Saturday 30 December 2006
Cat haiku by Christine Bruness
stray cat becomes our new guest
during the snowstorm
slithering through snow
to dine at our front porch
weathered black feline
In the backyard,
green eyes peering from the bush
kitty is stalking me!
Christine Bruness, New Jersey, USA
Friday 29 December 2006
My Cat Answers the Question: "Why Are You Standing in the Doorway?"
A threshold. You will see me at night,
gazing into the lamps—Suddenly!
The moth! A flurry of paws, claws, a fury
that leaves me. . .
melancholic.
So I rest with the moth
between my lips and sharp teeth
and feel the rustling,
the edge of its existence.
I am sad for a moment, and then savor
the power of my closing jaws.
Did not Schrödinger write
of such suspended moments?
Hamlet should have embraced
his moment and understood
that collapsing or not
is not the question. The crumpled paper
of the ruined poem is always
both toy and not. Is the art finished?
That smell from the box…
stench? Or vital information
about my intake of moths and spiders?
But we digress.
I have limned liminality enough.
When I pose in the dappled sun,
stretched muscles rippling
along the sill of the window, remember:
I am exploring, so deeply my eyes creep shut,
the spaces between one state and another.
James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA
Wednesday 27 December 2006
Rear of a Horse by Liam Wilkinson
I go out to photograph the frozen landscape
in an effort to jar the numb silence of Winter.
The dead leaves, still hung,
crack and buckle beneath
a gentle deadly layer of perfect white.
The old church stops breathing,
preserved in its reach,
seized in its optimism.
The gipsy caravan hides its colours
beneath the season’s vale.
Its rest seems permanent.
And the horse, rummaging for green,
spots the automatic flash.
Most niggled, he turns away.
Liam Wilkinson, York, UK
Saturday 23 December 2006
Shelter Against the Storm by James Engelhardt
has been haunted by
a frost-ringed moon;
at Johnson's party,
we drink too much
mulled wine chased
with shots of hard liquor
hidden on the back porch.
Every hour we take quick hits
off rarer and rarer joints.
We tell jokes
whose punchlines end
with bodily functions
or four-letter words
that are not 'love'
though we mean them to be.
And our wives
roll their eyes as if
to find some bright planet
away from us.
And we are driven home
by these women
through a gently threatening
Southern winter storm.
We wake the children,
cry with them
if the snow doesn't stick.
James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA
Friday 22 December 2006
haiku by Christine Bruness
soft calls from a mourning dove
transport me to peace.
Sunday 17 December 2006
Té, chocolate y café. // Tea, chocolate & coffee by Eugenia Andino
Una taza de té llena hasta el borde.
El poema no llega.
The night lies ahead.
Cup of tea full to the brim.
The poem doesn't come.
Aire escarchado.
Bebiendo chocolate,
tiro a la basura viejas guías de viajes.
Frost outside,
drinking hot chocolate,
Throwing away old holiday maps.
Café fuerte.
Pies en alto.
Suplemento dominical.
Strong coffee.
Putting feet up.
Sunday papers.
Eugenia Andino, Seville, Spain
Friday 15 December 2006
Why Did You Come? by Gerald England
that evening seven years ago?
All the trees were covered in snow
You had no money for your taxi fare
and you laddered your stocking on a broken stair
You drank a whole bottle of very best sherry
You called me "Mon Cheri!"
when I dropped the picture on my toe
that evening seven years ago,
why did you come? why did you come?
Why did you come? Why did you come?
that evening seven years ago?
Handel's second flute concerto
was issuing forth from the gramophone
and neither of us that night ever felt alone
Though we said very little what we said meant a lot
for our passions were hot
I wished in my heart you hadn't to go
that evening seven years ago,
why did you come? why did you come?
Why did you come ? Why did you come?
that evening seven years ago?
I'll never rest until I know
You came at nine and did not leave till eight
Bacon, egg and sausage was the breakfast you ate
It wasn't to wish me a happy December
No! Wait! I remember!
Of course! You came to tune the piano
that evening seven years ago,
That's why you came! That's why you came.
Gerald England, UK
Sunday 10 December 2006
Compass Points by James Engelhardt
will you recall the taste of our red wine?
The games of chance and skill, the push-hands
by the lake with the heron, the restaurant patios?
