersymmetry unveils strange loops,
circumscribed by the calm intelligibility of science
model agnosticism engulfs with purifying fire
in the ascetic refuge of an enchanted forest, imaginarium of enlightenment,
crystalline structures of specificity hide the occlusions of the unconscious,
chaotic clouds of information growing exponentially
Usha’s bifurcated tongue spreads duality across the canvas of the mind
sand shifting at the garden’s gate, encoding cryptic messages,
erosive ablutions upon the glittering souls of the dead
across the deep shaded valley starling calls and falcon cries unite
imploding singularity awash in Dionysian pleasure amidst an Apollonian
atmosphere, contrasting Wittgenstein’s necessary silence
Huysum’s flowers scry an ecstatic love, impulses flashing
like jewel inlaid symbols of eternity, cartography of virtuosic ambiguity,
as Richter explicates…
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barefoot
and closer to growing
he speaks
what green feels
he sways to the drum
of this world–
the heart
the driving
undiscovered pulse
at the core
I could simmer gold prettiness
steeped with rosemary
and a hint of balsamic–
a glaze to drizzle
over something delicious,
but now, right now,
I want my honey raw
and stolen, a comb
sweetened by stings
and primal,
the way bears know it.
Lewin. Nuff said. This is effing brilliant.
Writers embrace the lost art of using a typewriter, but have now morphed into the age of computers and file storage in the cloud. Storytellers have recently evolved out of the practice of flinging their own feces at cave walls and smearing it about with a dull stick.
Writers speak in low, thoughtful tones, and everyone gathers around them at parties as they spontaneously leap into a wine-heightened progression of playful prose and insightful social commentary. Storytellers are generally at the same party, twitching in a closet as they fumble about with an over-willing partner, or, more often, by themselves.
Writers concern themselves with things like “form” and “vocabulary” and “grammar”. Storytellers concern themselves with wondering why writers are such total twats.
Writers create impossible tangles of prose that often result in them having death sentences pronounced upon them by enraged religious sects based on a three-word phrase that they…
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The needle in the fold of my elbow
siphons its pint slowly,
that thin line of blood similar
to what ties me to my children.
I feed this, too;
life in sanitized, filtered units,
impersonal, cooled for delivery.
I will not name this sacrifice,
my slow bleed appeased
with orange juice and Lorna Doones, but
I have no say over who it sustains,
limited only by type.
Like justice, medicine
must be blind.
I can dream my last unit given
sustains someone who suffered
on Boylston Street
and not the boy-man
planning and planting destruction.
If it is my blood in his veins
carrying piped air to cells
that are in themselves innocent
let it help him live
long enough to answer
for the pain
he anticipated
the way small children wish
for birthday cake
and roller coasters.
***I wonder how the doctors treating this man feel about that, just days after they stitched together his victims? Something like this, I imagine.
Susan Daniels Poetry 