Les Murray

The Meaning of Existence

Everything except language
knows the meaning of existence.
Trees, planets, rivers, time
know nothing else. They express it
moment by moment as the universe.

Even this fool of a body
lives it in part, and would
have full dignity within it
but for the ignorant freedom
of my talking mind.


Poems the Size of Photographs, 2002, (published by Carcanet, www.carcanet.co.uk)

Les will be reading at
University of Surrey
Guildford, Surrey GU2 7XH UK

Friday 30th May 2008
Free by ticket only
starts 6 p.m.

Jim Bennett

changed in subtle ways

the land changed in subtle ways
as unfolding green stalks
bristle the hillside and reflect
in the bookshop window
the book titles craze
in rainwater lenses

on the road outside
the Orange Tree Café
the cars and busses
bustle through the junction
taking turns at traffic lights
sending waves of
stranded rainwater
across the pavement

the land changed in subtle ways
as the ghosts of hills
undulate across
Tesco’s car park
and grass squeezes through
a pavement crack
remembering a meadow
.
.

James Bell

at random

at random he sits on a section of wall
beside the large boat usually seen from a distance

he ignores it and sits to write
feels the heat of sun on his back

something sensual after days of storm -
ducks and gulls make diva noises
for good weather -
tell him not only humanity
like to have pleasure

then he turns and sees how moss has woven
into the strands of a boat mooring

that here at low tide still lays stretched on the bank
in a rictus of times when strained
on the metal pulley held in concrete beside him

only sun has allowed him to notice
suggested to him it was fine to sit
suggested too this sheltered spot at the river bend

from the same smart wind that has howled the estuary
for enough days to make him question randomness
and the strength of the mooring for this boat
at this bend in the river
for some kind of forever

.

Jim Bennett

5
(from a series of 56)

the Mothers Union
picknicks
and nitpicks
black hills
golden fields
and questions
“Is he your son?”
“is this the one you adopted?.”
but she
clung to her membership
like a badge
and often whispered
“you are so special
because we picked you.”

so they went
mother and son on
sandcastle afternoons
train trips to New Brighton
in summers that went
on and on and on

Joolz Denby

Gold

The Bride stands at the latticed
window gazing out into the ineffable
dusk of her last maiden day,
the stepping silhouettes of the distant hills
shade on shade of tender dissolving blue,
the smoky rose and violet of sunset ashing
into the coming night.


A thread of incense smoke unwind
sits sweet sandalwood embroidery into the
warm air as she dreams,
her smooth young face hieratic and distant,
her eyes dark as holy pools,
her shining hair a tasselled braid
dropping to her knees uncut,
scented with jasmine and amber.

Tomorrow her almond-pale body
will be burnished, hennaed and
perfumed, then wrapped in her wedding sari,
the archaic weight of fabric more than simple cloth,
being freighted with symbolism
and heavy with women's magic.
The sari, a serpentine length
of pigeon's blood scarlet, brocaded, precious,
the core of its incantatory pattern a filament
of pure yellow gold, the metal drawn fine as gossamer,
woven into the very garment she will wear,
her future secured by its unchanging value
and as just as her mother did,
when the fine silk dulls and frays,
she will feed it to the fire which will
consume the silk leaving in the dross
the unchanging and eternal purity
of the sun's sister, Gold.

There in the hot cinders it will glitter,
the indissoluble reminder of herself,
the knowledge that whatever she appears,
however the World sees her
what she is in essence remains
unchanging, faithful, pure.

This is her talisman,
like the old spiral wedding pendant
even her grandmother has forgotten the age of,
that shows the turning path of her life
trace from birth to death and back again
and will see her daughter's journey
and will lie on the breast of her grandchild
when this same sun warms
her knotted hands and the veils
between life and death are worn transparent.

Her daughter, yet unborn,
will one day show her her dowry cloths,
just as she showed her own grandmother
the priceless saris, months in the making,
stamped and foiled in the same gold
that winds its threads through her wedding garment,
and watched the old woman sigh
and touch the bright designs gently, gently,
half-immersed in the past,
her heart a storehouse of mystery and wisdom,
understanding that like the fire that
burns the worn and discoloured silk
from the golden core,
pain tempers the spirit, and a woman,
like a spear-head or a good sword,
carries her strength in the beauty of not harming
where she might, in protecting that which needs her
and in turning the fierce edge of pride to creation,
not destruction.

The mother, having given birth,
also tends the dying;
Gold, blessing the Bride,
honours the Dead.

