Here are snapshots 32 correction, with the loss of two
ampersands from Christine's poem, and with the
addition of Arni's late snap (but not _amazingly_ late)
Best,
Rebecca
I cracked it into ghost
sleep in a corridor
a broken hour
I had to slap up morning
a lame johnny that I
am I just disappearing
into the sweet grey
rain and rain and
anything the heart
touches rib roar
jostling a wing
dream on inbetween
catching up with
the joke in the day
results leaders questions
what I cannot get
a grip or it stops
beating an old drum
dancing dissonance
its art as fatalist
Jill Jones 12.37pm 3 December 2003
unsettling as it may be
clouds and their kind--
the flecks of moon
blurred
it may or may not
snow
a harsh wind
or not--
the way I live through it
West Irondequoit, New York, 12:37 AM 12/03/03
Jerry Schwartz
* *
. s
. * sn *
. sna
. snap
. snaps *
. * snapsh
. * snapsho
. * snapshot *
. snapshots
I
***********************************************.
****snapshots**well seasons greetings* early*thanks all****
******patrick mc* raynespark uk* wednesday deco3******
a penchant for war
forewarned is
four armed
forces
gone into the dark
a pen chants for peace
for warned is
for ward
ing off
look toward the light
Douglas Barbour
Edmonton 07:40 December 5/03
obfuscation works
the air is full of string
a yawn, a yarn,
the mumbled head
bandaged in knives
cannot but outcry
if it cries, a bit
of string, a silver thread,
the I of the needle is blind
Rebecca Seiferle
8:16 am Farmington NMLorry rain
fine and dusty
Sunrise grey
and the road a pale black
that does not return
but continues into smoke
and the absence of light.
Liz Kirby
Stoke-on-Trent UK
8.05am
MADNESS
... the murderous couple, victims of an all consuming amour fou
that drives their passions to extremes.--comment on The Postman
Always Rings Twice with Lana Turner and John Garfield.
Big deal. This is what love is:
ébats amoureux is amour fou,
Read: fluidic carnage,
kimchi for sure,
nutritious and rank.
How many hotel rooms
have needed fumigation
or been outright condemned?
The stuff of Medieval theory,
that passionate love is a disease,
it sweeps through families,
destroys them,
is unavoidable
like a plague or death
or even love.
KTW, 12/3/03, Princeton, NJ
the finished book:
maybe you have a tendency to
keenly feel the cold, the loss
of voice
in seasons that follow
the gathering of the fallen
feathers of poems, of white-dry stories
hard work pressed
between the skins
the sheets of revered trees
the stain of ink and scar
the well-meaning lives
of industrious poets
suddenly out
in the cold
and wondering if they will ever
recover
Deborah
stretched out on the couch
Grafton Ave, Newark, NJ
7:06 pm
WYLER: ROMAN HOLIDAY
You could come
listen:
everything is so wholesome--
relations,
roses,
or not. I don’t want
much. No thank you.
And buried
needs?
Happy? Never carry money.
One thirty. I must get dressed and go
live in a place like this.
I must go
do some of the things I
always wanted to do.
You do it.
Barry Alpert / Silver Spring MD USA / 11-29, 12-1, 12-3 (11:54 PM)
A good-hearted American paparazzi in Rome lets Audrey Hepburn (in her first
starring role) escape with her reputation unscathed. Subtle filmic
treatment of paparazzi shoots & stills. Seven years later, Fellini's
attitude toward Roman paparazzi in La Dolce Vita is much different. Every
word in my text exited the mouth of Audrey Hepburn, perhaps first written
by the scenarist Dalton Trumbo.
There are shades you can only touch
Years ago I walked
Eyelessly through a black mountain
The sky shimmered like a knife
Poised to cut my breast in two
I remember the men in white
How they loomed over their instruments
And doors which opened and closed
I wondered if darkness was soft
Or if it felt like a collision
I wondered if I would wake up
Locked inside my death
With hands as formless as gravel
Unable to say my name
The last thing I remember
Is the colour of kindness
My heart floating warm and strange
Through the chilling veils of my flesh
When someone took my hand and held it
And led me like a child
Into the dark
Alison Croggon, Williamstown, 4.04 pm Thursday
that one?--cruel
as hangnails, or these dry browning curls
of pine-needles on the walkway--
do I love your wavy
love,
in winter we are smoking
to look around the grind
of a backhoe always climbing
for more mud
a backbone a man-made mountain a noon
hello to rebuild
after some (ever-accidental) fire
wipes out a power plant:
it happened to me, you say, here.
I know
under the anorexic sun, a pool of basic lettering
sunlit twig crisp warm as cheek skin: our words
& a little well
of breast
warming for everyone: women know
how he drives wild
his own irony: true, women smoke over him
more, so many more cigarettes
compose him in memory
& even he finds women
so sidewalk-lucky after him
now that infernal backhoe toddles
over another round mound it wants
to be a train chugging up
a wonder of women--
are you reactionary?--
as if whatever rude glue
he spent is not already full
of a crush some pink melon the labial curious
tender
chris murray 04 Dec 03 12:55 a.m. Dallas, Texas U.S.
SNAPSHOT 32
if time has colour it is
the musky colour
of this insignificant day
where everything threatens
to turn brown
if time has sound it is
the sound of this empty house
on this musky day
where everything threatens
to turn brown
recalling the fitting odour
a tap discreetly leaking
cringing at the sound
of each drop as it shatters
in the kitchen sink
the near silent moan
of a floorboard
imagining it's turning
turning in its sleep
casting a furtive glance
at the other floorboards
sleeping soundly alongside it
on the floor silently wishing
it could join their common floorboard dreams
not realizing it was woken
by the tired complaint of the rafters
that no one's noticed
since the house was built
if time has a face it is
the face in the faded faded mirror
on this musky day where
everything threatens
to turn brown
árni ibsen
11:15 pm dec 3 2003
stekkjarkinn 19
hafnarfjördur
iceland
|
