Posts tagged minimalism

wave there comes a slight wave pinched on beneath his parting sail after mortal dawn calm and clear as eerie as a dream which left its cage as we ride in triumph across a field through its endless mazes— I must resign the polished table seed text: The Collected Poems of Richard Wilbur art by anchari

wave

there comes
a slight wave
pinched on
beneath his parting sail

after mortal dawn
calm and clear
as eerie as a dream
which left its cage

as we
ride in triumph
across a field
through its endless mazes—

I must resign
the polished table

seed text: The Collected Poems of Richard Wilbur
art by anchari

Passed Through In the next moment my paradise is agony the delinquent flesh a distant music a hand in its noon revolving sequences of difficult planetary patterns a silence of dust in her right hand a shadowy, morphological paraphernalia of fire. All fails so miserably— what few bones remain on this desert isle doesn’t help. You knew in your heart it should have been half frozen but a reflection can never see— “we have passed through here” seed text: The Divine Comedy, by Ivan Argullesart by tuck

Passed Through

In the next moment
my paradise is agony

the delinquent flesh
a distant music

a hand in its noon
revolving sequences of
difficult planetary patterns

a silence of dust
in her right hand

a shadowy, morphological
paraphernalia of fire.

All fails so miserably—
what few bones remain
on this desert isle
doesn’t help.

You knew in your heart
it should have been
half frozen

but a reflection
can never see—

“we have passed through here”

seed text: The Divine Comedy, by Ivan Argulles
art by tuck

Turned Our eyes turned forever and ever the leaves budding pale left open. Only then it was drawn down in spite of fatigue announcing unbidden every dark-folded instrument of the same order; and he waits among the living a few feet away provisional as a coil of rain— therein is the color of questions. He restores without heart, and the signs with huge heads save us from water. seed text: The First Four Books of Poems, by W.S. Merwinart by Christian Watson

Turned

Our eyes turned
forever and ever

the leaves budding pale
left open.

Only then
it was
drawn down
in spite of fatigue
announcing unbidden
every dark-folded
instrument
of the same order;

and he waits
among the living
a few feet away
provisional
as a coil of rain—

therein
is the color of questions.

He restores
without heart,
and the signs with huge heads
save us from water.

seed text: The First Four Books of Poems, by W.S. Merwin
art by Christian Watson

low against she stared at a star or two, blind to sin which we know to have no respect except for that down-right partiality between close walls a sack of bananas setting low against his flank her own complexion harsh and strong and soundless explosion against the hand seed text: As I Lay Dying, by William Faulknerart by cimek

low against

she stared at
a star or two,
blind to sin

which we know
to have no respect

except for that
down-right partiality
between close walls

a sack of bananas
setting
low against his flank

her own complexion
harsh and strong

and soundless explosion
against the hand

seed text: As I Lay Dying, by William Faulkner
art by cimek

coiled keep your eye coiled at the very centre and its secrecy in between like a stored cask hung with texts multiple as loaves; I almost forget her broken nose world-refreshing twist by twist whispering loud against the storm and familiar— to take little points through days and weeks into the margin of the college chapel off green grass and a tar seed text: Opened Ground, by Seamus Heaneyart by Sarah Yurow

coiled

keep your eye
coiled
at the very centre
and its secrecy
in between

like a stored cask
hung with texts
multiple as loaves;

I almost forget
her broken nose

world-refreshing
twist by twist

whispering
loud against the storm
and familiar—
to take
little points
through days and weeks
into the margin
of the college chapel

off green grass
and a tar

seed text: Opened Ground, by Seamus Heaney
art by Sarah Yurow

One should not Love in Word and with Devices of Speech The sentences could swear or agitate beside the fences as vanished suburbs re-appropriate the wind. Simple circumstances like a magnesium flare, a continual telling yourself what to do and not do. This constricted atmosphere timidly approaches on the chance that angular music could steal the aftermath of sunny days. All possible worlds are in blossom. All possible worlds are somehow impossible. The earring pierced her and I was a deranged afternoon, an imaginary world of transportation. Love is an interior and popular marchenbilder on these transparent walls. art by cardboardcitiespart seed text: John Ashbery, Collected Poems 1956-87

One should not Love in Word and with Devices of Speech

The sentences could swear
or agitate beside the fences
as vanished suburbs
re-appropriate the wind.

Simple circumstances
like a magnesium flare,
a continual telling yourself
what to do and not do.

This constricted atmosphere
timidly approaches
on the chance that angular music
could steal the aftermath of sunny days.

All possible worlds
are in blossom.
All possible worlds
are somehow impossible.

The earring pierced her
and I was a deranged afternoon,
an imaginary world of transportation.

Love is an interior
and popular marchenbilder
on these transparent walls.

art by cardboardcities
part seed text: John Ashbery, Collected Poems 1956-87

The Atavist In a fantasized language the channels are far gone and merely Davis 1956— which altered empty space, lazy with figures all wet and lazy and vauge. But the phonemics of belief have eaten into her breasts a salsa Verde of cubano yells. The temple is full of splashes; the atavist is stronger than bears. I eat my Hopperesque walls. art by Die blauen Reiter This was half automatism, half Instagram minimalism technique, seed text: Norton Anthology of Postmodern American Poetry

The Atavist

In a fantasized language
the channels are far gone
and merely Davis 1956—

which altered empty space,
lazy with figures
all wet and lazy and vauge.

