NewPoetry

Bird Aircraft Strike Hazard (B.A.S.H.)

Katie Vautour

 

Finding himself able,
the cranking Icarus
honks south.

Made of lift and movement,
he disregards conditions,

climbing higher
than ever

intersecting the path
of flight AC 667
to Toronto.

He meets the turbine
head-on in slow motion:

the……..tug
……………..of air
that won’t let go,

pounds and pounds
……..of pressure

collapsing
breath

as he whips up
into the engine.

Hot steel snaps
……………….tendons,
scorches feathers,
melts hollow shafts.

Somewhere under all this,
wrenching bones.

Metal and wire wings depart
skyward as

the bird is cast
back to land.

Moulting liquid light, sun-
……………….burnt fragments

………………………….of desire—
……………………the deep

.

………….plunge

.

.

bringing him

down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lady and the Elder

nathan dueck

 

Father 2bold dropped in
On me one time.
He cried, How Can U
Just Stand There As I Cry?

He cried, I Am Here 2 Tell U
Something Girl.
Have U Ever
Heard O’ The After World?

I cried, Brother,
If you can’t tell
I’ve long tuned out
The gospel.

He Cried, So U Want
2 B Led?
I cried, That’s just noise
In my head.

He cried, Honey
Let Me Guide U.
I cried, Sounds like it’s
On a loop!

He cried, I Am
Ur Messiah
Because I Would Die
4 U, Yeah.
Yeah, I Will
Come Again.
C Ya!

I don’t know what he said,
It’s been a while,
But, oh, Fr. 2bold
Stayed awhile –
Yeah, I knew who he was
All bible-style.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE MODERNIST CANON (or, The Sanctioned Norm)

Paul Vermeersch

 

1

Herbal Weed Thrower

no chosen dude
pumps
a treadling whiz

rat we
hit with sickened
beeches

2

A Tooth Is Fermentation

A featheriest…………..thin pop…………of a christened cow :
A glob…………on Buckwheat’s pelt .

3

Acetone Hate Fjord

A spine ejects adrenaline.
Lithuania downloads porn
And well-versed yeti
Hunt lurid harlots in the slums.

Euro-phenol Twisted Sister
Prolongs adrenal rewind and would
Shower thunder upon a rotund jag,
Anoint a pratfall android.

The bra was grey and ajar.
My Wookiee tried heroin on TV.
Bingo voids the fibroid turd
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dayrise

Alice Burdick

 

Final eyes toward
names that only end in ‘c’, the same cat
cleaning on the sidewalk,
birds diving at the cherries,
fallen ripe, a dog towards
a corner, a talk to the hand,
a strange man fainting twice
in an open house.

The humour in death,
the dumbness of no-nos,
the money that changes hands
in theatres of death. The arena
of hopes naming the one who goes.
The rule to end pain – a sharp voice
Don’t go out after dark, there are so
many stories you can hear.
The humiliating puddle,
the surprises, a flapping promise.
Even a vaccine for morass,
a void of delicious stars.

Wheelbarrows that are old
ladies. Dark goes into the frame,
pinching the nerve around the ear
and chin. Contortions in finger
foods. Always a gardener or digger
of start-away, get-out, keep-stepping
lower or higher than any actual level.

 

 

 

 

a diffusion in rows and columns

Nikki Sheppy

 

nikkisheppy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eviction Notice

Steve McOrmond

 

They’re neat party tricks, I’ll give you that.
When I wasn’t looking, you swapped my hands
for papier-mâché copies of your own.
How do you do it? Making me believe
you’re using the table saw in the basement
workshop when I live on the eleventh floor?
A voice, a tendril of aftershave, cigarette
smoke (your brand) wafting down the hall.
I’m jerked awake, afraid something’s on fire.
When I fly into a rage, dinner table talk
devolving to a blood sport, it’s your barbs
my dummy mouth spits out. My wife holds
her ground; the cat pancakes from the room.
It’s time you quit the premises. We can’t go on
living like china in a bull shop. It’s not
as though I’m putting you out on the street.
You have the spacious heavens to roam,
a million-acre farm. You mean to say
there’s no place you can grow your roses?
I never could talk to you; now it’s even worse.
Pregnant ellipses… non sequiturs. I should
try a Ouija board. How can I grieve properly
when you just won’t leave? You always did
show up unannounced, staying as long
as you damn well pleased. I never stood
up to you when you were alive, but now
you must vacate and surrender the property.
I asked you nicely. I’m not asking any more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seasonal Affect

Allie Duff

 

