"Pigskrit"
mountain of skulls · scone crumbs
schooling the clenched toolmitt
& turquoise cup topoi
taper mirthless tapeworm
folly to tempt vampires
vast in stingy vengeance
circle of sojourn · burning descent
baleful side-eye
"It is a lonely business, waiting to be translated to another sphere." --@icomptonburnett
"THE RUIN
[Text used: Kluge, Angelsächsisches Lesebuch.
This description of a ruin with hot baths is generally assumed to be of the Roman city of Bath. The fact that the poet uses unusual words and unconventional lines seems to indicate that he wrote with his eye on the object.]
Wondrous is its wall-stone · laid waste by the fates.
The burg-steads are burst, · broken the work of the giants.
The roofs are in ruins, · rotted away the towers,
The fortress-gate fallen, · with frost on the mortar.
Broken are the battlements, · low bowed and decaying,
Eaten under by age. · The earth holds fast
The master masons: · low mouldering they lie
In the hard grip of the grave, · till shall grow up and perish
A hundred generations. · Hoary and stained with red,
Through conquest of kingdoms, · unconquered this wall endured,
Stood up under storm. · The high structure has fallen.
Still remains its wall-stone, · struck down by weapons.
They have fallen . . . . . . . . .
Ground down by grim fate . . . . . . . .
Splendidly it shone . . . . . . . .
The cunning creation . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . from its clay covering is bent;
Mind . . . . . . the swift one drawn.
The bold ones in counsel · bound in rings
The wall-foundations with wires, · wondrously together.
Bright were the burgher’s homes, · the bath halls many,
Gay with high gables · —a great martial sound,
Many mead-halls, · where men took their pleasure,
Till an end came to all, · through inexorable fate.
The people all have perished; · pestilence came on them:
Death stole them all, · the staunch band of warriors.
Their proud works of war · now lie waste and deserted;
This fortress has fallen. · Its defenders lie low,
Its repairmen perished. · Thus the palace stands dreary,
And its purple expanse; · despoiled of its tiles
Is the roof of the dome. · The ruin sank to earth,
Broken in heaps · —there where heroes of yore,
Glad-hearted and gold-bedecked, · in gorgeous array,
Wanton with wine-drink · in war-trappings shone:
They took joy in jewels · and gems of great price,
In treasure untold · and in topaz-stones,
In the firm-built fortress · of a far-stretching realm.
The stone courts stood; · hot streams poured forth,
Wondrously welled out. · The wall encompassed all
In its bright embrace. · Baths were there then,
Hot all within · —a healthful convenience.
They let then pour . . . . . . . . . .
Over the hoary stones · the heated streams,
Such as never were seen · by our sires till then.
Hringmere was its name . . . . . . . . . .
The baths were there then; · then is . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . That is a royal thing
In a house . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."
--tr Cosette Faust
"breasting the gulled grey, westing
over wave, wind's daughter
over billow, son of wave."
--The Anathemata
From one to the other & back again.
"The emotions of hope and fear cannot in themselves be good."
"At least I know my tradition is among the contradictions" --Fanny Howe
cerulean storm-stolid
stones remember Imbolc
dust of a wind wandered
wipes from glass view spastic
these aisles trellis-troubled
truck with riddle gridlock
"Snovid" isn't the snare · snagged us then
but the mark remains
"It was amazing to imagine your city was a novel, and that for you to walk around within it meant that you were in language, you were in a thinking text. I had been placed inside of something dreaming, its citizens dreaming, the novels we had all written dreaming."
-Renee Gladman (via @EverySongIveEve)
"After The Flood
My dreams are still · of the dry ages.
Waking, I weep · for the world’s drowning,
I, Noah, that knew · it could never last.
(he does, in fact, weep silently)
What a fool I felt, · claiming foreknowledge,
Mad maunderer, · mediating
Visions and voices · for very truth
That everyone knew · were airy delusion!
As I preached, how prim · and proud everyone
Called me – they dubbed me · 'damned hypocrite'!
They said I set · myself in judgment
Of their wills and their ways, · but how well I knew
Soft life, liquor, · love, revelry.
I so dote on drink · that I dream this moment
Of grapes growing · in a great vineyard.
And my maid Miriam, · mother of Ham,
Her embrace in bed · made my beard tingle;
Losing her, I lost · my life, nearly.
No, I was hardly · holier than they,
But God’s governance, · gravitating
From his sovereign seat, · singled me out.
Though I winced and wailed · as his will opened
Itself to my sight, · and insisted on
Living my life · as I liked, never
A move that I made · diminished his rule.
Free will’s working · is wondrous strange."
--Charles R Sleeth in Withowinde
"A poem is about something the way a cat is about the house."
