Untitled
I dreamt I lay beside your rose
and touched a chord that brought a whisper
from your lips. I dreamt I slipped
inside and felt a firmament and motioned now
with you, ablaze. I dreamt of petals
holding me in the magic of the dark,
and the incense of a flower.
© Charles Bane Jr.
is a widely published American poet. His work has appeared in print and online at The Indian Diary, The Criterion: An International Journal in English, Clutching at Straws, Durable Goods, Word Pond, and museumviews. com. His poetry was included in I Was Indian: An Anthology of Native Literature, Vol 1 (Foothills Publishing). He was the only non-Native American included in the volume. In addition, his writing has been the focus of critical review, most recently in The Poetry of Charles Bane , Jr in The Calliope Nerve. His first book, " The Chapbook: Poems by Charles Bane, Jr. " was described by the Huffington Post as "not only standing on the shoulders of giants, but shrinking them." His second book of poetry, "Love Poems/ Los Poemas de Amor" will appear in Fall, 2014. His books are available at Amazon.
let there be a word
let’s kill Amazonia, excise and dissect the lung of the world. let’s trade it for highways and hydroelectric plants.
stretched, tormented landscapes, hazed ridges, earthy colours of shrivelled aquifers.
we’re still a prehistoric species.
humanity: metamorphoses still in progress.
our humanity is under construction.
an incorrigible, pertinacious carnal romance, a faulty raw material for the dreams.
tobacco smell k mixed with a whole range of the stinky nidors of unwashed bodies.
who takes care of those falling behind?
let there be a word for the millenary traditions trampled underfoot, for the nations forced into salvery, for the martyrs and victims of the European enlightenment and missions for the sake of the good.
let there be a frantic howl cutting to the bone, a roar in memory of the stolen generations, for the future and lives granulated, mulled, pulverized.
lives undermined, truncated, discriminated.
let there be a deafening thud, a wailing boom for the ages of torture, abasement and exploitation.
let there be a word of light, a word of apology, a word of penitence.
for the ravages, the superciliousness, the putrescence, the genocides.
for the envenomed souls, the liquidated hopes, the pestilent domination.
let there be a word of conpunction.
hauling city of mine
a city of distant echoes, a millenary heritage.
we’ve navigated these imaginary streets dusted with pain for so long.
a city of waterfall whispers and rosaries told cautiously.
glimmery eternity: flickering sunlight of a pheasant shearing through the rainless ash of the sky.
a city of forgotten thriving.
cold drifts of love recited in unbearable, recurring invasions of an uneasy persistence.
what do we mumble under the auburn firmament flecked with the bristles and whispers of the forgetful past.
thousands of lives sinking into oblivion.
memory of an unbearable desolation, whirlpool of sorrow swirling over the tenuous horizon.
a former industrial town stands replenished with vacuous enormity, hectares of gaping chimneys.
thunders voyage soundlessly through the propane memories of the meandering thousands, lining in front of the factory gates spawning in a ruminative waltz as fixtures of a tardily expiring mortal loan.
city of steel, exhaling a mesh of industrial wilderness.
wasted generations gobbled up by vacuous hangars, we’re the titaniously agitated offal of out-of-fashion ages.
we’re the statuette of mimicked inspiration and reinforced concrete contemplating our ravaged beauty.
shorelines of bitumen malformation and insidious solitude.
© Károly Sándor Pallai
Fleeing
Fleance, the hippodrome flea,
But through his five-spun leash
Casting-off a world map
No more muckle than a cigar box.
A turnstile’s deadlocked.
His eye-strained gallery gods go un-merry made
Bu tom-tit chariots,
Wiry legs flickering itsy-witsy balls.
Up at Sotheby’s Ringmaster flogs
The matchbox of dashing hollow hand-me-downs.
Hot Wash
Pigment beaching slurs the Hotpoint.
Emulsifiers thwart careening luminosity.
Any whirl deluded lighting, a dye’s splash.
Do vapours suffuse the clotheshorse?
An Individual Free-Born In The Collective
Black swans adrift
From the squinny that’s herded destiny.
She’s untwined group-think,
Is paintable self-novelty, experiment.
Social undertaking’s jiggle,
A chafing endeavour.
Her rebuttal of a rubberstamp
Undercurrents no anxiety.
This Decade In Mists
Dusty whiskey squandered,
I’m not hotting up tender age.
Bib and tucker restlessness, table-turned foppery.
Motes of time to bag an addiction
Or a ‘good riddance’ to one.
The Hullabaloo Goes Stereophonic
Sohini nose-flairs at this nocturnal visitation.
A wrong-way rub, flesh-thorned danger.
Otherworldly malevolents stride,
Grounded in rapid-eye scryings.
A banshee excruciates,
Clamouring for mouth-foamed backlash.
© Christopher Barnes, UK
No comments:
Post a Comment