All that seems simple -
a shining yellow metal,
a young woman dreaming at dusk -
is complexity past imagination:
all that seems soft, weak, helpless -
a trembling Bride engulfed in her vestments,
a little ornament catching the light -
is enduring and unbowed beyond Time and Fortune.

Here is Gold. Here is The Bride.

Here is the mystic union.

Here is Gold.


www.joolz-denby.co.uk
www.myspace.com/joolz_denby
www.myspace.com/wildthingjoolzdenby
www.facebook.com/JoolzDenby

A. F. Harrold

Keep On Keeping On

Pass through the portal, the passage, the doorway,
the alley, the wormhole, the window, the chink,
the keyhole, the skylight, the gateway, the tunnel,
the pinhole that's forced in the butterfly's back,
the crack in the rock-face, the cave-mouth, the well-mouth,
the trapdoor, the hatchway, the fanlight, the frame,
the eye of the needle, eye of the hurricane,
the hole in the ear where an earring's just been.

But remember Orpheus, remember Eurydice,
remember Lot and remember Lot's wife,
keep an eye on the light at the end of the dark
and just keep keeping on and it might be alright.

Slip through the eyelet, the loop of the shoelace,
the hole in the Polo, the witch-stone, the ring,
the paper-chain circlet, the ring of red roses,
the thumb and fore-finger of a diver's 'okay',
the hole in the pocket, the wallet, the handbag,
the hole in the bucket, the doughnut's one eye,
dart down the mouse-hole, the plughole, the pipeline,
through porthole or portico, triumphal archway.

But remember Orpheus, remember Eurydice,
remember Lot and remember Lot's wife,
keep an eye on the light at the end of the dark
and just keep keeping on and it might be alright.
Loop-the-loop smoke ring blown from a mouth-hole
and dive through the hoop (avoiding the flames),
go on through the silence that lives between words,
go on through the dark that's the gap between days,
live through the blink that cuts this from that moment,
and live through the adverts that break up the shows.
Pass through all intervals, set changes, quick changes,
house moves, bereavements and chapters of books.

But remember Orpheus, remember Eurydice,
remember Lot and remember Lot's wife,
keep an eye on the light at the end of all tunnels
and just keep keeping on and it might be alright.


www.afharrold.co.uk and www.myspace.com/afharrold

Adam Taylor

DOT DOT DOT

... by a pointillist
so it consists
entirely of dots
and a minimalist
so only three ...

... not so much nice,
as delightfully concise,
a triptych,
basic maybe,
yet epic, rhetorical ...

... fearlessly bare,
atomic,
molecular,
microcosmic ...

... eyes and a nose,
ears and a mouth?
the blind mice?
the musketeers? ...

... a lot to the eye
but joining them
isn't advised ...

... something I
could've done
but didn't ...

... a synopsis
of four?...

...(an ellipsis)
or more?...

dot dot dot

.

Jim Bennett

a trip up the tower

at the top of The Anglican Cathedral in Liverpool
3rd May 2007

when you are on the street
everything in Liverpool
is busy with people
cars and busses
but today my children
brought me up here
above the noise and rush
climbing stairs
to the highest point
in the city

from here
when I look down
I see trees

trees in gardens
and streets
trees growing in areas
and on old chimneys
trees small and large
their green canopies
marking their presence
almost unnoticed by
passers by

you see on the ground
Liverpool is tarmac
and brick
but from here
it is a forest
breathing with the wind

.

Clare Kirwan

Her Things

twenty woollen cardigans
bone china tea set porcupine
quill box containing pencils
Readers Digest book of birds
out of date prescription drugs
BT phone bill low user tariff
tubes of antisan and germolene
gift sets lavender geranium
china toothbrush holder a pair
of sheepskin gloves good winter
coat vinegar Bovril butter beans
jars of dust marked cinnamon
rosemary thyme four carrier bags
full of carrier bags chamois leathers
margarine tub containing buttons
butterfly in Caithness glass
china rose a souvenir of Madeira
Mantovani's greatest hits LP
napkins doilies net curtains
two candy-striped flanellette sheets
and single duvet (slightly soiled)
ten pairs support briefs flesh-coloured
tights small bag of frozen sprouts
box of blank Christmas cards
Pifco hairstyler seventies cigarette box
carpet sweeper slide projector
golfing trophies walking stick

.

Stuart Nunn

African landscape with figures

You see them first down the long perspective
of motorways, men dwarfed by distance.
Flashing past, no details impinge, but a sense
of want that’s driven them out here where
no goal or departure point is evident.