―Allen Grossman (via @wtfisapoet
Translation at the Mountain of Death.
Usher
rococo ort
traverse erstwhile emu
“The crimson woman has quite a few adversaries, just as she is connected with powerful allies. How can I say exactly who they are — some group specializing in art-magic, no doubt, but I can't just say, with a fatuous certainty, 'Yes, it must be some particular gang of illuminati,' or esoteric scientists, as so many have begun styling themselves these days.”
― Thomas Ligotti, Teatro Grottesco (1997)
"All shapes, all forms, seem utterly
Vague images of sleep to me;
And my real self moves all alone,
Between huge pyramids of stone,
To where a crouching figure lies
With furtive-cruel, half-closed eyes."
— John Cowper Powys (via @isidro_li)
"The Whitby Elegy
Here at the cliff’s edge · clear skies above me
the gannet’s gathering-place, · gorse-hidden I would wait.
No man might wander · where I had chosen
unless he by some falseness · had found out that shelter.
The lark’s skein-song · spooled down the air-roads,
solitary wind-hover, · Heaven’s high cantor.
Once, young and year-fresh, · when I yearned by the shore,
Saltspray soothed me, · summer’s dew-fire;
but now this memory-store · makes moist the eyelash.
Winter, that grey wolf, · grants no man comfort.
I saw the sea-eagle · stoop to the fish hoard,
where, like one wind-gusted · or guided towards me,
tiny at the wave’s rim · you ran along the shingle.
This our talking-place survives · sunlit as before,
hidden from the horse-track · a haven among furze-bloom.
The eagle wheels on, · watchful on his sky-riding.
The fierce sun beats · on beached hulls by fish coops.
Old, I still catch larksong · loveliest tune-river,
flowing to the seal-ways · yet flying above me.
Quiet your voice then, · its vows clung to me
Quiet too is grief: · its grip will not slacken."
--Ian Greenwood in Withowinde
1987.
"I found the rococo frivolous and it did not appeal to me for half my adult life. Then, slowly, it became revelatory, almost radical, one of the last eddies of strangeness left." --@saintsoftness
"Obsessed with Emily Wilson saying that for most of the Iliad, Achilles' job was beach" --@BelovedOfOizys (via @poemakontsa)
stuttering spirit passage
apace in crisp whispers
vigil among magics
menacing swatch otchkies
in search of groves savage
assembled pinch-inchmeal
& the ice-hewn isthmus smiles
Nixonian frith frolic
exile vaporetto
here & the wood fence high
they've taken away the Bird Girl
because of tourists
magpie
assembles a scenario
fallow ukase
for moonglade eelfare
balls of fire hover
above the mainmast
whole fam'lies buried
by a shell in the night
& we struggle to schedule
the least little confab
what else beyond our power
we are blind even to ask
the electric slaughterhouse
my perse kenningar pursue
snerdlecore knows as well
tobiku girasole
& Fillmore
in my exile vaporetto
is like a stage Venice
the front yard full of Yule rubbish
"Define my ego:
Obese boogeymen I fed."
--@Anthony_Etherin
"It feels like helping them bait a trap: normal people with jobs and busy schedules go to sites like Substack and Twitter because they have a good reputation as a place to find truth, fun, community, and/or good-faith intellectual engagement. But once they’re in, they find little but gibbering Lovecraftian pain-worshipping madness in there because all the sensible people left ages ago." --Catherynne Valente on her Substack
hasty
scatterlings vie
foothold & god-riddle
The Eight Memes of the Postmodern Mystery.
"the other Polk waits"
cadge flakes · in the childish dawn
no flurry here · but dandruff snow
flakes cast · in the teeth of nothingness
on the way home · pick up nuggets
Five Classic SF Stories About Tidally Locked Planets.
"And from afar Tedaldo's spires espies" --Hoole's Ariosto
"Allurable to no sure theorem" --EA Robinson
The Lost Moment. ☆☆☆
"they call the wind Pariah"
spotty outages · the wind spiralling
over the curved · sandhills
collapsing towers · sore nostrils
footage · of the new explosion
a podcast · not about poetry
benthic darkness · i think of Europa
& the ice they don't know of · ever
simply the limits · of their little world
by day a towerling · & the nights to write
studied transformations · of a nothing life
where two lines meet · in a brown tenement
& the zines that rayed · out-labyrinth vectors
sqelaqiau
jauzi
lezon vicyeq
emada
duhusyiaris dala
( 'secret sea/ black/ wharves/ below/ depth whisperer')
"And for ther is so greet diversitee
In English and in wryting of our tonge,
So preye I god that noon miswrytë thee..."
