Experimental Poetry discussion

Let's share our work...

Love

Ice : ansus mannez :
Sowelu ewaz largo feyu largo ewaz sowelu sowelu
northaz ewaz sowelu sowelu :
wunju hagalaz ewaz northaz:
ansus largo largo :
raido ewaz teewahz ur raido northaz sowelu :
teewahz othillo :
mannez ewaz ::

Be still : know yourself :
Move to the light and grow fat : grow with life :
For the light of the double sun is your guide :
Find joy in adversity and your need for truth :
Let talk flow : for wisdom is achieved in defeating weakness :
Vanquish loneliness and stay true to your quest :

Ice : ansus mannez :
Ken othillo northaz sowelu teewahz ansus northaz ken yerah :
Othillo feyu : largo ice geebu hagalaz teewahz sowelu :
Ewaz wunju
Ewaz raido :
Ken hagalaz ansus northaz geebu ice ing ::

Be still : know yourself :
In loneliness we understand the need for others :
The need to converse and find new insight :
Only stunted riches lie within : as winter
turns to bring the growth of spring :
The path of happiness and knowledge
is beset with hardship and doubt :

Ice : ansus mannez :
Ansus largo largo :
Ansus northaz dagu :
Northaz othillo thuraz ice ing ::

Be still : know yourself :
Let words flow as water : transform with words
your inner needs : you are but one : together
we become the wings of the butterfly :


The Blue Book

SEA [noun] 1. a big thing; 2. some place where one becomes part of one; 3. something blue at the edge of which people start to exist; 4. an excuse to show (off) your main layer; 5. a monochrome painting which can be entered; 6. a complex system that I do not really understand - why does it all move like that?; 7. I tried to drink it and it was too frickin' salty, it needs more sugar for crying out loud; 8. SEA [adj.] which has the ->BLUES; 9. SEE THE SEA [idiom], to let it bleed; 10. GO TO SEA [idiom], to stop wasting my time with making useless, stupid little things and just be still, this>

The endless looping C
go-sub, pat back.

But what of bees?
That come in threes.
Must they hunt alone
defined. By narrow
necks.


But what of bees
and of flees
on narrow necks
hunted




must
t
h
e
y
be
stunted?

Drying of Grapes Using a Dish Type Solar Air Heater

Dead fruit and zombies are vital source of food and nutrients in human diet like protein, carbohydrates, high density _Phosphatidylethanolamine IT HAS BEEN SAID THAT PUTIN DID A BIG MISTAKE

:listening to drone music
:my dad says/ tommorow the package will come
:he undresses right now
:my mum says/ ah what an ache
:my dad shows some money
:we made it through the day!!

IT HAS BEEN SAID THAT We only like staring at mushrooms. Anything else is too much hassle at a time of the day when_ the means of production.

Somewhere around
.................................here...........
there should be some shelter.
Helter Skelter.
Our marvellous ziggurat
TAKE THAT
and our small little tiny
joys.

*emoticon* *sad face* death.
Blackness (cliche) *emote*.
*repeat emoticon* wind's breath,
(cliche) (hearsay) life is smote.
Futility, all is, futility.

"Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity."

The Farming Forecast
South southeast, veering wet,
good, Whigfield tufted sheep
craw chewed, styled to taste

last year's chic. Yellow green
sods, wind blown, too big boots,
head swollen, thistled through.

Crow puddled islands, apple
beaked, nasal juice, laps up
the scaled legs. Trips unwary

sea grey, oven ready, mitten
warm, gamboling lamb, good.

After Satie

wholping - misking
wholping
misking
now/softly postles the wangsle of spring
now/misking - spraiting
wholping
misking
now/surely frurtles in echo will sing
- now - yon -

gone/misking
misk;ing
mis:king
mis/soon sunlight will fagret on field
gon/wholping/
in field in the daylight fuldargret will yield
yon spraiting
the day
comes
lonely for someone who called in the night - night

night

wholping - misking
wholping
misking
now/softly postles the wangsle of spring
now/misking - spraiting
wholping
misking
now/surely frurtles in echo will sing
- now - yon -

gone
gone
misking - misking
welcome this bolgram to bless all our trees
spraiting
trees spread misvulgam and sweeten the breeze

soft

warm.

Cowt Leaves

dreak sun breke shap
yon dale frost
yolk hird whit wurn

plunt t'gin map
blit spar cowt
t'out fire

heft sky barwake
an' sigh
drip t'aft nowt on

snow ript hird
blue nikt
yon Queen bayns

all winter rain
'tin t'air
hooked eyen shut

dreak frock
bayn virgin hills
nost an' nost an' rast

t'river

Anna, those who hope can but despair.

