pieces of transport and shudder from other bloggers and Publisheds who happen across great things while weilding a pen
BABA MARTA by Amy Jo Sprague: Bloody marvellous: the wisdom of staring into the dark, and letting it be what it is, but not letting it be everything … becomes beautiful, beautiful
Barely Conscious by Tiffany Coffman: this is such a true ‘graph of consciousness’ (Whalen), such deep hole in a single, simple experience … single, simple experiences are never single and they are never simple if we have been alive for anything more than a few seconds
A Blessing by Wordgeekery: there are so many killer lines in here, all barbed; like hooks; under the water; which make you realise; you’re drowning; I think the ‘bless you’s are for the reader when they actually get to look in the mirror of the water; they drown in; with sad love
Cold Tea and Sympathy by David Archer: in his gravatar description he said his poetry is mediocre at best; he obviously hasn’t read ‘Cold Tea and Sympathy’ or any number of pieces he created a few years ago: he can churn out dollops of heartbreak in an ironic instant; I like his tragic poetry the most, but I realise that he can’t just keep churning it out to keep ME happy and heart-stop enthralled (and I am happy for him for that); here is a ‘short, fat, 45, shit with money and prone to bouts of depression’ man with a beautiful heart and lots of tattoos with a sardonic sense of humour (and a love of Barnsley – herm); go read this man … mediocre, my arse
Crone Descants by Bonnie Marshall: Bonnie speaks Woman fluently without guile (of course, for that is Man semantic) or demur; I love [the language of … no, there I go again – [Male] qualification; agh I’m getting parenthetically lost] Woman, like the fascia tissue that holds bone, ligament, muscle and organ in one moving embrace … as my yoga teacher explains
“Family Portrait” by K. A. Brace: an absolute cracker; I ‘got’ all of the words straight through on the first reading … I wasn’t even thrown by the stones in the shoe because I’d relaxed into the ambulation by then; the memories are their own journey, not just the nostalgic destination; this really was a portal to travel through; a superb pieces (sic; look at the collage too) of work
February 2 by C: getting lost, going, arriving, being, remembering all successively at the same time
Haibun Rants of a Blender by Toshimitsu Kareishu: absolutely barking mad – I’m sure I’ll calm down once I understand it all – but I greatly enjoyed the ride; still don’t understand it fully, still enjoying the ride six months on
i am by Tiffany Coffman: Tiffany! What are you doing to me! This is so mindful it is compassionate! This seeps into its own canvas like a watercolour: dwelling in creation rather than the scuffs and marks on the moon! !
In parenthesis by Lazy Wednesdays: – sharp intake – you’ve done it again, Wednesdays, plonked me straight in there (hear (sic), I should explain myself) (sorry, it cheapens your device, but it ‘clicked’ a perspective in me: I had to use it), (so the device worked), (but I’m not quite in control of it yet) – breathe out, breathe out; true out-formative (sic, again) poetry makes me giddy with the possibilities that are all about (all the time) – thank you
it’s a flipside circus day today by Bonnie Marshall: this is a wonderful ‘scape, right here in front of you – from mind to sky to porch to road to street to smile, with all manner of obtuse-angle movement and colour and music that just keeps opening and opening … a wonderful 21st century echo of WCW
I Shift by Bruce Ruston: lingering – as you do in the bathroom – on a glint and a glimpse mixed, usually too wistful and wispy to capture but unpacked here like a magnificent chest of drawers (or even condensed on the mirror!?)
It is for you by Emina Redzic: this is so utterly plaintive; and honest; and lived; so many of the poems on elimelike’s blog are like going through a favourite grandparent’s coat pockets to see what you can find – they are all ‘for you’ if you have the love; I love Emina’s work
Menagerie by Lostinmist or maybe en route Menagerie by Lostinmist: this just kept spindling, threading, weaving, stitching and trimming me in, and cascading down, with each successive stanza – what a fall, and what faint glimmer of true redemption, always along the way; I usually cannot read long poems unless I get the thread (and I often only catch hold of the wrong end of the stick, anyway), otherwise I cannot sustain the attention … unless the poem sucks me into a vortex; this piece tipped me (us?) into a cascade, but the landing was beguilingly cushioned – perhaps all is not lost
Not nothing by Laura M: the Purple-Toothed Grin has such a jaunty angle on life: clear-eyed fresh (but slightly rolling), but always sitting with the chair turned at an angle to the table, ready to get up and dance (or rush to the telephone box), so that when you read her you can’t help notice that you are actually waltzing around the room, and laughing joyously with your head back, face to the spinning ceiling – even though some child tied your laces to the chair you were sitting on and you have been dragging it around the room oblivious
November 15 by C: This is a superb piece of work: lots and lots of shallow steps that each allow a walk-step before the next step down; or up …; floating high above the rainforest to see the rifts in the land, space in the sky, and also down on the land, the banks down to the river – bird calls; and then Trump is in there with the tags! What just went on there?