Soon you expect them, walking where you drive,
walking – where to? Where from?
Sometimes two or four, not together,
spaced as though to make some point
in a language you don’t understand.

Later you find a destination or point
of origin in the hillsides of plastic sheeting,
plywood or corrugated tin leaving you
to imagine all the life that’s buried there,
marked off with high walls and safety barriers

stopping this other world colliding
with your safe white rush from beauty spot
to national park. Later still, you see them
everywhere, these walking, waiting Africans,
driven to the edges of our perceptions.

They walk through a landscape theirs
by law and ancient practice, but which
they didn’t make. Not strangers, not foreign,
but curious, unreadable, and, like the landscape,
strangely eloquent.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Seascape With Sun and Eagle

Freer
than most birds
an eagle flies up
over San Francisco
freer than most places
soars high up
floats and glides high up
in the still
open spaces

flown from the mountains
floated down
far over ocean
where the sunset has begun
a mirror of itself

He sails high over
turning and turning
where seaplanes might turn
where warplanes might burn

He wheels about burning
in the red sun
climbs and glides
and doubles back upon himself
now over ocean
now over land
high over pinwheels suck in sand
where a rollercoaster used to stand

soaring eagle setting sun
All that is left of our wilderness

.

Joy Leftow

MY MOTHER

My mother is an artist
She designs embroidery
- a dying art - and creates
any design she desires
her hands instruments
of a higher force

She explains to me
how this one is a fleur-de-lis
and how in the region
where we come from
it is made differently
from someplace else

With only one eye
the other is glass
she sees more than I do
She is dying
my heart is unsteady
I am powerless
a witness to her fate

My mother’s hands create
embroidery with many
names and meanings
She patiently explains
the subtle meanings
behind each motifI

listened in awe
while she explained
all of this to me
I had nothing to say

Now there is even
less to say as
Each day brings her
closer to her end
I drown in helplessness

She tells us she is sick, not stupid
she knows her death is near
If only I could relieve her suffering
I would do so until the end

She alternates between begging for death
then apologizes for doing this
She is my mother, she worries
about me, my mental health
how I will handle her death instead

I think about her hands flying quickly
the needle moving as tho she has 3 eyes
The pattern suddenly emerging
Then the design is near complete
like the course of my mother’s life

Louie Crew

Queercide

There are at least four good ways
to kill a queer.

*Classic* is to tie her to a stake
surrounded by male faggots
doused in kerosene
and throw a match.

*Traditional* is to brand them
with pink triangles
and let them season
a few baked Jews.

*Down-Home* is to take
a crowbar or an ax
or just any steel projectile,
preferably one with prongs,
cut off a private part,
and let the queer bleed slowly
in some dark place.

*Contemporary* is to place them
anywhere in the U.S.A.
and spank their first breath.

Waiata Dawn Davies

Singing at Sunrise

When he had driven the midwife home
my father hoed potatoes
in his back garden
'Kia Ora' he called to our neighbour
'We had another daughter last night."
our neighbour slapped his knee, and laughed,
"I thought I heard a little waiata in the night"

Later Dad took me, red faced and squawling,
to the fence.
"Well, hello, Waiata Dawn,'
our neighbour said.
And so I was named
by an old man with blue lips
and tattooed cheeks


'Waiata' means song in Maori. The neighbour was one Bob Rori, komatua of Ngati Raukawa.
(first published in Singing at Sunrise, Sviatko Associates, 1992.)

Rupert M Loydell

THE SECRET LIFE OF THE DEAD

Tombstones and signposts,
terrible things that happened.

Owing death to the world,
he wasted time going native,

a slow life slowed down
to promote the unutterable,

embracing a religion
of resentment and denial.

Compulsive nomads, we still
traverse the desert of time.



© Rupert M Loydell

Helên Thomas

the culinary
puffer fish as metaphor
for my cutting words

The Japanese word
‘sushi’ means ‘it is sour’
sometimes it’s lethal

blowfish or puffer
by another name fugu
often is fatal

prepare for repast
take out prandial peril
tetrodotoxin

deadly delicious
clean cuts render edible
go gall bladder, guts

bile free and spineless
sound bites edited; souped up
vitriol punctured

unsayable truths
filleted for consumption
in palatable portions

raw cyanide, sliced,
diced, redesigned, redefined
‘that’s nice’, served with rice