First Meeting
I follow the crowd pulled by curiosity.
The day is hot, even for morning it's hot.
The Jordon shimmers through the reeds, cold green,
licking the foot prints at the water's edge
into flatness. He waits for us, glowing,
on the far bank, hand in welcome to cross.
The new sun dazzles, but some, bright blinded,
enter the water. The splashing of feet dulls
as they reach midstream, their clothes drag them back.
Waist deep, women toss their girdle aside,
rend their simlah, and bare breasted proceed
to receive his welcome. I sit on a dune
as others go across. Some with clothes, folded,
held above their head, naked men, boys, women
sailing infants over in fig baskets.
I do not go. Nor does the carpenter.
He takes stale bread from his bag, breaks it,
gives it to me. I nod. A cheer goes up
over the river as blessings begin.
People dance, sing, hands clap, laughter rings
as one by one these simple folk immerse
themselves, to emerge joyful and saved.
My tongue fishes an unmilled grain from the crust.
Curiosity satisfied, we leave.

In The Market
The tax collector's beadling stare pins me,
holds me. His sharp, hooked nose sniffs for coins.
He leans across the narrow slatted stall,
eyes twisting, as a bird, or a lizard
eager for more; fearing the prey will fly.
Six meager coins lay before him, his hand
gathers them up as he slides back from me.
His beard stinks of onions, and avarice.
He moves on. I swat a fly from a fish eye,
and smile engagingly at a soldier
who pauses to examine the paltry fish
left unsold, Their glass glazed expression,
milking inward, speaks of the rot begun.
The breeze carries the scent of evening bread.
I keep the best fish, throw the rest to dogs
in the innkeepers yard, pull eight bronze coins
from the chink in the wall, pay for the stall,
and prepare for home when I see a crowd
stood around the door of the doctor's.
The carpenter is there, sitting aloof,
as the people jostle, and push, to see
through the doorway, into the courtyard.
In his hand, he holds a stave, that he smooths
with a piece of glass, turning constantly
the wood, back and forward, thumb and fingers;
running the glass steadily up and down.
At his feet the stave's foot hollows a bowl
in the dust. From the courtyard drifts a voice.
A clear voice, baritone, lemon scented.
I have heard it before. The carpenter
lays the stave aside, stretches his left leg
and rises from the wall. It is then I see
the tax collector perched like an eagle
in the lower branches of a cedar;
spying into the courtyard down below.
My mother's neck is speckled with flour
as she takes the fish, lops the head, fries it.

Business
"Dog dong. You, Sardine, two. Talapia, six.
Hands off. Six, Six." Creaking wicker baskets
spill their guts, glistening bloodied, dark fin,
sliding, slipping, gills gasping, mouth agape.
Clattering coins smack down, elbows jab, "Six,
six, not five, six. Dog dong." Rigging rings tap,
loose furled sails waft sunlight on buyer's backs;
light to dark, shout and trade, profit then eat.
I secure my basket, careful to cloth mask
that one twig that hates me, seeks my kidney.
"Dog dong, Dog dong, sardine two, pay up."
Damp morning still hangs wet upon the air.
Horizon haze lengthens earth's rim skyward,
pulling trees into ghosts. Sun washed houses
open shutters to bleach them fresh of night.
Sleepy caught morning bread burnt odour fades
in the ferment and grind of women's work.
I stop to shift my burden at the spot
on the river, where yesterday crowds came.
Abandoned shoes, snaking girdles, belts,
lie on the near shore. Whilst on the far bank
nothing remains, except a single wreath
of thistles, purple bright among the reeds.
Cresting the brow, I see a crow fly straight
to the inauspicious tree, on which hangs
a slave. The patient crow lands, struts, listens
to the four dark figures, impervious,
standing beneath its meal. As I draw near
I hear the tax collector and doctor
engaged in heated wrangle for the nail.
The carpenter hands the soldier his stave.
As the wood splits her groin, she sags, exhales,
her white eyes look up to heaven in joy,
as the candle of her arms gutters, dims
the burning blood trapped within her head.
Unmoved, the taxing Samaritan claws
at the deal, for the nail tearing again
at the young girl's flesh as the soldier turns
back to the carpenter releasing the shaft.
I pass by, half turning to shield my load
from the tax collector's calculating eye.

thanks

A haibun with nothing to do*

Between pleasure and pain is how I read books to the finish.

Deliberately
numb - I could die
neither happy nor sad.
Open a book and you wish
to finish it or end it.

************************************

*"Poetry is what happens when nothing else can."
Charles Bukowski

To die numb is to die justified.