Poetry Archives Bio
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.

January 23, 2017
10:09 PM
random restaurant bullshit

The drunken Russians
at the next table
are out on a date.

They're old and they're ugly.
They roll all their Rs and
they don't speak the crooked

ratatouille of the Jewish.
The man, he proclaims then to no one
partic'lar: «Я иммигрант русский!»1


She covers her mouth then
and shouts at her neighbours:
«Ты, видишь, в шестом,

а я в четвёртом...2 ...чё, я вообще там
про них забыла».3

«Я вся вон такая
с корабля там вышла».4
Her husband retorts then:


«...или они тебя по голове
ударили?5 ...да, спасибо,
хорошую идею дала.»6

«...вместо до́ма престарелых.»7
In turn someone thought then: "I love
this photo. In frame I will put it."

Angry young Russian drinks down his bourbon.
He too is ugly; he too is burdened.
By all the random restaurant bullshit.



1 "I—immigrant Russian!"

2 "You see, you're in sixth, / and I in fourth one..."

3 "...wha', I have tot'lly / of them forgotten."

4 "I'm really like all that / off the boat went down there."

5 "...or have they then hit you hard on the head / with so much force?"

6 "Why, yes, thank you / a grand idea you've given me."

7 "...in place of the home of elders."

January 13, 2017
10:45 AM
Porcelain

My dread sends tender tendrils east.
The thread frays.

A galaxy shatters on the kitchen floor.
Its pieces form a comet tail.

Lo siento. No lo siento.

The best writing is confessional writing.
The best writing is repurposed truth.

A bed eats spiders. (Or is it a bird?
Red roses for passion. White for madness.

¿Why does no one believe me

I dig through the debris.
I find the box that holds my aches.

It's black on the inside,
And on the outside yellow, for love.

I bury the box.

January 3, 2017
11:28 PM
FYI

A quantum leap is very small,
A change that is not large at all,
A modicum, a measure which
Teaches the pedant not to teach.

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