Stale purple hydrangeas swim
in winter-grey thoughts; cling
to faded light, bruised necks
strain toward bright spots (dancing auras
always warn of future pain), how simple

…………..to lose summer; it’s much worse
letting go (I moan in my sleep
at a dream of you), shivering
through fall, at the precipice of being
plucked by rough hands, and instead
passed by, (laughing, always leaving),

I think of bringing you a leaf,
yellow birch: I press it between pages
and carry you with me, past
nettles that prick naked legs
and highways and early mornings,

before leaving you somewhere between
Winterhouse Brook and Trout River,
while I wait for winter to settle
into petals that fade
at the touch of early snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kinship

Jaime Forsythe

 

A bathtub filled with melted snow, a baby’s legs churning

studiously. Dusk highlights our dust, crumbs lodged in seams, fairy

door shimmering a little. The baby’s hands smell of watermelon, nutmeg,

raw sliced squash. Once I did things like a ride a girl’s crossbar at midnight.

I crouched in a clawfoot with a budding anthropologist, mapped the faucet face,

prelude to a walk of shame past a cemetery. But yesterday, first bike ride

in a year, my body mine, safety supplies lacking: lightless, helmet loose.

Animal prints and military bedtimes, pastel shaker eggs versus the warm, silent

chicken kind. Race around the swing set of a neglected public school, eucalyptus

rubbed into our chests, water passed back and forth, cold mouths. Churning

in my own underworld, words rotting in my gut, a foghorn cuts the drone

of the shower head. A sweet shadow drapes itself across the stairwell

while all the humans stay sleeping, head to toe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chocolatey versus Anne Devlin

Matt Rader

 

Maser’s cameo-collection wall-art Anne Devlin
On the corner of Carmens Hall and Meath Street,
The Liberties, Dublin, versus Cadbury’s white
Script Chocolatey on irradiated blue panelling.

Her Pantone 292 skin. Her card-white hair.
The Warhol-hued shawl we might call KSU™
Bleeding into Eminence™. That yolk-toned
Crème Egg–shaped stencil sprayed on concrete

Side by each with the corporate giddy-up to shift
From noun to adjective. Where modifier is what
The modified meant. A billboard in a compliment-
Ary hue we’d eyeball to be Reflex Blue™.

Who cares if we know who Anne Devlin is
Or where the tributaries of the River Poddle went
Or why Houdini Bang Bang is carved into the steps
Of the Coombe Lying-in-Hospital monument.

In Dean Swift’s day these streets were bathed in night
Soil and Dutch Billys. Where Huguenots wove
Calimancoes, druggets, poplins shot with clock
Reel, culgy handkerchiefs. Where the weavers

Left off to cross the Liffey and be butchered
By the butchers of Ormond Quay. My mother’s
Mother’s mother likely lived here, scullery maid,
In the family way, at the turn of the 20th century.

It’s 1803. Robert Emmet is hanged, drawn, and
Quartered on Thomas Street, and Devlin strung up
By the yeomanry on the very cart her father
Donated to midwife the aborted state. See Wikipedia

For further details and inaccuracies. Maser’s
Liberties Festival pop-graph portrait head-to-head
With a miniature Devlin sat for at Rogerson’s Quay
Two hundred years earlier. Which shows more

Torture in the rendered care of Edward Trevor,
Failed apothecary, Chief Medical Inspector,
Kilmainham Gaol? More damp straw and effluent? More
Erysipelas? Such tender mercy. Give us a sign.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Exhibit

Andreae Callanan

 

Gannets perched up top, stately, still.
Carved polystyrene crags, coastline
grasses massed and paint-spattered

to look for all the world like shit-matted
nests. Eggs everywhere, some tucked
around the stationary feet of razorbills

and turr, some untended and conspicuous.
Smashed shells, smashed whelk, smashed urchin,
upturned empty carapace of crab. Dirty

shafts of fallen feathers, spare, barbless.
Bones scattered, stripped with oceanic
proficiency. A gull with wings frozen

mid-flap, the silver arc of a caplin
clutched in its beak. Charcoal guillemots
in cliffside holes, earth-black and curled

into themselves, like city pigeons.
Among the curated mess, a cracked
rubber baby bottle nipple, dry-rot dumbtit,

mottled grey and greenish, nearly
camouflaged against the simulated stones.
Midway down the rock face, puffins:

posed as though about to launch
themselves in their graceless way
into the graded blue of the display’s back wall,

into the brushstroke line meant to signify horizon.
Above it all, two metallic sprinkler-system
stars shimmer in cool fluorescent light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Storm

Richard Greene

 

The storm when it came
…………had all to do with love and charisma.

