These Flying Islands Blog

killing my commas softly (Sarah St Vincent Welch)

killing my commas softly (Sarah St Vincent Welch)

enamoured of the pause

the dawdling the adding on

the lists, the enjambent

forced, I admit 

 

less in love

with the arguments the rules

the haughtiness of editors

(not poetry editors, mind you)


my prosey report editing colleagues

holding up a falling edifice

by themselves the masses

revolting

the commas in their iron hearts

the comma the most weaponised

of all punctuation

aimed across desks as ninja stars

commas the shape of tears

raining from above

 

I prefer to massage a sentence

break it up gently with a timely, small

restructure to avoid the stabs

I avoid pain

 

in poetry my commas are shedding

like autumn falls

like rubbed eyelashes 

crescents

scales

a sweep of black kohl wiped off with oil

even the ninja stars yes 

the shurikens spinning

lodged in the walls 

I leap to the ceiling and cling

uncut

 

my aspiration is    to    let

you find your own breath

within my lines my marks

rarely ask for you to hold 

for over long

to tease you to a pant 

on occasion 

then rest in a    space

an absence


a rythmic 

letting go 

killing my commas softly (Sarah St Vincent Welch) Read More »

PRIDE COMES BEFORE A FALL (FLOWER OF KENT) by Béatrice Machet

 

 Answering, or rather echoing Kit Kelen’s poem    #510 — edge-phobe’s (things fall off)        ( The DailyKit)

 

[after an older version posted on 365+1 project ]

 

Adam's Apples: Flower of Kent *  PRIDE COMES BEFORE A FALL

 

It’s no myth. Flower of Kent is an apple. It could have been a name for the Full Moon if Newton had been a poet. Poets, but not only, see attraction as the ability of falling. Thus, call it collision, gravitation, or not, living on earth one must accept that it entails the process of falling. Alive or not, “things” and people fall.

It’s no surprise. It’s always possible. The phenomenon repeats itself billion and more trillion times a day. This rule is said to be universal.

Logs fall and it’s a matter of sleeping.

Breads fall for butter’s sake.

Stones fall which weigh depend on rage rather than decay (-decline  -degradation  -downturn  -disfavor -disgrace … won’t be studied here).

Fallen people may be lying and resting in a tomb—from the French noun tombe itself being  derived from a verb: tomber. Meaning to fall. Whatever -diving               -stumbling   -tripping up or over is performed. Whatever -blow  -bomb  -imbalance    or  -shot    is the cause.   (delete as appropriate).

 

You fall  -at  -away   -back   -behind   -below   -beneath   -between   -by   -flat   -for   -from   -heads over heels   -into   -off   -on   -out   -outside   -over   -prey to   -short    -through   -to   -toward   -under …   -within…

It might concern -hurdle   -holes   -traps   -cracks   -stools   -wayside   -bonds  -job  -hook   -line   -sinker   -grace   -love   -heir   -heap   -line   -illness   -power                             -clutches   -disuse   -place   -hands   -eyes   -clouds   -trucks   -laps   -map  -wagon  -sword   -ground   -feet   -knees   -hard   -times   -face   -bed   -favor   -spell   -bits and   -pieces … -floor …

It’s important to have it free.

Never forget: the bigger they come the harder they fall.

Provided you can read I don’t mind this to fall on deaf ears.

 

PRIDE COMES BEFORE A FALL (FLOWER OF KENT) by Béatrice Machet Read More »

poem in the fridge (for Sarah)

 

poem in the fridge

for Sarah St Vincent Welch

 

things opened are in here

the can of worms, the ointment fly

stool samples, acid trips, specimens

 

all sorts, oh and did I mention dinner?

voice says ‘we are your dead in here’

the feast preserved , slow cultures

 

cut off from nature

thing that could bite once

‘we go through your guts in time’

 

each packet bears its epitaph

and one day rise to justice?

dark thoughts when the door is shut

 

so all we meat must fear

poem in the fridge (for Sarah) Read More »

This your Life? Or not?

Standing there muttering on the phone, mattering as if you do, buses rattling and squealing, drills and picks demolishing and constructing who knows what. The din! Dusty umbrellas line the market lanes where granny shuffles past scraping her feet- not really meaning to be here. Frowning mothers drag their skipping, dancing daughters to lessons on how to do this, this which will no longer apply.

insistent announcements, overly loud but no one listening- another scarcely profitable sale. So many here do not belong to this place the trees landed blind like everyone else forlorn, twisted, stained, exhausted while their roots crack again the pavement.

This your Life? Or not? Read More »

Rob Schackne #8 – Insomnia

Insomnia

They walk at night
in this old cottage
above in the rafters
a ceiling of riches
below the floorboards
where it wasn’t buried
they whisper in the wall
it was taken from
some call them ghost
or possums strolling
the length of the house
north to south and back
ask if they’re friendly
the hurt feelings
all in a dream
what do they say
I listen to them chatter
of poison and regrets
it was a gold town

Rob Schackne #8 – Insomnia Read More »