…………lanes we watch
………………of dark trees
……………………..let’s change a season
& warm breath.i’ll light
till wings stretch
What can you say? To think with the body as subject
and object at once change flows through the pattern.
In the push and pull of yes and no, word’s edge
is a body of thought, such way out feeds time back.
Okay to keep eye contact with myself in rehearsal,
to imagine a focus beyond audience. Your own ego would.
Judging other’s egoism to be shared as my own is exposed,
finding it hard to let go into levity. To whom did the
screams appeal? Still once a day is shorter in sound –
each phrase becoming an object hanging in space.
Let movement follow sound, track out up to the beam.
Increase the range of tone, pushing a volume between
hands, touching the limit of the moving imagination.
An impulse to touch a line now forgotten across our
Distance. Bringing too much effort toward meaning,
let me stay in my body’s direct gesture in
the alignment of the spine. I see you seeing me
stay closer to myself. From shape to gesture to expression,
a trialogue between thought, word and movement: the moving
thinker writes and having moved writes on.
Expressive beyond reason, our arms and heads go round
in a circle making internal connections: another sweat angel
on the floor. Purity. Objects that can’t object to what we
cannot bear: impulses and choices to follow, affects brought
forth as love in movement.
What are you doing with this poem? You take it all in,
make some choices, take some decisions, or you don’t. To split
your individuality from your self, from your ego dissolved in spirit.
Its particularity might lead to generality, or vice-versa, or not.
Waiting for the impulse to start, step on to the navigation
point as imagined witness, addressing what is prepared for you
as a present, trying to see the movement. Not enough time
in the world to wait for it: is it a choice or something
that comes unbidden into attention’s domain? Listening
for the sounds of the other moving in the room,
making my own sound to detect the shape of the space.
My lip touches the edge of a table. Touching the edge
of syncopated, harmonised reduction; conflict bodies
for the logoclast. All these things at once hook left
then right, twist and push away, turn and absorb
body to body. Try to be beautiful as you use the word
quiet at the window. Judgement stops movement.
Language fell away. Language fell to. Stop
movement. Get the language working again,
releasing out from the centre to the edges.
Trusting that you can follow your energy without
refusing others’ shape and disperse: trying something
to find it wrong also. I try to perceive this in relation
to the colours of different flowers in proximity, and,
going up to a rose, my perception of it has changed.
SCOTT THURSTON’S most recent book is Figure Detached Figure Impermanent (Oystercatcher, 2014). He co-organises The Other Room reading series in Manchester and co-edits the Journal of British and Irish Innovative Poetry. Scott lectures at the University of Salford and has published widely on innovative poetry, including a book of interviews entitled Talking Poetics (Shearsman, 2011). See his pages at www.archiveofthenow.com/
Go, I am to reclaim you as a song that misfits the memorabilia. A song that rustles through from branch to branch pecking, over and over, at all the blossoms cramming into a gap which has been otherwise declared truly unbridgeable, yet glistening. I once was a place. You have come a long way to hand me a song like that.
To think that you are a song, because a song can open and reopen the wounds of past and passing. And when you cared to roll over those immaculate burns, nothing came out healed. Now the suture does not quite appear as a mere buzz as dead blood threads keep seeping through the parchment. What is it a song, a brooding beak, or an engine blowing smoke, a falsetto of that kind?
You as a song, because a song flows down to read the retreat address over and over and fails. Flow is something that is innate to the song. And flow holds at its root an incessant movement, a reforming displacement, an eternal slippage, a bubbling friction being dragged away from where it was previously remembered. The journey of the song could only mean the drifting waves that undercut the shoreline to carry it off. Am I to think of you as a song slipping away from the root harbored deep in the throat? No oysterhood, no cries, I know the song always riles the bottom of the root.
Debasis Mukhopadhyay lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. His poems have appeared in publications in the USA & UK including The Curly Mind, I am not a silent poet, With Painted Words, Yellow Chair Review, Thirteen Myna Birds, Of/With, Silver Birch Press, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Foliate Oak, Eunoia Review, Snapping Twig, Fragments of Chiaroscuro, among others. Follow him at https://debasismukhopadhyay.wordpress.com/ or @dbasis_m on Twitter.