She sat there beautiful
…………as skulls are sometimes beautiful
when we choose not to fear them

her skin growing taut and fugitive
…………where the bone of mere being
showed through
…………and there was no full sentence left.

It was the vacancy
…………that we construed.

Flying out, I wrote of her
…………in a tablet’s pale light
as the hours peeled away
…………towards Greenwich.

It seemed through that night of transit
…………over the black water
I was childhood’s dupe and God’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night shade

Tara-Michelle Ziniuk

 

I meet your new lover on the death bridge, the bridge where people die. Not even the one in town people jump from, but the ones where cars come and bring death. Amidst the memorial flowers and traffic, we run into one another. She is eating a popsicle. It is unnecessary. I didn’t want to get to this, to know you now. She turns her back to me. My daughter does not comply.

At home I butcher pregnant peppers, Sheppard, so deep in their redness they’re almost brown. My daughter says they are the best peppers she’s ever tasted. I think that’s a bit much. I show her that the peppers are having babies, but she doesn’t understand the gore.

When we have the whole house to ourselves, you and I—the house we borrow—we force sleep away. We cover walls and counters with ourselves, each other. We try to keep ourselves standing, our knees from giving in; try to keep each other down, but we fail and flee. We find that we have too much planned, that our minds race too fast, that it’s work for our bodies to keep up. We can never make it to the bag we brought, the next plan. We are all limbs and sweat together, a single body, a nameless shape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Joking Aside

Dina Del Bucchia

 

Put it away. This is not the right time for a good time. We are having a serious discussion about traditional values, about saving ourselves from enjoying life. If you put it aside it’s easier. Really. It’s like we’re real people. I will not make fun of the size of any part of your body. All of it needs to go away. If we leave some behind it will spark, it could sparkle. It could take up space and then we’d have to get another California Closet organizer to keep track of everything. Slip it into a drawer, a lock box, an old ice cream tub. Once it’s aside we can get to the real meat. Tear into topics with our teeth, the meat of life dripping in sugary ketchup, a dollop of mayo. Joking is the side dish and it’s optional. At some restaurants you have to pay extra for it.  When your laughter gets shushed at a casual bistro you’ll know you’ve been asking for someone to confiscate your joking, keep it in an office drawer like you’re in trouble with the Vice Principal. That’s the level of seriousness. You will need to win it back, but you won’t. It will be claimed missing. You’ve lost. After it’s aside you’re trapped, you’re held accountable for being fun at one time. All joking aside is on a bumper sticker from the 90s and now everyone respects it like it’s in the New York Times. In all seriousness, I crept up on you because it’s funny to scare people.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Open Road

Leslie Vryenhoek

 

……….Get me out of here.

Out from one of your back-
to-myself retreats
in the foothills—almost
but not quite
in the Rockies.
The mountains (you told me
they told you) block energy,
shade
inner light.
You added something
about elucidation and
I thought possibly
(my guess, unsaid)
that conference rooms
cost more
in the mountains.

Just get me
……….out of here.
We’d been driving an hour
but the words were caught
in your throat.
You kept coughing them up.

That woman was a lifeblood
vampire.

The foothills long gone, the flatlands
before us, the sun at our backs and flax
in full bloom—and I was mystified
by this vampire.

……….It means you wouldn’t like it
……….either, the way she sucked
……….up all the energy, gave off
……….such a negative vibe. God
……….I’m tired.

Eyes closed, you leaned
your head against the window.
I contemplated the potential
for T-bone: a truck barrelling
off a side road, a deer
sprinting from the ditch to fill
your ear with its clarified
knee. But the road
was straight and clear
so I let the openness
fill my head instead. Besides,
I thought you should sleep.

I thought it would be good
to have you home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Portrait of the Child E. Raising a Trout to Heaven

Erin Moure

 

Tomorrow I will write the work called “human cruelty”
wherein “cruelty” and “cherish” appear
in the same strophe

and trout for that matter

A pool in the hand where fish rest shaded
and the small child lifts one up

it is so patient it lets the girl do this

For what is an image does it shimmer
in heaven where the child E. has been banished forever
her small wrists beneath the fish’s fondest belly

the fish who is learning a beautiful patience
with all things

even cruelty
even with what looks like it could turn to cruelty

—heaven is dry and the fish
in the hands of the girl is rising—

A great wind and chime are hunkered over her

Sparrow, whiskyjack
Trout, armistice
Crimea, Debaltseve, the sands of Winnipeg

Please don’t send her away

 

 

 

 

 

 

Needleminer (for/after C.D. Wright)

Gary Barwin

 

Meanwhile the areola continued, a lateral grey endosquirrel down superior ambiance.

