Poetry Archives Bio
March 22, 2017
10:54 AM
Arbeitsleben

Some things never change:
Reply All to the full org,
Barking on the call.

March 3, 2017
11:19 AM
Mr. Mnemosyne

On Seymour Street I walk to work, and oft
I pass the time reciting sundry verse.
In traffic I can speak—quite loud or soft—
As I my memory's confines rehearse.

I know by heart my favourite—"Kubla Khan"—
Followed by "Ozymandias" alway.
Next comes "The Second Coming"'s denouement
And "Richard Cory" then, without delay.

"The Tyger"'s blazing head I soon describe
And, to conclude my spirited parade,
I launch into King Richard's diatribe
And walk into the office, thus allayed.


This morning, near a crossing of two roads,
While waiting for the traffic lights to change,
A man spied my poetic episode,
And seems to have assumed I was deranged.

So on we walked to work, a foot apart:
He, glaring quietly at his new foe,
And I, performing interloper's parts
In my recitativo's cadent throes.

To clarify: I did not hound or troll
The man whose morning I by chance debased.
I counseled then my thoughts—"Dive to my soul!"
And he, to make escape, took up his pace.

February 27, 2017
1:59 PM
The Fight Jar

To Derek Choy and
Rod Moody-Corbett

What use is the defensive stance to man?
One crouches like a snail, stands still as wood.
What purpose to be gained in mending sense?
All things must pass, and none are quite so good.
What use is wasting breath on being right?
One makes the body small and backs away.
What purpose to be gained in rhetoric?
All things are heartache, sullen lachrymae.
What use is talk, or writ, or page, or word?
One is as mute as if one's all but gone.
What purpose to be gained from constancy?
All things must be destroyed, unmade, undone.
But I'm still here; my work still here remains.
The night still hastens, and the day still gains.

February 9, 2017
9:40 PM
why the bandage proves tragic eating disorder

once
       you had
    forward speed

 and as the lamps
  came               
                                  ON


      you turned back
           homeward
        sickened

   unalone
          and now you soil the night
       with oxidation pale


                   a coffee crescent
          sighted in a pail
                 the better man

  the dipper traces
            o'er the blackened
    bay


   and dirty muzhikí
               there fish
         out

    cans in blackbags
and they park their troves
  and hide the remnants


    patio and table/chair
(a set
         a broken stove

         a cup of styrofoam
on calendar reset
  month of nisàn


      a trunkful of broke glass  
and trails 
  of semen left upon your  
ass

February 8, 2017
12:30 AM
found poem VIII or The Map of My Longing
To Paul

Innisfail
Tokin
Bunnings
Cairns

Portsmith
Lavis
Edmonton
Gordonvale


Paronella
Tinaroo
Cornetts
Draper

Ingham
Townsville
Cardwell
Bloomsbury


Haliday
Hillsborough
Seaforth
Yakapari

Jolimont
Mackay
Proserpine
Calen


Careys
Pindi Pindi
Duck
Bowen
Hay

February 1, 2017
7:54 PM
The Poet Steve Olive

To M. C. Jason

The poet Steve Olive
Was not a supporter
Of postmodern poems.

With all eighteen volumes
Of his published knowledge
He'd eat all sorts olives;
He'd buy antique novels.

The poet Steve Olive
Could not quite abide by
All ego-based nonsense.

He'd talk straight to conscience,
And sew woolen scrotums;
He'd build wooden totems
To praise Aristotle.

The poet Steve Olive
Would look at your poems;
He'd do you a favour:

You would sign a waiver;
He'd find you discursive.
He'd tell you to shape up
And keep off the bottle.

The poet Steve Olive
Eschews the symbolic.
He'd talk to you breathless.

He'd tell you what's bollocks.
He knows of obstetrics.
He'd push on the throttle
And teach you poetics.

The poet Steve Olive
Would often dishonour
All verbal impostors:

The stylistic rosters,
Of I-speaking lobsters,
Undisciplined, sponsored
Post-structur'list monsters.

The poet Steve Olive
Is guided by muses
(And Oliver Cromwell.

He's glowing all over.
You won't get your closure.
He'll wish you good day with
His righteous composure.


January 26, 2017
8:15 PM
Ars Poetica

This is my translation of "Ars Poetica" by Archibald MacLeish.

Стих ощутимым должен быть и тих
Как фрукта штрих,

Нем
Как старый медальон, затем,

Беззвучно стёртый кам'нь эпох
На подоконниках где рос твой мох —

Он должен быть бессловен
Как полёты птиц.

*

Стих должен неподвижно время ждать,
Луну поднять.

Уйти, когда отпустит свет
По веточке ночные древа,

Уйти, как лунный свет сквозь зимний лист,
Память за памятью там —

Стих должен неподвижно время ждать,
Луну поднять.

*

Стих равен должен быть сему:
Не впрямь.

За всю историю вдвоём
Кленовый лист, пустой дверной проём.

Любви
Поклонам трав, и на зыби вдали светить —

Не должен означать
А быть.

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