I look into the clouded sky and the stars say
we four have been friends many lives before,
before we shared those hand-carved pipes at dusk,
and, in our shabby clothing, looked at sacred things.
The rains will swell our streams before you return,
and all the green their wet breath brings
will overcome our gardens here
when we gather together one more time
to separate the endless weeds
from the herbs we steep for tea.
James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA
Friday 8 December 2006
for KMH by J D Nelson
until infinity.
she is sky-high blue,
sapphire aquamarine.
I'm looking through
the skylight &
she's just getting to work.
J D Nelson, Colorado, USA
Friday 24 November 2006
Untitled by Eugenia Andino
Del negro al rosa, misterioso cielo.
Demasiada luz roba las estrellas,
Las ciudades se han quedado sin cielo.
Posponer los problemas tomando el sol,
Prohibida la pena si está azul el cielo.
Gris plomo de nieve, gris claro de lluvia:
No hay otro destino escrito en el cielo.
Si existe un Dios, nos mira desde lejos.
No es un consuelo imaginar el cielo.
El granjero no ve ninguna nube.
A sus plantas secas las mata el cielo.
El exiliado admira las constelaciones.
Alumbran su casa desde otro cielo.
Los aviones vuelan de aquí al futuro.
Yo no los alcanzo, mirando al cielo.
Refracted light gives its colour to the sky.
Black down to pink, mysterious sky.
Too much light steals the stars.
Cities have lost their sky.
Put off your problems and sunbathe.
Banish all sorrow if there is blue in the sky.
Dark grey for snow, light grey for rain:
Don't read any other destinies from the sky.
If there is a God, He's so far away.
No comfort from an old man in the sky.
The farmer looks in vain for a cloud.
His dry plants are killed by the sky.
Exiles gaze at the constellations.
They light up his home on a different sky.
Airplanes fly from here to the future.
I cannot reach them as I stare at the sky.
Eugenia Andino, Seville, Spain
Sunday 19 November 2006
Friday 17 November 2006
Autumnal haiku by Christine Bruness
soft moonlight illuminates
the small spider's web.
blustery fall day~
mailman chases the letter
blowing in the wind
autumn shore trip
alone on the beach amongst
an ocean of ghosts
swarms of white & gray
soaring in the twilight...
sky of seagulls
Christine Bruness, New Jersey, USA
Sunday 12 November 2006
Come in from the cold: November snapshots by Eugenia Andino
Salgo sola, al amanecer.
El viento gélido me envuelve
Mientras mis amigos duermen.
Alone, out at dawn.
The icy wind wraps me up
While my friends sleep.
2
Dos feroces dragones:
Un niño y una niña con impermeables,
Su aliento de vapor.
Two fiery dragons:
Boy and girl in raincoats,
Their breath of steam.
3
Una hoja se aferra a la rama.
Otoño helado.
'No te rindas sin oponer resistencia'.
Leaf clings to the tree,
Chill autumn.
'Don't give in without a fight' (Pink Floyd)
4
Con purpurina de escarcha
la hierba se disfraza:
Un Halloween tardío.
Glittery with frost
The grass puts on a costume:
a late Halloween.
Eugenia Andino, Seville, Spain
Sunday 5 November 2006
For the Girl Who Had a Crush on Me in Middle School by Corey Cook
hair, the long greasy hair. The girl
who wore ill fitting, faded clothes
-clothes that had been passed down
& passed down again. The girl
who had a crush on me & wrote
me love letters, letters that said "I
saw you at the tennis court Tuesday
& wanted to walk over, but my father
was home." The girl whose father
had a sailboat stocked with food
& supplies in his backyard, whose
father sent her out for firewood half
-naked at three in the morning, whose
father held the entire family hostage
with a shotgun. The girl who needed
me, needed someone. The girl I didn't
acknowledge until now.
Corey Cook, New Hampshire, USA
Friday 3 November 2006
Taken Away by Chris Major
it was one Friday night.
Went down clutching
a take away under
a blur of boots,
tattooed arms that
pistoned primary colours.
Red smothered,
masala making things
look worse.....better.
Fortnight in a coma,
before us at rehab;
a weight of careplans
and papers hopefully
squeezing out some
quality of life.
Sentences cut,
few words at a time,
soothing soft syllabled
and mushy as food.
Forced smiles and optimism
before home to 'see ya lata' notes,
nights of no sleeping
'til keys find the lock...............