--Chaucer
"The ring of molten wax that forms around the flame of a candle as it burns is called the BISHOP." --@HaggardHawks
"CROSSING
It was evening when we came to the river
with a low moon over the desert
that we had lost in the mountains, forgotten,
what with the cold and the sweating
and the ranges barring the sky.
And when we found it again,
In the dry hills down by the river,
half withered, we had
the hot winds against us.
There were two palms by the landing;
The yuccas were flowering; there was
a light on the far shore, and tamarisks.
We waited a long time, in silence.
Then we heard the oars creaking
and afterwards, I remember,
the boatman called to us.
We did not look back at the mountains."
--J R Oppenheimer, from American Prometheus
Present to Bruno, from Donna. (via )
" 'Pigskrit?' was all she said, and wonderingly. 'Pig-skrit,' she repeated fascinatedly." --@HarrySKeeler
"Podsnap"
fierce winds mutter & prowl above the trees
only a stillness stirred
here on the gray lanai
we make puzzles
just so we can solve them
there will be branches down
signs
a roof or two · soon
wrapped up in the narrative
wind from nowhere
high pressure region
each step of the way
to the cliff edge descried
so my twitter feed
winds · winds from nowhere
such satisfying heft
to the tome of the perfect narrative
we were in too much of a hurry
to get there
wind from nowhere
maybe the perfect car
a '57 T-Bird
stands shiny like new
outside McAlester Oklahoma
pink cup from that restaurant
i drink from ev'ry day
how this came to be
i do not understand
cybernundrum nabob
pronounced null the groundswell
you & what orm army
arctic tickle darkness
i have in this hostel
hideous met sweater
conundrummed out of drogulus
& sundry ice address
"Within another few years, 'writers' will survive mostly in the same way the Swiss Guard survives today: a ceremonial role as disconnected from poiesis as the pontifical armed forces are from combat, depicted on Instagram with their writing accoutrements, their cute little desks beneath bay windows that scrollers will be pre-primed to fawn over, declaring things like 'Must. Have.' in the comments." --Justin Smith-Ruiu
💊.
"Raw, not solemn odes
are dew angels.
I’m raw as mirrored nets;
it is a party met on me.
Open one poem,
note my trap
as it is tender,
or rims a warm isle,
gnawed, erased on me,
lost on war."
--@MerlinaAcevedo
"hrepenenje"
break or can't break
sepia
sleep · sepia
suffering
where
where is that other land
killers of the skelly
schooner · the near boondocks
embrace of ash broadsides
bricksepia keepstakes
not fled wholly flinders
afflatus made radar
gifts that were good & things gathered
along a bitter livelihood
Ogden Nash wrote a widerruf once:
"Lines Written to Console Those Ladies Distressed by the Lines 'Men Never Make Passes' etc.
A girl who is bespectacled
Don’t even get her nectaled
But safety pins and bassinets
Await the girl who fascinets."
"Europa
Even while surrounded by ice,
there is buried water not frozen,
never freezing. Floating in the dark
brine, sealed off from humans,
microorganisms, mouths full of
saltwater cud. A scientist learns
this, hollers out, delighted. Rejoice:
even in the most inhospitable places,
life. Rejoice: for this means that
out on Jupiter's icy, smooth moon,
maybe microorganisms, too. It is
possible we could be less alone."
--Hannah Stephenson
"Europa
No wonder you love
Europa.
You will never crack
the crust
of this blinding ice moon
and dredge its slush.
If its thin cold air
could ever fizz
in brave human lungs
you would still be the last
to breathe it.
You're happy
for Europa
to stay in its remote orbit
showering down
the odd twinkling tick
to squat in your skin.
So much easier
to scratch its itch
and laze
in enigma
than love
and render to
the drunk woman
in blinding distress
dirtying your street."
--Dorothy Featherstone Porter
"...a writer hang-glides all the time, out over that terrible whiteness. The abyss is you, your own life, your mind. It's a terrifying thing to exist at all, and an author with every creation tries to exist twice over; it is as when in poker you try to bluff a nothing hand through, and the dark face opposite raises, so you raise him back,. And the bookstores--there's terror there, especially this time of year, all those bright books of life fighting it out in their armor of embossed lettering, stacks of them being carted out to make room for the fresh contenders, all those sensibilities the educational system is churning out, dying to describe their parents, their seductions, they keep coming, wave upon wave, and the old sensibilities won't even die off, modern medicine is too good." --Hugging the Shore
Something else to worry about.
"Light verse died when it no longer seemed even the littlest bit wonderful to make two words rhyme. At about the same time, dancers in movies stopped going up and down stairs in white tie and tails." --Hugging the Shore
nameless moon remembered
merely a cloud clearer
