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 matt margo at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Sunday, November 25, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
Dreamed forsythia versus yellow leaves plump in broad tree light. Versus chaos, the perfume, dousing surface upon surface, with aristocrat's relief. When is the quiet mind not plush with summer? Treatises go shrill into the cushion of past tense. And wine becomes extict, A palomino skiffs past. Lumber, lawn, and lore. A kind of pinkness in the shadows saves the day prior to early night. Low slumber reaches what it has in store. And now the whisper of rescinding things to do. A kiss upon the nascent declaration of undying love, offered by reflex. All shades allowed to glyph their way into a seeming permanence. Sleeved into unwitting faith in how the rest will be, defined entirely by self and stainless hearing. Breath to voicing. An unnerving faith deposed by way of stasis in configured young. As though the designated softness could be taken back and placed in order. Pages turned and pages pressed. Lane change made a moment before dark.
Saving, kiln, pressure by way of temperature and time