Chris Major, Staffordshire, UK
Tuesday 31 October 2006
Haiku for Hallowe'en by Christine Bruness
hearing the campfire hiss
from the rain's kisses
October morning
fog rolls across the graveyard
or: phantoms dancing?
glass jack-o-'lantern
smashed to pieces by goblins
this Halloween night
Christine Bruness, New Jersey, USA
Sunday 29 October 2006
Moonstruck by Chris Major
and herbal teas,
therapy and pound
a pill Prozac
-nothing bloody helped.
"Hopeless."
"And in this day and age,
it's like asking for the moon."
She moaned.
I wonder if peace
was found that night?
Purposefully stepping
in to the road,
leaving tarmac puddles
showing pieces of sky,
a gutter of glass
glinting its stars.................
Chris Major, Staffordshire, UK
Friday 27 October 2006
Lost Cities by Steven Schroeder
it's ever touched, Kohelet, when
it slips unseen to sea, overflows
with rivers of them, lost cities
that rise in clouds sky
cannot contain.
Steven Schroeder, Chicago, USA
Sunday 22 October 2006
Hawk and Mouse by Jan Harris
in wing-torn sky
eye, beak, talon
laser-sharp.
Instinct holds her taut,
explosion suspended,
honed,
controlled
on the tip of dive.
In shadow
eyes night-wide
blood shudders
through flared veins
nostrils scent
flight frozen
two hearts
one moment
alive.
Jan Harris, UK.
Friday 20 October 2006
Three haiku on Trees by Sandy Sue Benitez
covering the naked earth
with shawls of copper
Crabapples fall hard
crashing into frosted soil
red comets on fire
Kites float in gold skies
paper leaves tied with ribbon
tree roots envious
Sandy Hiss, Wyoming, USA
These haiku are now featured on November's Festival of the Trees.
Friday 13 October 2006
Autumn Song by Lanie Shanzyra P Rebancos
Twigs snap under my boots
on my way home
alone
Midnight
after work-
black veil
took me
home
Pumpkin pie
on my plate-
crumbs
on my sister's
shirt
Attic
smell of dust and
memories
Cloudy day
a kite
passes by
Autumn song
so lonely
even the leaves
cry
Lanie Shanzyra P Rebancos, Phillipines
Friday 6 October 2006
Spiders Inside by James Engelhardt
and I don't use the microwave but I notice anyway
the thick webs connecting it to the nearby wall.
What I notice really isn't the webs. To be accurate,
I sense the dark shadow of a spider. And then
I wonder how it was hanging there, which was stupid.
A good-sized spider, too, the length of the first bone
of my index finger. I want to say it's smart
because the ones on the floor get eaten by my cat.
But there aren't many other insects to eat
where it's spun it's dense, white webs. I puff on it
to chase it back under the weird, flat-button oven.
My wife doesn't really care for spiders, but likes
other bugs even less. We don't use the microwave
much and I don't see the spider for a few days.
Dana warms up some leftovers, the web tears
but it's repaired next day and I feel good. It's autumn
and the spider and I keep finding enough to eat.
James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA
Friday 29 September 2006
Two haiku by Faustina
standing atop a mountain
travel in shadows
to see this haiku with its accompanying photo, visit this page
one gust of the wind
one breath taking me away
like a leaf falling
to see this haiku with its accompanying photo, visit this page
Faustina, Georgia, USA.
Friday 22 September 2006
the wind blows my mind by J D Nelson
I flip & twist
as the sky sighs.
far from the tree
where I changed
from green to gold,
I'm flying.
J D Nelson, Colorado, USA
Tuesday 19 September 2006
Escape by Gerald England
every once in a while
to escape
from the oppressive closeness
of the city;
to take a bus
away from the city
to a small village
up on the moors' edge
from where
I can walk up
into the hills
where there is
no roar of traffic
but the rippling of a stream
Though the city
is but a mere
bus ride away
it could be a million miles
for here is not the solitude
of the city,
which is loneliness,
but the solitude
of the country,
which is freedom.
Gerald England, Hyde, UK.
Sunday 17 September 2006
Cleaning the Saddle by Taylor Graham
The leather’s dry. I rub in saddle soap
in swirls from swell to cantle. Touch of rust
on metal. Scuffs and wear marks. Heels and rope
and smell of horse long gone –
those canters, leaning with the stride
of Molly-black mare. But a girl
grows up, away
from horses; keeps the saddle for awhile.
