Tara Rebele
Five poems
IN ANY RESPECT; AT ALL.
something happened
in the courtyard
once
but that was then
when
there was concrete
and now
the courtyard is a corridor
or bedroom
and the rabble
rallies
“Digestion is transformative!”
so too
the woman in her stairwell
she calls the threshold
while sweeping away
the mice
almost human in their chatter
and gingham aprons
“Get off my landing!”
{on in
the thick
a thought and once}
lately everything
occurs
in the parlor
how nice for the
realist
the comforts
of home
and a pipe
[assumed]
the snoop
and the mice know
a thing or two
about
accounting
yet care little
for sensibility
when
the door opens
well
shit
WELCOME TO THE PINHOLE GALLERY
Oops
another passed
on
and another
and so
hard to keep
up up and
she has
a way with them
things
all roots and
yonder
even before
all growed up
a fine bloom
in the flush
a rush
a red cheeked
(>) straight but not
full or rowed
rowdy girl in the mirror
looking for a suitable
exterior
and finding fractures
left and right
are directions
do you follow
two parts
one part
mix thoroughly
a part
in the middle
makes all
the difference
when tidiness
is the desired
outcome
come out of that
interval
and sit a spell
and does
or did
and the fruit was ripe
how cliché
but what else could she call it
all plump
and suppurated
and ready to fuck
oh wait
that was yesterday
or two weeks from
now
oops
WITH THE TENDENCY TO CAUSE ROTATION
(and fall)
so spins
on her
head axis tail thumb
whirling and giddy
and
Alas!
x is the x in the x but not in the x of
one really ought
yep
“this teacup does not own me”
she squabbles
bathing in it
and scrubbing good
tea is nice
soothing
hot
days call for hot
answers
and if she gets out she gets into
and together
impoverished little
bather that she isn't
it funny
that the dog is a paw
and not the other way around
or a cat
or pig, really
why not a teacup
why not
motion makes for a
blurry shot
who's to know
if it is or
wants
or wasn't
who's to know
THE EFFECT THUS PRODUCED
spanning limit-
less void
than offense
idol blindly
visible yet
not
and turgescent
of lilac
on a hot
tin
summer
veins
and short
cropped
janus
is all the rage
reversible and
kith less
(sense{ }being)
once thought
or
maybe just
did and
all / none / some
of the
above the hot tin
lilacs
summer actual or acted
limit less
and only
two
is there an alibi for ?
THE BOUNDS OF DECORUM
But if when
ate eat
earth
(a transgression)
would will
the mirror
camera
(reflect capture)
image imagine
enlargement
{belly
< = > }
cow is to corn as . . .
and if traced
upon white wall
would recognize shape
an ill fitted shoe
or know
and
what
what ya gonna do
when pre-symbolic
comes a knockin
you down
skin on milk
and these breasts
are victims of
topography
the sight of blood makes :
A) sick
B) remember
C) dangerous
D) optimistic
%) all of the above
^) none of the above
oh F,
already castrated
threats to the nose
mean
nothing now
and a few
orifices
seem to have been
misplaced
in the museum
All this going
down
lately
the fallen
fall
survive
laugh ?
d
e
g
r
a
d
materialize
t
i
o
n
and haven't swallowed
a birth
for
years
so ambivalent are the
(some)
body (every) bodies
and the shit
just isn't even
funny any
moor
(ed) in the
margins
***
Jill Jones
Three poems
FIELDS OF ENGAGEMENT
'This is not sport, it's war' --Alan Bond, 1983
on thresholds of grass
in the short tender time
beyond splays and ranks of bodies
honour stands at ease
hands across its vitals
--en garde--
encounters of skin and stones
kicked up by leg theories
a sharply rising ball
tackle, off break, volley
the language knows its bruises
playing the concept not the ball
seats are hard
and angels are sticky
squinting from on high
all you need is rain
all you want is hidden
but play confused by lights
LIBERTY CHANGES
`'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.
--Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Mask of Anarchy
Now in the fringe of Change
burdened, varnished
Courage destined for bullies
leaves torn of shine
Under fountains of Definition
stranger than seas and fuzzy Elsewheres
Keeping belly up, whitened
washed by Danger
Seals, ports, indent, cargo alien
would we fear
Who have hugged Danger in wars
prayed like sinking ships
Mine are the Terrors now
that children feel unsaid
The stream is never still
it is, more or less, fresh
Wavelike in variance, in Presence
not the Nation, or the dream
Forbidding, deep seeded
source of same
To go on as if
part of the sky is missing
Stars blunt as the moon
the force of Reason
As though we'd got past Heaven
what to do now
Discover suicides and choosing
sterile as a secret past
Much stronger than anyone
colour red a wild High
So it's still written after
all envelopes have been pushed
Attempted centre but uncalmed
more violent than anyone said
Caught in the flagrance of Fraud
that slippy grin, Hypocrisy
Not unlike decent figures
painted against horizons
The guards of our lives
warring and telling us
Waiting for the living storm
morning's quick Doctrines
With a slight cough of apology
the State flecks time
More than can ever be said
that friends die in the days
Lost as angels gathering up
something cold and flashy
The rose, the shadow secret
knocked up in bushes
Depending on what is to do
or be thrown away
Black and silver bodies
their clicking machinery of Record
To catch the Meaning of Things
but things lie back
Trees swing, leaves rattle
electric road thumps hop
Edging near the smell of music
Wild Thing Fantastique
Lost ignorance in daily blizzards
blind in glassy fastness
Sticky, magnetic as Wealth
hope of men and women
The boutique caress
a sexy and scary vampire
Suspicion, again we fail
release being Virtue unknown
Pressure of the Goal
imprisoned as a nation and nothing else
To avoid the crazy stacks
and furious car parks
So the lonely piss christs
take up the bench
Because we fail
and the leaves burn in summer
Destiny's Child sings
a screen on a pivot
Percussion on faulty playback
chiming spoon in a cup
Moon hides above night cloud
violates the whispering--wakes
Landlocked screams
at night in bed
The work we undo
lustily, like a love Victory
Frightened and strong, two by two
the key, the Enemy
Alien prints--a blood taste
the Thing has fled
Locked ourselves into labouring long
to be brave, to flail
A wrap for the story tomorrow
like the breeze
Great slabs of concrete thunder
crumble slumbering city
Dust of surface and planet
risen in the breeze
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.
Covers the living and the dead
can be disturbed
A notion believed by millions
forces resolve--but to be free
Among courtesies, the incoming tide
the rub of Love's salty wounds
Bloom a glowing dress
though bent in a sweeping storm
Beautiful, the velvet gate
without burning faces
How much more leftovers
sequin the casinos of Indecision
Put on the Marvellous, electric fabric
shine in the long night
Kisses are no longer mute
if they do not let us slumber
Despite hulks the questions pour
until no-one can stop you dancing
To assert at least one dawn
without great pleasures of Anxiety
Beyond the fractures and beside
tremors, diggings, histories
The flight, the change, readiness
instead of a wall
DISCREDIT
As war is told a suspect laments
what certain people exterminate
a bloody search--fleeing
irrational treatment
exceeded in grief
the sorrowful wheel
which war works
excessive, uninhibited
the beginning--as anybody explains
of rue-filled work.
Thanks directly the inhuman
discrediting time's bad reputation
troublesome army songs
talks of world-wide electrification
a business war
in each quarter exceeds
this type of feeling.
Ticket the pleasure in force of arms
jam their system effect
methods which positively remove
where it is bloody
(I am like this though more on edge
level inside the child
if I listen)
early with a sense of necessity
together
do the uninhibited map
transition which is cruel
discredit as it is used.
***
David Hamilton
Three poems
THROUGHOUT THE VILLAGE BY NIGHT, HUMMINGBIRDS
take wing, wings of the most lightly vertebrate:
after the car passes, the painter, from shadows, pounces
on a back fence or a window box--stencils, sprays,
then an arts grant, a catalog, and map for a walking tour.
I found the evidence in the Strand and soon gave
the book away, saving the idea for later, in Iowa City.
LIKE ONE RED PICTOGRAM AMID CALLIGRAPHY
like one heart unfrozen, quickening your own,
like the apt word on your lips when you thought
to say exactly what you exactly thought:
the high cardinal singing, you note it now,
on his tree, no leaf, snow loads the ground;
like one coal in the grate and from somewhere
breath enough to blow it into spring.
YESTERDAY THE GOLDFINCHES RETURNED
to the thistle feeder. They'd ignored it all winter
but now, as the first smudge of gold shows in their coats
they light in the birch and test thistle gone stale.
Ramón lolls underneath on melting crusts of snow.
I'm behind an upstairs window, wavering on one
leg, doing "tree," trying to forget looking on.
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