What a kooky ride
The fire-roasted red peppers yellow squash & carrots are still lapping the edge of your rack
Served with loaded mashed potatoes
You said you always enjoy baby back ribs
The tender lean pork loin meat glazed in bold dark sauce humbly falls off the bones
Yesterday it was seafood jambalaya with rice pilaf & salad
And the day before pan roasted wild sockeye salmon with fries
It has been a whale of a time
I can see how easily you could coast into the scenic dreams
For these three days and three nights
Your train is soon going to pull into your last stop
But before you sign the guest book
Jonas liked it here
Take a look at yourself from behind the window
Upon which an eclipse of moths are dissipating
Since the train left the foggy Bay
Your knife looks remembering rust
Your fork looks shining into blood
Maybe you are taking too much time to bring yourself to them
Huddled between your hands they look so displaced
They do not know you know when your heart beats
Unwinding the sweet America without stopping to wind the bones
The soda can is left undrunk and perspiring
Since the time the train crossed
From Nevada into Utah
And then rolled through the canyons of Colorado
The ice cubes keep waning in your hyper dreamy glass
When treated to the view of a setting sun
That stretches down from the desert cliffs
And tumbles directly into
What you ordered for lunch
With yellowed teeth a couple of hours ago
And a couple of hours ago the clock was reset
To isolate the runoff moments of yearns you might think they had ever been
During the time the steelhead train traveled from coast to coast
Leaving you with nothing to do but
Admire the view of your hollowed out dreams in free fall
And take a glimpse into the soul of remains and moorings
The train is now pulling into New York Penn station
Time to cut loose from America
America is not the world on earth
You can now remain tight in life
Dreams will not come again
particular bad patrol
tight ass fire fight
bugs…really bad bugs
bit to shit
Maddy is welts n itchy
on commo…out of his ear
back base camp
ice up some San Miguel Dark
get me a Thracian swab
two cans of Dole Pineapple juice
I don’t care how
but some flowers
drag ass I mean slug ass
Mad Dog is patrol leader so
he gotta check in
head count n supervise
stack arms n visual
all cowboys check in
Honley (God rest him)
had all I asked for
My main Man Mr Terrific
really…..drops his gear
I call out….come to pappa big boy
sees a bucket with ice n beer
these scraggle ass weeds
n a big can of Dole
HAPPY NEW YEAR MOTHER FUCKER
I tell him
he busts out
you meddle dick sad excuse for a paratrooper
I love you too much
war….frolic n fun
o yea….the bug juice balm
really was a big deal
some guys get it really bad
me I eat way too much garlic
they hate me
only other inhabitant
a lizard…who stakes
even daring me
inter species dwelling
pages pages all fall down
static electric movements
howling back reaching forward
wrote THEN N NOW
a photo…some 40 years old
captures encapsulate time events days
laughter n pain
all assembled like a Greek chorus
wags nags busted knuckles bloody noses
we all had lot o hair
girl friends …sidekicks home boys
dealers squealers stand up lie down
alley way exchanges of
so much money it is funny
sitting trying to make
a check book not bounce like
we bounced bopped hopped
n gave not a fuck
joy n sorrow….bindles full of
marching powder ….smokin Js foggy haze
yes static electric play grounds….grind beans.tight jeans
fast bikes;;;;soft leather seats
swearing we could not be beat
old now…..living history on
books of faces
remembering those places
ashes ashes all fall down……narco bunko jail cells
self abusing hells…bells….paint it write it
call it what you will
life fill….sitting here
magazine subscription or water bill
What shall I do?
The smooth walnut tree,
cut down in her prime.
She that cradled me,
told me stories
When the leaves fall
where shall I go?
when I’ve done wrong,
when no tears can wash
my eyes clear?
The oak tree upon the hill
that taught me that courage
hangs his hat in the mind,
in whose branches
I reached beyond structures,
to think the unthought.
He, the same who
taught me to grow,
was struck by lightning.
His roots died slowly and
the light is stark,
undappled by his leaves.
none tread before me now,
no canopy above.
So take this, my song,
Weave it with
the dead twigs
of fallen trees
and make a nest
in the bows of the living.
Monika Kostera, a professor at the University of Krakow from her debut collection Oneiropeia. I include here a trio that have abuse & manipulation deep in their roots but perhaps still an optimistic aftertaste.
How can it spring
from this nest of givens?
The accidental foot—bone
worldview, the tolling of duty,
a swift twitch in the bloodstream.
Don’t be the name
Become the naming
spit those phonemes into