It’s time to clear out memories and space.
I wonder what this old brown leather’s worth.
I take a rag and wipe away the dust.
Tuesday 12 September 2006
Multiple Sclerosis (full of darkness) by Chris Major
you were shaking that much;
fingers that started with pins 'n' needles
had now lost grip on cups,
cutlery, job and dignity;
no matter how high you got
you never left the rock bottom
of wife in another's bed,
children now with parents.
I wheeled you outside to sunshine,
the looming shadow
of nursing homes.
Darkness leaked,
soaked your jeans crotch,
as you inhaled,
coughed,
caused blackbirds to rise
and speckle blue sky.........
Chris Major, Staffordshire, UK
Friday 8 September 2006
Gasp by Anna Piutti
the kind of truth that makes
trust skip a beat
and fall
amidst wisteria storms
when the rageful season
swarms
and sneers, shamelessly
infesting the senses?
Anna Piutti, Vicenza, Italy
Friday 25 August 2006
epic by Steven Schroeder
The Amnesia of the Cosmos by Steven Schroeder
to these moments of forgetfulness. Only
yesterday, the whole thing burned
red hot. Now it is cold.
That white chalk feathered
on a background of ice looks so familiar,
and the rattling in the tree, something
stirring that might have been
extinct. She can see her sighs
now, cirrus wisps that grow
heavy, roll into cumulus, cumulonimbus
piled high; and, for the life of her,
she cannot remember how to stop the rain.
Steven Schroeder, Chicago, USA
Tuesday 22 August 2006
Landscape with Rocks and Trees by Taylor Graham
I think I know this scene.
Boulders clutched by roots,
and the smooth trunks bent
around granite contours
by weather and the immeasurable
growth of rock.
Long green brush-strokes
convey a season’s yield of grasses.
If I looked away – say,
out the window
at my parceled acres
and the newly fallen pine –
and then if I looked back,
how much longer
would those brush-strokes be?
What new shadows,
what graceful bending tree
might have fallen?
Would someone
dreaming a different landscape
have come to drive the first
fencepost?
Would the barb-wire
already be strung?
Taylor Graham, California, USA
Sunday 20 August 2006
e Equals.... by Gary Beck
I urgently need to maintain control
of some elements of existence
that challenge my trivial power.
As my planet speeds through its orbit,
I barely cling to the surface,
pressured by every kind of force,
especially that of gravity.
I fear eco-disaster everywhere,
see man's best creations wasted in war,
yet precisely align my dresser drawers,
in a mostly futile effort
to establish a sense of order.
Gary Beck, New York, USA.
Thursday 17 August 2006
What Happens to Dead Penguins? by Sally Evans
a path to higher ground,
a worn trail winds.
Here the old and frail
ascend to a pool
of fresh melt-waters.
Deep layers of corpses lie
in wet ancestral vaults,
depth of clarity.
Those few, who age
and do not die too soon,
take penguin stance.
This twice described
at South Georgian stations
by curious, thirsting men.
We face in from the rim,
towards the riddle
of our last parade.
Sally Evans, Callander, Scotland
Sunday 13 August 2006
Heatwave by Steven Schroeder
on the far side of heat this
evening, but it has not broken.
A shadow of a promise,
a kiss of shade diverts us,
takes our minds off sun.
Steven Schroeder, Chicago, USA
Thursday 10 August 2006
Low Tide by Bondbloke
Having been sitting proud, bobbing sensuously,
In the bustling, water filled harbour.
Trapped by forces of nature without chance of escape,
Until the tide returns again to restore their freedom.
Ropes and chains once unseen beneath the water
Lie now draped with slimy brown and green seaweeds,
Like so many stranded eels writhing in viscous mud.
Resting now in their ineffectiveness, their redundancy,
Their strength to be tested once more at high tide.
Fishermen mill around in groups, hands in pockets,
Waiting for the tide, discussing the weather,
Talking about past glories when fish were plentiful.
Others still are busy preparing for the next tide,
Mending nets, cleaning down boats, simply waiting.
Seagulls scavenge for any titbits they might find,
And people eating ice-creams, fish and chips etc.
Are prime targets for their terror tactics.
Despite all the warnings, DON'T FEED THE GULLS!
People feed them anyway, and deservedly get pecked.
Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland
Sunday 6 August 2006
Just Waiting by Bondbloke
Watch fishing boats at the tide line,
Awaiting its return whilst also
Waiting for a southerly breeze.
Fishermen stand around and talk,
About earth shattering events,
Like whose turn it is to
Buy the next round at lunchtime.
Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland
Friday 4 August 2006
Dawn by Bondbloke
Slide like the crafty hands of a cat burglar,
Over the window ledge of the horizon,
And begin to jemmy the lock of the day.
Sunrise comes as the visual music of the cosmos;
The soft light of dawn flowing passionately,
Like the lethargic caress of a gentle lover
Over the sleepy, undulating body of the sea.
The sea sucks noisily at the sandy shore,
Like an old man drinking tea from a saucer.
The seagulls plaintive cry greets the day,
Before other birds have even brushed their teeth.
The most precious time of day is dawn.
Aurora comes to the world anew each day.
Stripping off her cloak of spangled darkness
And flaunting her red and gold-flecked body.
Bondbloke , Leith, Scotland
Wednesday 2 August 2006
Underwater or Plunder by Alan Dunnett
Fall and rise, to silt or sky, while adventurers tilt
Slightly and return in their cabins, trying plans
In argument for doubloons and dead men's eyes.
It is still hot at midnight, even the ponderous blades
Of the fan are sweating. Still talk is breathed
Out, there is as much uncertainty as the sea shifts.
Now the moon blindly searchlights the water, then the wind
Falls from the rigging. They will cast their die
Where incestuous currents twist against each other
And the fish are hunting with poisonous mouths.
That greed-worn map... written with a mixing
Of gunpowder and rum, pestled together
In longitude and latitude in a cave beneath a tavern
In Old Jamaica ! Will you go down
Where X marks the spot and search
Among the moving bones ? This is a chance
Like a fallen angel, and all the jaws work in a whisper
Against seaweed and shin for the taking.
Alan Dunnett
First published in Hurt Under Your Arm (Envoi)
Sunday 30 July 2006
This Message From Exile by R W Hurst
short skirts that arrest a youthful gait
the tapered legs with ankle charms
the arms that search and sway
no longer distract me. I am free
once, compelled to linger
fixed, rocking between thighs
my age and energy moved in opposition
the tangle of limbs and twisted desire
were fuel for misadventure and denial
I found not love but incompletion
this ocean beach with sea debris
driftwood, wreckage and stone
laps at ancient footprints, badly eroded
and at mine, alone
Now, aged and disgraced
consumed by infidelity
these seaweed girls sing siren songs
of unity, harmony and home
R.W. Hurst, Ontario, Canada
Friday 28 July 2006
The Dragon by Sandy Sue Benitez
the dragon tattoo, I didn't
believe you were preppy 101,
clean cut in your wool sweater
and Dockers. I wasn't sure
I wanted to see your legs,
lean and pale; a runner's body
fed from lentil soup and fishcrackers.
The dragon was a distraction for
the horror that lay underneath.
Creeping and winding itself
through layers of arrogance that
you breathed from your nostrils.
Setting fire to gentle hands
whose only intent was to touch
your heart.
I always thought dragons wore
beauty in unconventionality.
Loners, drifting in solitude, their
wings unclipped. But when I tasted
your fire, it burned my tongue.
So I spit you out, let you disappear
behind pages of myth.
Sandy Hiss, Wyoming, USA
Tuesday 25 July 2006
Meandering by Mandy Smith
sends her reeling through space
watching the lights of the earth
from Greenland's icy mountains
to the fire raging rivers of Hawaii
dragging domestic dragons behind her.
One day her train will come;
for now she stands on a lonely platform
with no-one to hold her
unsheltered from the feral wind.
Mandy Smith , UK.
Sunday 23 July 2006
Whatsoever Things are Lovely by Christine De Luca
Da day, i da toon,
Friday 21 July 2006
Two Garden Haiku by Christine Bruness
summer morning~
resting on a yellow rose
a black butterfly
Dahlia garden
a cabbage fly dashes through
the maze of pink blooms
Christine Bruness, Lyndhurst, New Jersey, USA
Wednesday 19 July 2006
The Garden of the Villa d'Este by Sally Evans
parades of gremlins in the rain.
and crowds of statues, dark leaves, stone,
water, outward and upwards thrown,
combined to set a garden-star
that stayed with me till Callander,
where, wet with torrents from the crags,
herbage expands while verbiage lags,
and showered petals link their songs
with choreography of stones.
