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...
Monday, December 31, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
He is my own magnificat, repaired and shimmering; he dons a white coat. Leaves smooth places smoother. A lean moon stalls the planets from mobility. I watch his sighs, I hear the implications wrangle with removed speech. He may parse the world to come to me. I limit who I have not been to tepid reach. Come hither amid a warm spun weather. Inclement receipts removed from damage is a new fawn. Chaparral near places we have walked, and solo sun filled rain play. In his stance I care fast to a temperate new range of motion. Who have I become in nominative case apart from him? The lazy dimpled day frame in a causeway chaperones our teaching. And his newly shaded grasp takes aim at simple ways of living lanes. I trim the hedge. A jaded say-so fractures taps a place. I live where he has gone. As I am here, I so remain in glyph lane near the breach. His only way of knowing is my voice. A treble carry back affords me in my sleep. I wave apart from how he seems to fly.
Knowing him as proof he lives, the kind of praise his sails through as a witness