Thursday, January 26, 2012

NEW! Poem by Evelyn Reilly

Evelyn Reilly


CHILDE ROLANDA, or THE WHATEVER EPIC


Here endeth, then,
Progress this way

--Robert Browning,
Childe Harold to the Dark Tower Came



1.

Names in my ears

all the lost

the Spring My Heart Made

sudden river trickle

and charged rain

epistolary pistils

along a Path Darkening



2.

Rain ampules

liquid word phials

came to arrest my thoughts

Questions that CrackDevastate

the extreme corner of the page

no scale order or end

to this series



3.

Wheel which gets the wormiest

sticker panels Nightingale

Panels Small Still Voice

and total inversion splash ruin

in the strictest sense

of the personal desire party

but saddle ached

saddle ached and ached



4.

This was the place Crayola

the Loretto Laredo

where even those

Who Could Find in Their List

trembling outcomes

old man of which

engine trouble

and the interface touch

a little bit dated



5.

Although the View the Same

migrating into the deepest pocket

of Next Phase Phrases

a switch of the Thin New

once upper

now "in it" low

and Subject to the Same Error



6.

In Middle Ground

Tall Scalped Mountain

and lame figure in the cleft

sunset where Noise was Named Ears

re-spoken in the muffle

of horror ardor and blond worry

The Arm That Will Reach Out

when dry blades prick the mud



7.

For flowers fill cruel rents

with Environmental Trial Run

natural regrowth material

mostly alien mostly waste

but coherent with alarms

that Bruise the Creature Program

alert the disappearing progress memo

laid down millennia and millennia



8.

And She Whose She-Horn is also

a camera also a navigational device

photographs as a Breathing Rock

what was picked up as a speaking sea

of avant jewelry: rock paper scissor

and Uber Fern Leaking Through

so many pre-set talking points

disambiguated among the creeping forces

of multiple password panic



9.

in which dauntless Childe Rolanda

whistle blower forest format

maven trolling the underside

of the Universal Mistake Blanket

presses to lipless lips

the endzone slugfest

run out of fuel last lines

(locust marrow sepal

sorrow) of the Whatever Epic

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