Sally Evans, Callander, Scotland, editor of Poetry Scotland
Sunday 16 July 2006
Arboles / Tree Cycle by Eugenia Andino
El cielo pesa el doble,
La lluvia es el doble de gris
cuando llueve sobre las palmeras.
The sky is twice as heavy,
Rain is twice as grey,
when it falls on the palm trees.
2.
Sólo falta un tono de verde en Cornell:
Plata mate del olivo.
The only shade of green Cornell misses:
Dull silver of olive trees.
3.
Una llama, fuegos artificiales,
Abanicos rojos, una sorpresa.
Una platanera en un jardín.
A flame, a firework,
Red fans, a surprise.
Banana tree in a garden.
4.
La mece el aire,
jacaranda plumosa.
Sueña que es pájaro
Swaying in the breeze,
Feather-leaved jacaranda:
it dreams it's a bird.
5.
En estas calles mías
los ginkgos extienden sus ramas.
me saludan, estos amigos míos,
elegantes damas con abanicos,
niños que quieren abrazos.
Along my streets,
The ginkgoes spread their branches.
They greet me, my friends,
Elegant ladies with fans.
Children throwing arms for hugs.
Eugenia Andino, Seville, Spain.
Translated by the author.
Friday 14 July 2006
Woodland Walk by Bondbloke
The dozy mutt running on ahead,
Having his first exercise of the day.
Brown and yellow, fallen leaves
Rustle and crunch underfoot.
All is still, peaceful in dawn's light,
Except for the croaking pheasant
And the calls of other, unseen birds.
A stream burbling along clandestinely,
Heading lazily toward the sea,
Reflects the sun's early golden rays
Up through almost bare branches,
Lighting drops of early morning dew.
Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland
Sunday 9 July 2006
Morning Star by Taylor Graham
I slept beside you on the floor.
A moonless night, but through the window
some bright planet stood in the east,
beacon for a journey.
Some say, the heavens don’t hold messages
for dogs. Perhaps the sign was meant
for me. Was it Saturn, twisting inside
his iron ring of grief, who kept
my vigil? Or Venus, orb of love
in a cold sky? Morning extinguishes
the brightest star. I took your leash
and led you out the door, first
station of a journey to that place
I trust we’ve known before.
Taylor Graham, California, USA.
Taylor's website can be found at: http://somersetsunset.net/Poetry.htm
Friday 7 July 2006
We Grow to Resemble Each Other by James Engelhardt
If there is a new piece of furniture,
the others turn and introduce themselves:
"I am a chair. And you?" "A lounger."
The couch, footstool, sideboard all ask questions
about the stranger's early life, inspect the newness.
No spills, yet, no tooth marks, no flatulence.
No one has fallen onto it, stubbed a toe.
The imported wickerish thing
asks questions none can understand,
but even the lounger admires the lacquer.
Over time, dining and living room sets
get separated, their howls
so high-pitched even dogs can't hear them.
Grief can make furniture indiscrete,
cause them to snap—even under the delicate weight
of a shrinking grandmother.
Some age proudly, are slim, unobtrusive,
understand more than they let on.
They murmur to each other about Old World values,
about market prices and rates of appreciation,
ignore the Art Deco and Bauhaus pieces,
will not speak to anything designed
by Frank Lloyd Wright, no matter how polite.
Out in the barn, chairs miss legs, seats.
Tables without tops look like andirons.
Loungers sprawl unstuffed, springs shot.
Identifying tags, family histories,
distinctive paint and finials—all have been removed.
Slumping, bruised, they turn to each other,
"What's your story?"
James Engelhardt, Nebraska, USA
Tuesday 4 July 2006
Untitled by Phil Primeau
so well
magnetism decreases
swans lift like water
but generate no electricity
come home
& put on nick drake
shower then remove the cassette
eat a bowl of cheerios
against her gravity
wait for blood
to thin bad rain
Phil Primeau is manager-in-chief of PERSISTENCIA*PRESS and editor of Dirt, a print 'zine of minimalist poetry and poetics.
Sunday 2 July 2006
Breakfast by Anna Piutti
High above the roofs,
the frost-lacquered
crane branch
holds a
plump, radiant
orange.
