texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' now that blogger has included the ability to reproduce fonts more accurately, alpha-numeric visual-poetry will be welcomed for consideration. formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Thursday, May 17, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
It should not be time to go to sleep. The white clock can be pushed to yield a glow
of time we might agree upon, an early hour. Seasoned by consensusgravity.
In time, we elbow our way toward, or imitate, a stream. Or lie still unto the quiet
summer insects further drying in an even atmosphere. I grow accustomed
to the stylus. Patent pending emergencies-to-come release within us
everything without. I hold you in my evening arms and bless the silence you
have wrought. As god is. My witness protection sounding gallant as the poise
the nubile penitents refuse to leave away. I take my centerpiece of heart in vain,
and punctuate its calculus. If I were bread, I would have been substantiated
or transcendent, in your words. I live tossed in your words, and I arrive at various
precise mathematical points where I derive alloted pleasure that is mine, by
statute. I salute you for your aged heart rubbed new again. I invoke the
presence you relax into, call it my running stream, my indivisible aspiration,
my annunciation. Years are little showcases that remind me of the temperate
smooth clock. I touch its face, as I remove my concentration. Water is like this.
Air so resembles other elements. The earth is what the fire relieves. Void hastens
our arrival. Wind carries us through every tense.
Saplings, degrees of viscosity, the flow one may resist