Thursday, December 26, 2013

Rebar by JKD

A re-wording of Louise Bak's Absorptive (tuesday poem number 38 on Dusie) by Jennifer K Dick

An arm’s worth more than its length

to be the adjoining corner’s sidewall,
building past its broken fringe rigid part

turned out into the groan oiled wrist thigh-

high circumnavigation, flap, found the “e”

in society in “I. Konigsburg” a flattened curve

backed all the way down to the A36 this case

a violin’s, a booked room, a change of clothes

hand slapped on top bar (swerved briefly) a cross

creased a line: the medicinal pump beeps

intravenous short puffs on the welt pocket: kneeling

to redness that pearlescent button through a loop,

to readiness, arm yourself, lean out to a bunched

bottle-neck, mapping induced enclosures’ square of

the earth’s root, dot, branch, broadened bifocalized

line joining the articulation of sound body casted

from a note or bracken barked upland paper 
resists strokes, to resist paper, stroke, stoke the f

glancing at an insect''s reduced convexity, glassline

nudged its slid corner slightly abrasive raised as

if to mumble  from fallen, a  crown, yank the cart

-ilage rhomboids, sestets, a following as with a flick

or the assigned rival, hinge, 90° to contained obsolescence.


Friday, April 19, 2013

combined two poems by Nazim Hikmet by BFinberg

I combined the following two poems by Nazim Hikmet and reworded them.
                        FIVE LINES
to over come lies in the heart, in the streets, in the books
from the lullabies of the mothers
to the news report that the speaker reads,
understanding, my love, what a great joy it is,  
to understand what is gone and what is on the way.
 --nazim hikmet

                   ON LIVING III
This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
               and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet--
     I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even 
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
     in pitch-black space . . . 
You must grieve for this right now
--you have to feel this sorrow now--
for the world must be loved this much
           if you're going to say "I lived". . .

   --nazim hikmet
   * * *

          Untitled (Reword)
(From Nazim Hikmet Five Lines and On Living III)

Will cold stars grow among the smallest stars,
--this, our great gilded sorrow,
Must you grieve for this right now?
--feel this now?
--for the world to be this much space,
earth loved in pitch-black lullabies.
Can a great heart lie?

and you know what’s gone--
are you going to say “but I lived”?
to understand what? cold?
and what’s on the way?
Will this empty cloud 
grow still?
            --bonny finberg

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Likened to matter by JKD

After Hypnotized Dzina's Like it Matters

It is not outside
within an unblanked

“paper deceives!”
“And ink delves?”

—what wasn’t rhetorical in this Quineauesque
production: licking, saucy, underlying Cotton’s
Matter, a substance. Chops.

Poetry got spendy.
Lovers may be paid by removal,

“I” says the page “am not prim.”
To which Ink replies: “Striptease?
strip poker? Speak easy
In your zero-sum style, but don’t
give it away.”

In the velodrome of writing prompts, I’d prefer
to hand out velamints. Anyone for cinnamon?

This is what was left in her grandmother’s mink coat.

Not some note, some noteworthy letter, embossed,
wax sealed. We are all of us going
nowhere-everywhichway. X-potentiated, the genome
is flawed, an eternal repetition 

“Form alone gives me the slip.”
“Poor paper, stuffed properly
into the envelope—‘n’ off you go!”

Pink imaginary ellipsis
no longer semi-fluid material.
I am down to the letter Y. I knows
U, knows U are over and beyond X.

Try? Trail? Even a plume
can do me better.


Sunday, February 3, 2013

Football flurry by Lisa Pasold

a rewording of JKD's Flurry

Invisible the crowds expected, nothing like Ezra’s petals on a bough—in this swamp, there’s no metro, wetly rumbling, only helicopters, and below the flowerbursts of weeds growing over broken Grand Teton sidewalks, through air heavy with potential advertising revenue, renewal, tourist onslaught, bracing snow forgotten until that homewards flight Monday, for now it’s simply a bourbon-scented hot dream of a Sunday, bowling out of the morning with no expectations and a somewhat wilted Carnival hat.

Thursday, January 31, 2013

Like it Matters by Nancy Dzina

(is a poem within the poem AutoBiOblit)

Unblanked paper deceives. Quineauesque
introduction: disbosom. Pan-o-ram. Cotton Mather
implies licking, saucy, underlying substance. Chops.
Poetry got spendy. Losses may be paid by removal,
exposure, but not zero-sum style. Not prim.
Striptease, strip poker, speak easy but don’t
give it away. Hatta’s game is always afoot.
Starting gate is finish line. In the velodrome
of writing prompts, we are all of us going
on earth, all “rosy of glow” every time.
Where eternal repetition  means more than
broken record, form alone gives me
the slip. Probably pink. Imagine an ellipsis
no longer material. It’s Carl Sagan time, &
a no-brainer down to the letter. I know
therefore I am Superfluous Girl. Why try?

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Flurry, by JKD

a rewording, downparing of Dzina's "On the other hand"

Invisible petals 
through snow
a Sunday morning


Saturday, January 5, 2013

On the other hand by Nancy Dzina

After Jennifer K. Dick's poem "Palm Reading" after Cole Swensen’s poem “Fingers: Alignment”

Someone else sees
in their hands our eyes
no longer (ours). This fading’s
not so bad, so long
ago apparent, no need
to rush things, after all
we have light years
before our map carries
much less names.

petals drop, the flower
bursts to finish, the floor
holds a different notion of
where we are in the story.

The waggle of pages, time
gesture time: gently just-so cast
inner layer tender out then mend
one for another, knowing
and knowing not what hint
of rock may steady then break
any drift of witness. Even
interlocked phalanges
spring from open palms
unbrailled with potential.

When I was a kid, though I never
saw it, I knew the congregation
of the steepled church of hands
could become unpeopled
at the blink of a trigger guard.

Try to disturb my fist.

Good luck with that.