Refrain to the distalwolf, a thorasic minksong down and down the porcupine of ventral ectolight.

Eastern Occipital wood. Woodchuck proximal. Great shrew of red bat meadowbright.

Deer cooling against the cranial vole. The auricle inferior apprehends the coyotoid awakening. Who played only what beaver chose, who chose only to play “fovea muskrat fovea down.”

A dorsal sparrow emptied. The ruby short-tailed lumbar of shoppingcart racoonoplasty.

The pine vole’s silverhaired kingfisher perceives a Norway rat of seminiferous stickleback. Time’s flying needleminer.

It isn’t a horsenut ectosilver, wisenheimer. There weren’t birch skeletonizers to bullrush deltoid duskbat hiss.

At the brush wolf. When they were mink. The humans were hard glossy woodland. The children asleep on the dendrite swallow with the motor warm. Ventral bellybreath the ornamental swan of the pelvis. The spider’s private life: shadows animating a boxelder.

“Never avert your eyes.” (Pine spittlebug.)

The anthropocene is a writing of light, a flocking of swallows.

More than magnolia, crepe myrtle is missed. The white bushes especially.

Against undifferentiated dark. It is unlike night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

from LOT OF CATULLUS / CATULLUS’ LOT

Nathaniel G. Moore

 

CATULLUS 71: GOATS N’ GOUT

If that prestigious goat
living out his days
in the armpits
of you know who
ever hurt a soul
(or the gout caused
as much pain)
that bath pal of yours,
busy pumping
that certain party,
between her hot dog thighs;
contracting both conditions,
well, it’s a fitting finish:
Every time that he bangs away,
he punishes both:
the odor makes her gag,
the gout knocks him off
his rotting feet.

 

CATULLUS 43: ADPOSITIO

Do you do it alat all-girl?
Do you do all
well sized nose
beached eyes vacant
stumps for hands
wronged toes
a total body
a monster’s spawn
but it’s not your fault
Friend of impoverished Forman,
the one whom Cisalpine Gaul rates
with my Lesbia
and dare not call werewolf
a tomato serenade this,
the pipsqueak generation
rotten on sweet fountains
of empty knowledge
gnawing on
each other’s cartilage
never learning

 

 

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE TIME

Jake Byrne

 

The Craigslist post requested two
boys: bushy-tailed, chipmunk-cheeked

pure hearts, yadda yadda. We struck
camp at daybreak in a hamlet

where Churchill’s voice is still
tonic as brandy. I love you but

we need to find clean water
and a flower that blooms

with the fragrance of mischief. I don’t or can’t tell you
about the men I think I’m kissing

before I’ve fully woken up. I’m not asking
for a love spell, just its shadow word: commitment.

When we speak of things worth doing
we’re not talking about risk, I’ve tried

Advil and the almanac,
stuck my dad’s gemsteel machete

into the mouth of your tributary
but the beach was needled with Irukandji stings.

And if I fall victim to ensorcelment? Visions
of other lives spent with other bodies,

the subtle glamers of crème de violette.
Consulted a friendly teenaged haruspex

and she ripped a wet fistful
of entrails, orange with Easy Mac.

This is, at best, a neutral omen.
But baby, we can make this work. I can do it

for you: be a conduit. Interpret
the letter of the lightning:

every thing
that enters exits

into undiscovered country.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Natural History of the Rhinoceros

Kate Sutherland

 

A nose-horned beast,
strange and never seen in our country,
a very wonderful creature
entirely different from what we fancied.

In its fifth month, not much bigger than a large dog.
At two years, no taller than a young heifer
but broader, thicker, jutting out at the sides
like a cow with calf.
Large as a horse, not much larger
than the bounding oryx, bigger than a bull.
Equal to an elephant in length but
lower to the ground. Like a wild boar
in outward form and proportion, especially its mouth.
A mouth not unlike the proboscis of an elephant,
the underlip like that of an ox, the upper like that of a horse,
tongue soft and smooth as a dog’s.
Piglike head, eyes the shape of a hog’s, ears like a donkey’s.
Skin the colour of an elephant’s, two girdles hanging down
like dragons’ wings.

Dark red head, blue eyes, white body;
on its back, dense spots showing darkly;
purple spots upon a yellow ground;
red hairs on its forehead, yellowish brows.
Skin the colour of box-wood:
mouse-grey, grey-brown, blackish brown,
dirty brown, dark brown, dark ash,
the colour of a toad,
the colour of a speckled turtle.