Ode to Dorian Gray by mywordpool: mywordpool reads with true thread – like Ariadne; this is a true key to why any one of us puts pen to sandpaper as if it were an important thing to do and was actually getting us somewhere – this is where it gets us, to some where there is an enlarged sense of consciousness that includes one’s self rather than [de]spites it; this is en-grown poetry, this is transforming-ative poetry
Orange Days by omrum: a big apartment building sits on the horizon, meditating in the morning while it waits for its various minds and preoccupations to sleepy-wake and stretch their limbs searching piquantly for its true nature which it feels sure is an individual life; this from a delicate poet, steady as a building
Rhubarb and Ginger Jam by Lazywednesdays: I read this when it was first published and read it again recently and it is just as fresh and preserved as ever – it has become a landmark in my reading psyche-scape
The Roof Stayed On by Suzy Blue: all beautifully wrapped-up under an over-arching metaphor; this is a journey that has to be travelled as it is read, through time and world, but never leaves home; and never should
Rooftops by Heather Minette: I resonated with the search, the rooftops are still familiar, the destinations, likewise, only turn out to be stages; this piece takes you on a long nostalgic journey – even though to different places and resting stops – so that by the last stanza, when the dénoument really arrives at its own destination, you are surprised to find that you are Heather Minette; glad to have met you, Heather, ‘out on the vast and subtle plains of mystery’ where I found Joni Mitchell around here somewhere
Sequences by Liana Barcia: this poet only posts very occasionally; as in this one – she brushes broadly with throat-open similes scattered all over the canvas but nonchalantly congeals them with a just-as-they-are quip somewhere in the piece making them Plain New
Singular Revolution by Earthslang: a thunderous blow, rolling across the heavens until lost beyond some horizon, and then suddenly back in your face and my face and everyone else’s face that ever turned on a tv or cruised the net; I wondered if this would pall after eight months, but it doesn’t, it becomes even more ruddy over time as if in an oak casket; and from one so young (he said patronisingly because she is probably not much younger than Ginsberg when he howled); Earthslang has not published anything since May 2012, please visit her site and bring her back
Something Less Than Naked by mywordpool: signed, sealed, delivered … I’m yours
Sweet Swinging by omrum: days are never just days; activities are never just actions; the sweetest and most unforced metaphor is never just literary but like a perfect moment of LoJong practice; and notice, please notice, that she breathes the washing …
Three Facets by johnnycrabcakes: most words you read you have to hack through, like underbrush working out what they mean – ‘where is it?’; other stuff you read and the meaning just goes straight through your eyes and burns direct onto your retina so that you don’t have to do any thinking about the meaning, you just see it; presence like a forgotten idea
This Staircase by April Resnick: most poems I’ll get a ‘seam’ of something mineral and the rest packs tightly around it; if it’s good; this piece by April Resnick from her ..sometimesihatemycat.. blog, is ALL SEAM, I was able to inhabit (and wear) every – single – word; every once in a while she makes some floor-creak-alive pieces which leave me totally relaxed and able to breathe out peacefully and gratefully
Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot: I read this with a big stupid smile on a long flight from Gran Canaria. It is the third or fourth time I have read it. Some poems open like pockets when read additionally, enfoldingly. And make you smile, stupidly, because you hadn’t realised how much there ever is in the very same journey being made in the reading. How much more beautiful can something become: I am beginning to understand why Seymour Glass suffered from the utter-ness of beauty – how beauty can demand your respective and perspective extinction in its unfoldment if you are not too careful. And Seymour Glass and Sylvia Plath were not too careful – what beauty they saw, how shocking (for us) to behold … if we are not careful.
Why before? by Tiffany Coffman: this one produces ‘the smile’: a stupid smile on my stupid face when something ‘zings’; when something makes sense, and I don’t know why; when someone is quite ‘out there’ in a piece they have created, and when they have stopped they open their eyes and look around with ‘wha’ and blink
The Women Descants by Bonnie Marshall: I knew the tumblers would fall – like a bank vault … just as you mentioned them – psshhhhhhhh; you are SO RIGHT that ‘women need wilderness’, and I am not woman; and then I stepped down off that pedestal with her … Bonnie is one of those writers – you have to take a deep breath and keep your wits about you when you enter her pieces of work because they are so well crafted they take you to a strangefamiliar land where you have to breathe anew (a wilderness, in fact), and you can’t do that with your own clutter of pans and utensils; these descants raised such a heartbeat in me that I realised that I am as much woman as my body is not.
The wood is the quiet mass by Lazywednesdays: this one hits you like an aftermath, like a surprise mirror; it works with a true power of fairy story (not just the elements it includes) because all the dress and activity of the story are clothes for real life … us; us during whichever war, us during any struggle, us during whenever lifetime, whether in the past, whether in Syria now, and probably into the future; oh, please have sympathy for all of our grandmothers, children and wolves – look what happens when you don’t (actually look at Wednesday’s follow on poem on her blog These are the leaders we’ll regret if you need a prompt.
zen moments of the senior kind by miriam louisa: I KNEW there was something OK about becoming old – despite all appearances and reference to the otherwise; what glorious sitting-in-the-middle and not getting snagged by the slings and arrows, the barbs and the shards of outrageous indifference to my tiny, needy, ageing sel__________ _ _ … – !; this is the first piece of work that has moved me (shifted me) enough to want to include it in my own ‘others’ page in-a-lonng-time; there is always space to shift and aside, but the still-movement doesn’t happen very often that it’s always a surprise to find it … around here, somewhere, nowheredidIputit?