Attila The Stockbroker

OH FOR THE DAYS WHEN ‘SPAM’ WAS JUST A MONTY PYTHON SKETCH

Thanks to the internet
my wife is a very happy woman.
My penis is now forty-seven feet long it stays erect for weeks at a time
and it is garlanded by hundreds of genuine Rolex watches
acquired with the millions I have won
in various Albanian lotteries
and the billions generously deposited in my accounts
by the grateful executors of the wills
of innumerable African tribal chiefs
all mysteriously deceased
along with their entire extended families
in improbably gruesome lawnmower accidents in Liechtenstein.
My account with Lloyds has been suspended.
(I don’t have one.)
My wife’s breasts
enlarge and reduce, spontaneously,
as we use our 95% discounted software
to gaze at the pictures of our free timeshare apartments
enjoying continuous multiple orgasms
whilst admiring our genuine Chinese historical artefacts
purchased online from Hong Kong.
Our garden is full of imported rubber.
Not rubber sex toys
or even rubber boots
just: rubber.
I have more free Coldplay MP3s
than you could wave a suicide note at.
I also have Kate Moss Suction Power.
I don’t know what that is,
but I am hoping it may be useful
next time the toilet needs unblocking.
I now know the Cyrillic alphabet
and the Polish for
‘are you embarrased about your size?’
Every morning, a new surrealist word juxtaposition appears in my inbox
as the spammers seek to avoid the filter.
It turk may bake!
Crabmeat be Paris!
Out evoke in robins!
Decomposing lark’s vomit engulf Crystal Palace!
(ok, I mad the last one up.)
And, to prove that truth is indeed stranger than fiction
in our brave new world,
my website is recommended
as one of the top fifty stockbroking sites
on many search engines.

Now that really is Pythonesque.



ATTILA THE STOCKBROKER
http://www.attilathestockbroker.com
http://www.myspace.com/attilastockbroker
.

Lemn Sissay

The Man In The Hospital


At the hospital, there is a man, who walks the corridors
In his nightclothes and in the deadly nightshade
I have watched him from my bed the past five months
I pretend to be asleep. Sleep is where I pretend
Morning will come.

I have come to know the sand paper sound
Of silence broken by his dragging, druggy feet
I have come to know the sound of his mumbling
Stumbling words spoken as he steps
through strips of moonlight, broken.

I hear through the mental stillness the his depth of illness
He walks through the shadow of the valley of breath.
Surrounded by the incoming outgoing air of the dying
Of us waiting to exhale and bated to inhale..

I am tired. So tired. So. Tired.
My bed is covered with fresh grass and night sweats:
Dew, my dog, a red setter, deft and gentle steps through the ward door
she pitter patters her way past the other beds
Hunches her shoulders and dives upwards onto mine.
She stretches by my feet - a nightingale sings
I am surrounded by breathing it is the sound of the sea
He is coming. He is coming I hear his shuffling feet
The rag and bone man with all that’s dated. I raise my eyelid slightly
It takes tremendous effort. The effort of the Egyptians
Pulling the stones to the pyramid at sunrise. I raise my eyes

He’s at the door of the ward facing foreward.
He stares straight ahead. A head. Straight. Stares.
“there is no illness, there is no illness –
No aids! There is no such illness”.
The others wake too, too tired to argue:
to hear the tears in his lies, the lies in his tears;
to see the fear in his eyes through the eye of his fears



Lemn Sissay BBC World Service Aids Concert Nov 2003

Todd Swift

This

This thing
This another

This fuss
This bother

This bargain
This basement

This Roger
This Casement

This hammer
This nail

This church
This sale

This nook
This cranny

This Ardant
This Fanny

Rosie Lugosi

Off my head

They could tell straightway that I was off my head
when I didn’t have to cringe on entering
the room. There was all that extra space above
my neck. I liked the lightness, the sense that there
was nothing to worry about; or rather; nothing
to worry with. I couldn’t understand
why they looked so disgusted: I was happy,
wasn’t I? Someone new threw up.
Apparently it wasn’t decent, strolling around without
a by-your-leave. I left. All the twisting
between my shoulders gone for good. The self-
doubt wiped away. I shook out the contents
of my bag into the nearest bin.
A voice shrieked, I’ve found your head! I ran.


(C) Rosie Lugosi

Gill McEvoy

Taking Possession.

As if someone had been modelling bird-legs
and these were the rejects,

a jangle of scrawny metal legs and feet
is thrust in my palm. They shiver

on the car seat, clink and jingle,
a tangle of brass and steel joggling about.