It fears neither the claws of the tiger
nor the weapons of the huntsman,
its hide impervious to darts
so thick as to be impenetrable by a Japanese dagger.
Lead musket balls flatten on impact.
It does not feel the sting of flies.
Dry, hard skin, four fingers thick;
studded with scales, like a coat of mail, loricated like armor,
covered in calluses resembling clothes buttons.
Extravagant skin, loose like so much coach leather
lying upon the body in folds. Between the folds
smooth and soft as silk.

The horn stands upon the nose of the animal
as upon a hill, rises dread and sharp,
as hard as iron, a little curved up,
sometimes three and a half feet long.
The base is purest white; the sharp point,
flaming crimson; the middle, black.
The colour of the horn is various:
black, white, sometimes ash-coloured.
Commonly these horns are brown or olive-colour
yet some are grey and even white.

There is another horn not upon the nose
but upon the withers.

Small piercing eyes, red eyes,
dull, sleepy eyes
that seldom open completely;
eyes in the very center of the cheeks;
eyes placed as low down as the jaws;
eyes so small, placed so low, and so obliquely,
they have little vivacity and motion;
eyes that only see sideways;
eyes that only see straight ahead.

Teeth broad and deep in its throat,
teeth so sharp, they cut straw and tree branches
like a pair of scissors:
two strong incisive teeth to each jaw,
twenty-four smaller teeth,
six on each side of each jaw.

It will kill with licking
and by the roughness of its tongue
lay bare the bones.
No animal near its size has so soft a tongue;
it feels like passing the hand over velvet.

Strong legs as big around as a man’s waist;
massive legs terminating in large feet,
each foot divided into three great claws.

Sprouting from its slender, inconsiderable tail,
black, shining hairs a foot long
the thickness of shoemaker’s thread,
not round like other hair, but flattish
like little pieces of whalebone.

All the breed are males
and a female is never seen.
The penis is an extraordinary shape.
The female is the same in all respects
except the sex. The female has two teats
and an udder. The female brings forth
but one young. The male horn is harder
and sharper than the female’s.
The male has a small extra horn
on its back right shoulder.

It never attacks men unless provoked
but then becomes formidable.
If it meets a man in a red coat, it will rush him
and throw him over its head with such violence
the fall alone is fatal.

It can reach an age of a hundred years.
It is probable that it lives as a man, seventy or eighty years.
It seldom lives beyond twenty.

No creature that pursues it can overtake it.
It falls asleep before virgins and then
can easily be taken and carried away.
Attack it during hot weather when it is lying in the marsh.
Cover a pit with green branches on the path
from the forest to the riverside.
Destroy the old ones with firearms. If there happens to be a cub
seize and tame it.
Take it by gunfire.

 

 

[Note: Fragments of text borrowed from: Ctesius, Ancient India; Oppian, Kynegetika; Pliny, The Natural History; Kosmas Indikopleustes, De Mundo; Marco Polo, The Travels of Marco Polo; Valentin Ferdinand, Letter; Edward Topsell, History of Four-Footed Beasts and Serpents; James Bontius, An Account of the Diseases, Natural History, and Medicines of the East Indies; John Evelyn, The Diary of John Evelyn; I. Parsons, A Letter from Dr. Parsons to Martin Folkes, President of the Royal Society, containing the Natural History of the Rhinoceros; L’Abbe Ladvocat, Letter on the Rhinoceros to a Member of the Royal Society of London; Comte de Buffon, Natural History; Oliver Goldsmith, A History of the Earth and Animated Nature.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elver

Allison LaSorda

 

Hook an eel and reel it in. It wraps around my hand
and wrist like a boa constrictor. My cousin yells
to hurry up and get the lure out, but the muscle, the persistence.

For the past week I’ve been visiting. I hug people,
see them pause. Someone concedes
they last saw me at a funeral.

Resolving expectations leads to loneliness.
There are blueberries in an old ice cream bucket.
Things grow faster than I remember; I eat quickly.

Clouds look different, more cheerful, which stirs mixed-feelings.
Ancestors made nuisances of themselves here, casting
their nets, planting, skills that have long left my blood.

A high school friend tours me around the valley sites:
the pig farm he can’t afford will be developed;
this used to be that. The drive makes me ravenous.

Stay in his childhood bedroom. He tells me he used to open
a drawer to lock himself in when he got in trouble.
Later, I open the drawer while I undress.