All entries for Wednesday 14 October 2009

October 14, 2009

Archive number THREE

This entry is here purely because I realised I didn't want Emin to be at the top of my page. The poetry is kind of incidental. Well, here is Melia Lia's 'Dream Snatcher'. I thought that Lia might be appropriate here because of her tendancy to incorporate natural fluidity into her art...BASICALLY, she makes pretty pictures.

dream snatcher


In the name

Translucent flowers ache (unlike
us) under the X-Ray.
Burnt.

Shambling clouds used
to shake, and the wind
chromed

the grass with its mantra.
One less to panic, to
shrink.

Paper butterflies never
needed to fly, flailingly
watching

the river panting itself
a love note and the wind
shaking

the clamouring clouds
into a state of democratic
decay,

all for amour. All for the
flowers that ache,
burnt.


Archive number TWO

This one is here purely because I just read the word 'archive' in it and I just wrote 'archive' in the title of this entry. I had to stifle a little giggle. Aside from that, this is something I wrote after a weekend camping. Hence the picture of Tracey Emin's 'Tent'.

Emin


One night.

nothing beats the thrill
of a lie on the cusp of.

when everyone loves
(for everyone loves),

we never falter.

The collective ache
stiffens the archive,

that looser rose-hipped
hunter. He will heal

self-perpetuation.

nothing beats the thrill
of a lie, close shadow.

something in the pulse
repeats, stagnating.

moist breath again, again.

Uncertain lips hover
and clasp. We sit, awake.

We are fumbled, cold.
Promised another.

for everyone loves.


Archive number ONE


This is a poem I read at The Bowery Poetry Club in New York. That was a fun night...

zhang xiaogang, a big family.

The image is Zhang Xiaogang's 'A Big Family'.


There was a discrepancy.
He shock fell
dinner. (Na’s Cottage Pie)

And the doctor
(OK, Delia lie)
shouted nothing.

Potato starching
over a grown
stint. Oh, mould.

The milk stood dry.
At least, if chosen,
it would stand to melt.

TV moans again,
like sediment. Like dust.
Or, not now, crisps.

*
It was all the glaze,
the aversion.

Written on a mass-
market plaque,

this is our grief,
to care (more).

But she forgets,
oh. Pride.

Claw money. In
that talon.

Same second.
Claw money.

*
There is rot

Always oil

My skinplant

I cannot say

I watched him move



'Create a form'

I had to create a poetic form for my second assignment. I decided to base my form on the span of the average human's life, 65 years. My form is called the 'Mortza' because it is written in one stanza and, well, it is inherently drawn to the poem's death. There are 65 words in the Mortza, split into 23 lines. The first 21 lines are made up of 3 words and the final two lines are one word lines. The words themselves are written in a pyramid structure. The first word must have only one letter, the second two letters, the third three letters and so on until the 18th word, which has 18 letters. The number of letters in the words decline from the 19th word to the 33rd word on a scale of one letter per word. The 33rd word is yet again a one letter word, the 34th a two letter word etc. until the 48th word which has 16 letters. The numbers of letters in the words further diminish to the last two words in the last two lines, the second to last having two letters and the last having one. This is done to establish a life in the poem's form that mimics the stresses of human existence.

Here is my example, '65'.

old man

_65

I am mad,
made idiot infant
crawler. Stalking stoically
GOLDENAGE abandoners. Beastliness
accessorized, porcelainized ceremonialists
melodramatized. Anthropological apprehensiveness
fetishistically, frictionlessly (frustratingly)
feebleminded. Backlashing blockheads
swallowed. Wherever mothers
mingle, wails wage
him in a
so far wist
filed facade. Nobbled,
nakedest, nocturnal vulgarizer.
Guillotined malevolently, yuppification
disassimilates passionlessness. Predeterminative
perishabilities; foresightedness fractionalized
formulaically. Grandparents galavanting,
lovelessly launching laughter;
idolatry castled lonely.
Waste will win.
We...!
O.


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