I nose into the driveway, slow, unsure:
it feels like trespassing.

But no-one comes to check if I'm a threat -
I stand alone on the doorstep,

sorting through the bunch, key after key,
till one at last slides in

and with slow grind and turn
unlocks the future that lurks inside.

.
.

Michael Horovitz

..

..............in Paris

. . . arise at dawn from
foam rubber blue pillow
pink blanket piss flush
brush teeth – miss the feel
of rush mats underfoot as
in London – but never mind
that – I may be a Londoner
but this is Paris – down the
stairs jumping 3-at-a-time
out to the forecourt – ‘Good-
Day Sunshine’ – ask young girls –
student couples – restaurateurs
opening their doors for breakfast
– for directions – fart belch
buy croissant & apple turnover –
munch in streets (‘a small turn-
over’) – read messages on walls
wind way through streets wide &
narrow – just noticing mosaic
of cobbles on streets – historic
architectures of church & lion’s
mouths & classic statues –
bleach & iron smocked nuns in
convent vestibules – flamboyant
sexy walks of Paris business-ladies
lines from the past – ‘A l’ombre
des arbres et jeunes filles’ –
fall on grass in Luxembourg
Gardens tall trees & voices
in them laugh & rustle
their skirts & leaves
– so young – so green
‘Les lauriers sont coupés’
– the garden of love
open & seen – flowers toss
their heads in the breeze
– young lovers swing
their hips – I sneeze
for the earth is full
of sky today – & the sky
replete with sun – & birds
quietly jingling – their beaks
still snatching the
last shreds of night
plying darker lines of melody
across the dazzling noonday light . . .


from Wordsounds & Sightlines (1994),
reprinted with kind permission of the author

Available by mail order from: New Departures, PO Box 9819, London W11 2GQ – sent by return of post on receipt of £7.99 cheque to ‘Michael Horovitz’ – more info via www.poetryolympics.com
....
....

Jim Bennett

the best day we ever spent
2nd July 2005

it is always difficult to write about evening
the way it arrives in the late afternoon
the air cools the sunlight gentler
before you know it it’s evening
the hum of conversation no longer
boisterous, now somehow softer
the distant TV football watching crowds silent
the barbeque dying off, the burnt wood
smell retreating into the damp leaves
grass and insects return to the world
from a perch on a TV aerial a blackbird
joins the bird song
with a magpie on the fence top
and another in the tree
later as the sun sets, the guitar
and the Beatle songs
Let it Be and Yesterday
then Brel and all the words we could
remember from Amsterdam
and Jackie
wishing Attila could have been here
to sing ces gens-la because we loved it
when he sang it on the CD
instead it was les bourgeois
and if you go away
someone remembered then
it was a year since the London Bombs
we read some poems cried a little
and finished as we always do
thinking it was the best day we ever spent
and it probably was

Dan Masterson

TIME OFF FOR GOOD BEHAVIOR

~informed by Estes’ painting: “Supreme Hardware, 1973”~

(“Spider Thompson, the legendary saxophonist, was paroled
from Attica State Prison yesterday and nearly caused a riot as
he led hundreds of revelers in and out of jazz bars on West
Genesee. The scene, according to one police officer walking
his beat, resembled a giddy jailbreak.” -Buffalo News, 1951)

The iron gates of The Kitty Kat Klub slam open
& in comes Spider, head back, grunting, screeching,
Honking out his trademark version of Bostic’s “Flamingo,”
A pied piper throng of locals at his heels, pushing
Its way past the bouncers as Spider climbs the bar,

Strutting his stuff twice round before stepping
Off in mid air for his gliding split & slow-count rise,
Dancing off through the kitchen & down the cellar
Stairs to the Tunnel of Love where he blows fourteen
Private doors off their hinges: half-dressed hookers

Joining the parade, trailed by johns stumbling
Into their trousers on a one-legged romp, the line
Worming its way down the corridor & up the ramp
Where Spider takes The Riff Raff Room like a house
Afire, patrons chanting his name, trying not to

Be trampled; then out into traffic he goes & leaps
Aboard a cross-town bus, its riders on their feet,
Following him out the back door where neighbors
Lean from windows & hang from fire escapes,
Swerving to the melody of their prodigal son

As he roars through the broken door of The Hot Spot
To do his bar-top back-&-forth, customers grabbing
Their drinks, clearing a path for his patent-leather boots
That flick a dazzling black light in their eyes, his veins
Bulging like a hangman’s noose at full drop.