Hungry for warmth,
I grasp the vital
sphere and
slice it
into thick
wedges.
A paper towel on my lap, I
sink my teeth
into the morning glow:
calm,
juicy.
Sweetly sour.
Anna Piutti, Vicenza, Italy
Friday 30 June 2006
haiku by Faustina
where does a sunset begin?
only where day ends.
(to see this haiku with the accompanying photo visit: page)
without seeing, calm
hiding in the trees, cold mist
feel it there, crisp quiet
(to see this haiku with the accompanying photo visit: page)
Faustina , Georgia, USA
Tuesday 27 June 2006
Morning Fog by Bondbloke
Lending the morning a ghostly chill, and,
An uncanny mixture of tranquillity and dread.
Terrifying in its silence and gentleness,
Like the harbinger of some impending catastrophe.
The tea-tray flat sea, a mirror no more,
The curious, creamy, smooth water covered
By a nebulous shroud of bleached opaqueness.
Blurring the outlines of all it encounters,
Deadening, distorting the disembodied sounds.
Beyond the shore we hear the putt, putt, putt,
Of a boat's engine as, tentatively, warily,
It gropes its way through nature's curtain,
Following the mournful wail of the fog-horn,
Trying to attain once more the safety of the harbour.
Bondbloke, Leith, Scotland
Sunday 25 June 2006
Whitby Jet by Sally Evans
beads, ornament, brooches.
Stone, fine and intricate,
to wear, to revel in,
and slowly break.
Below gull torn skies
in the fishing town,
by Staithes, under quayside sails,
the sharp glitter, a dark rainbow
in booths.
Night flowering, a perennial glow
of east coast darkness, the poet-monk
Caedmon's fire.
Sally Evans, Callander, Scotland
Tuesday 20 June 2006
Reviews of Bolts of Silk
Review in One Night Stanzas
Review on Poet a Day Blog
Review in Literary mag
Monday 19 June 2006
Welcome to Bolts of Silk!
Another inspiration for the title is the fact that bolts of silk were traditionally given as prizes in Japanese poetry competitions.
I hope this blog will feature poetry from across the world, poetry that has something to say and says it beautifully. Beyond that it is of course, down to my personal taste!
Biographical details where available will be included in the comments section underneath each poem. Aditionally, contributors will have one link to a blog or website (if they have one) in the side panel as well as in the post that contains their poem. If you like what you see of their work here, please visit their online homes to read more!
Tuesday 30 May 2006
Please Read the Submission Guidelines
I can accept poems in English, Scots dialects, German, French, Italian or Spanish. I will also consider poems in other languages, especially Rumanian, Dutch or Scandinavian languages. Please however supply English translations! Poems in English will use American or UK (or other accepted variant) Spelling depending on the poets usage. Please proof read your poems before sending them, numerous errors in spelling and grammar reduce the quality of a poem in the eye of an editor and can lead to rejection.
Please include the address of your website or blog if you have one, so I can link to it! I will include your biographical details, where offered, in the comments section under poems. Please let me know your Twitter username if you have one so I can maximise publicity through Twitter!
As Crafty Green Poet I have a particular interest in poems about nature or environmental issues. However, I am keen for Bolts of Silk to cover a range of themes, so send me poetry on any subject, though please no obscenity or indecency. Poems with a seasonal reference are published in the season they refer to, in the hemisphere they were written in.
All contributors will have one weblink in the side panel as well as in the post that contains their poem. Due to the large number of contributers, I can now only offer one sidebar link per poet. This will be to the poet's blog and only if the poet doesn't have an up-to-date blog will it be to a website. I can link to Facebook fan pages but not to Facebook personal profiles.
I will reply as soon as possible to all submissions, this will usually be within a month. If I haven't got back to you within six weeks, please feel free to remind me of your submission. I will publish as and when, depending on how many appropriate submissions I get at any one time, usually two or three poems a week.
Please wait at least two months before sending another submission after publication or rejection.
Rejection is a necessary part of poetry journals. I may not like your poem, but equally I may just feel it won't fit in well with other current poems lined up for publication. Please don't be too disheartened if I do reject your work, but note I can't enter into correspondence about why I've rejected your work.
Although not an essential criterion for publication, I'd like to encourage contributors to link to Bolts of Silk from their website or blog and/or to follow the blog through Networked Blogs or Google Friends.
Copyright for all poems remains with the author.