(click image for audio)
December 23, 2012
December 22, 2012
DAY 22: KATE GREENSTREET, You Say Our Love is a Forest Fire
collage by Lilly Pereira
(click image for audio)
KATE GREENSTREET
You say our love is a forest fire
half open
our burning open
page
your broken open sleeping
longer each day
hours just dreaming of the luggage
woods are burning down the words
you turned to speak
say ours
in a language I can't read
you
shoulder it
for hours
say woulds are
burning up our metaphor
in black and white
half closed
you turn
say
why is it so hot in here
you sit and sit and sit you say
our love you see it
burning far away
“You say our love is a forest fire” was made for the opening of Lilly Pereira’s art exhibit at Flying Object in June 2012, a response to her collage “Circular Ruins.”
December 21, 2012
Upcoming Feature! Women Publishers' Roundtable
Dorothy Parker, who knew about women,
publishing & round tables
I'm thrilled to announce that I'll be organizing a women publishers' roundtable for Delirious Hem. The feature will include my new publishing venture, Noctuary Press, as well as several more established presses run by amazing women. I hope you'll check it out in the new year!
—Kristina Marie Darling
DAY 21: DANIELLE VOGEL, from SMALL ICELANDIC NOVELS
DANIELLE VOGEL
from Small Icelandic
Novels
for angela rawlings
1.
when we are at sea we
are suspended
just feet below the
air we watch through the wet rim
of the ocean through
the green-shouldered waves
we let ourselves be
turned we watch the
ways in which the
light writes
upon our selves and
sisters
a pod of women spines
liquidic with sleep it
is our season
of crossing it is
always our season
days are passing before
the first of us surfaces
we swim to surface us
dreaming-women
in nightgowns buoy bellies
to the sky
a slow arching into
under again
the first night is
all nights and we are buoyant
within the bay we are
swimming and
we are not swimming
within the bay we are writing a pod
of oceanic women
sleeping as we swim
we write we are
writing
we are writing as we
pass our eyes
always closed our
lids twitch
with writing our
faces relaxed in sleep
our mouths open
tongues searching
like the soft foot of
a clam
and we turn to deepen
whorling
over our nightgowned
backs creak where the
pages and covers of
books are shingled
along
growling like a fibrous exoskeleton
these
books bi-valved creatures
an elongated cone wound on its axis
withdraw
all its soft parts into the mouth
sound-calcites thinly plated upon the
teeth leaf-like
crystals
shingling the finger bones opalescent
light
refracted the memory-tissue of the word
kelp
trailed and growing
our density increases
until we
are lifting out the
sea our density
increases until we
are washed up
shore pulling our
sleeping forms across
the earth by our
hands bellies to
dirt legs drug behind
our density increases
until we are
invisible in the
darkest parts
of the ocean we are
metamorphic icicled
sedimentary blooms
we glacial the tongue
until it is always
moving our surface slopes
the air weightless
but woolen
our density builds through
a stratum
of re-smothering we
are subcellular
a slip in
perspectives a deformation
of gravity we freeze
over and
separate debris as we
thaw
-->
December 20, 2012
DAY 20: ARIELLE GUY, EXILE
(click image for audio)
ARIELLE GUY
Exile
But I am (but I am)
washed in forest:
in the sin of Atom;
Adam’s
post-apocalypse
we all swam in acid
toasted marshmallows by the sea
side-stepped, goose-
stepped the Majesty
of hope.
by my brilliant deductions,
our worlds should have ended
long ago
we’re still here
hold on
knuckles whitening
against stone
reddening as the rocks
rip our skin
our skin
our kin
levitators of Beauty;
all masks
All Saints
the Fallen congregate
around the Burned:;
syntax is lost
language is lost
prayer is lost
we are all dead
we are all dead
we are all dead
we are all dead
but wait! an earth-covered,
worm-tasseled hand
breaks through the boundary
of earth between life and death
and lives again;
the whole body, dirt-covered,
emerges from a rain-soaked grave
in early winter.
the snows haven’t come yet,
deep winter cold
hasn’t frozen the ground,
forbidding the dead to be buried there.
The sky doesn’t touch
pussy, justice,
Lord, God,
grave, my sodden,
my heart’s armor
of ribs; they protect like
a Claddagh ring,
like the sky,
opening to the moor,
to the outback,
to the tundra.
No one flourishes in infertile ground.
We’re same as green--salt the land and nothing grows.
December 19, 2012
December 18, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)