David W. Rushing

CAROUSELS

There is a painting of a carousel where
one by one the horses become real,
jump off, and run away.

I once knew an old man
who'd had many different children
with many different wives
and he said the horses in the painting
reminded him of his children,
running out of his life.

I have a daughter who's seventeen.
Her and my days of carousels
are long gone and she, too,
is sprinting out of my life.

And now I know how it feels.

David Bateman

Monument Station

When I come to Monument Station
the up escalator is howling and shrieking
like several dozen souls in torment
but the down escalator is silent.
The down escalator is silent
because the down escalator
is not really an escalator at all.
The down escalator is a set of concrete steps
with shiny iron treads all set neatly
in a polished steel escalator-casing
complete with motionless black handrail.
Every few steps of the hundred steps
I pass a small raised notice saying
PLEASE STAND ON THE RIGHT.
I obediently walk down on the left
politely mindful of the ghosts of luggage
hanging from ghostly shoulders of commuters
or perhaps standing at the ghostly feet
of all those ghosts of tourists
who have come to this escalator
and stood on the right
and stood here forever:
the ghostly monuments
of Monument Station.

A. D. Winans

MOVING ON

I have given up writing for the
small magazines
I want to make it BIG

I have taken my belongings to the
Bay Meadow's Race Track
and directed my mail be forwarded
to Radio Shack

In between the daily double
and the $5 Exacta
you will find me sitting alone
in the grandstands
next to the news vendor
with no hands
my eyes searching for the
woman of my dreams
spread out across the rail
my seed spilled on the grass
waiting to haul ass
if my car doesn't run out of gas
and the Pope is willing
to grant me absolution after
Sunday Mass

Les Merton

I am a collector...

I don't bother collecting
ordinary everyday things like;
stamps, coins, books, memorabilia
or other material things.

I collect experiences,
not everyday experiences like;
shopping, missing the bus
or even making love.

None of these appeal to me
I collect real experiences like;
being out in the depth of night
during a thunderstorm...

experiencing
a flash of lightning
changing the landscape
into a black and white negative.

I like new unusual experiences
to add to my collection like;
looking over your shoulder
as you are reading this...

_____________

Les Merton is the editor of Poetry Cornwall
www.poetrycornwall.freervers.com

Keith Armstrong

I Have Fallen in Love with the Forth Bridge

Strapping girders,
lusty arches:
the span of my ambition,
shore to shore
you link me with the old bones,
the new ways,
the true trains that take me
down the path of all my loves.
You lift up your wide arms
to take in the tide,
roll with the shaking wind
that whistles in the rushes
of the wild banks.
You thrill me with your size,
your strong embrace;
you roar with achievement,
you make me proud:
I could hug you.
Let me take the Queensferry train,
slide through you to freedom.
The pipes play
and the kilts sway
to greet us.
You are the opening,
the gap we streak through
to the woolly wilds
of Auld Reekie
and Bonnie Old Dundee;
to the sea of workers' blood,
the red rust of the past that clings
and hugs the bones of dead engineers.
In the Albert Hotel,
tucked up, I hear you moan in the darkness.
Naked,
I pull back the curtains
and see you floodlit
in all your entrancing glory.
Shine on, shine
you crazy bridge.
You have my devotion,
you have my deepest darkest love.
I would climb you stripped;
I would feel you breathe in the Firth wind.
I give you my heart and soul,
I am frail against your depth.
You will outlive me,
do not mock me,
you are superb.
You are my outstretched lovely;
I will breathe through you,
long for you,
die for you.
Rock me,
go Forth
and inspire me.

Jim Bennett

A letter home to Ganymede (1)

it’s strange
these clicks and wires of language
communicate without a mental touch
their feelings held in fingertips
reveal a lightning that transmits
through haze of trickery

down wired poles across
their skin of land
life whispers words and meaning
scratched with blackened rod
read with eyes to dim to see the
universe in terms
other than their own

they have just
scratchings on a paper
to small you may think
to carry thoughts
just words to carry mood
yet what they do with them
what they do with them

this thing called poetry


website - www.poetrykit.org

Welcome to Poetry Kite

POETRY KITe ANTHOLOGY is an area for representitive poems from invited guests. Publication here is by invitation only.

This is an area of Poetry Kit where I will publish poetry written by some of my favorite poets and will include some of my own. I will try to make this area as interesting and as varied as possible. It will include poems from some very famous poets as well as some who you may not yet have heard of. You can leave comments on any of the poems or send your comments to info@poetrykit.org.