But the phonemics of belief
have eaten into her breasts
a salsa Verde
of cubano yells.

The temple is full of splashes;
the atavist is stronger
than bears.

I eat my Hopperesque walls.

art by Die blauen Reiter

This was half automatism, half Instagram minimalism technique, seed text: Norton Anthology of Postmodern American Poetry

head in my head the wise hen required for me to peck the earth as if I only recently was where I shouldn’t be screeching… with searchlights, wiping the grime instead of daisies— this late low observance that cuts a dream in half unraveling in the night-school textbook seed text: Early Selected Poems, by Charles Simicart by Tony Hammond

head

in my head
the wise hen

required
for me to peck
the earth

as if I
only recently was
where I shouldn’t be

screeching…
with searchlights,
wiping the grime
instead of daisies—

this late
low observance
that cuts a dream in half

unraveling
in the night-school textbook

seed text: Early Selected Poems, by Charles Simic
art by Tony Hammond

The Illusion 1. The illusion of freedom: an island garden shining and glittering on the flat lake leaving no mark. Gradually, over many years, the birds came openly, as though trying to change. 2. The humanizing sun cannot be trusted, not even whole words. Meaning is a love of endings: the boat rocking in exile forever shimmering with distractions. seed text: Louise Gluck, Poems 1962-2012art by scaraboushka

The Illusion

1.

The illusion of freedom:
an island garden
shining and glittering
on the flat lake
leaving no mark.

Gradually, over many years,
the birds came
openly, as though
trying to change.

2.

The humanizing sun
cannot be trusted,
not even whole words.

Meaning
is a love of endings:
the boat rocking
in exile forever
shimmering with distractions.

seed text: Louise Gluck, Poems 1962-2012
art by scaraboushka

lateral Don’t be waking up in some sort of lateral resurrection into a shadowy room not the world. A hundred reasons upon the minds down the grand canal to the fraction of him in an electromagnetic system— metal-to-metal clangor, pinks in the brush. The only known Buddhists in the world floated by in nebulous incoherence as her strong thighs closed like a dozen or so kids. Who would have thought? The rain: a stylized human brain and at last a small rose farm. seed text: Against the Day, by Thomas Pynchonart by d0125

lateral

Don’t be
waking up in some
sort of lateral resurrection

into a shadowy room
not the world.

A hundred reasons
upon the minds
down the grand canal

to the fraction of him
in an electromagnetic system—

metal-to-metal clangor,
pinks in the brush.

The only known Buddhists in the world
floated by in nebulous incoherence

as her strong thighs closed
like a dozen or so kids.

Who would have thought?

The rain:
a stylized human brain

and at last
a small rose farm.

seed text: Against the Day, by Thomas Pynchon
art by d0125

red mass that spongy red mass, your heart, a lion’s paw over my rigid body, beautiful horse frightened easily with gold clasps; perhaps there is also my blood-soaked hat once once once into the corner of my mouth where your spirit chasing the sun like a Chinese hermit is painted only from history seed text: Trilogy, by Diane Wakoskiart by Dominic Cristofor

red mass

that spongy red mass, your heart,
a lion’s paw
over my rigid body,
beautiful horse
frightened easily
with gold clasps;

perhaps there is also
my blood-soaked hat
once once once
into the corner of my mouth

where your spirit
chasing the sun
like a Chinese hermit

is painted only
from history

seed text: Trilogy, by Diane Wakoski
art by Dominic Cristofor

April languor April languor: blossom against a human force like a freezy coin. I was burning licking your lips. The room may conceal another of an intelligence while Mallarmé lay in bed— his shoes beautiful, without desire. He felt the new young American in Zambezi and the spiritual tooth turned to me, the silverware of paradise wreathed in furs humming a tune: “Where are you?” and the Nouns lay silently in the light seed text: The Collected Poems of Kenneth Kochart by Loïc Bahougne

April languor

April languor:
blossom
against a human force
like a freezy coin.

I was burning
licking your lips.

The room
may conceal another
of an intelligence
while Mallarmé lay in bed—

his shoes
beautiful,
without desire.

He felt the new
young American
in Zambezi

and the spiritual tooth
turned to me,
the silverware of paradise
wreathed in furs
humming a tune:
“Where are you?”

and the Nouns lay silently
in the light

seed text: The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch
art by Loïc Bahougne

frenzy what a frenzy stays on the soul like a cow going to Santiago and under the leaves the seven final echoes distant and lonely bled in the sky— just like you quivering down the river no one will remember the infinite mask that never reaches the sea seed text: Collected Poems, by Federico Garcia Lorcaart by Jaime Molina ΔΓ|❷

frenzy

what a frenzy
stays on the soul

like a cow
going to Santiago

and under the leaves
the seven
final echoes

distant and lonely
bled in the sky—

just like
you

quivering
down the river
no one will remember

the infinite mask
that never reaches the sea

seed text: Collected Poems, by Federico Garcia Lorca
art by Jaime Molina ΔΓ|❷

Through Through an ebony log for the fourth time the air without refuge made mandarins of no mortal use. Brown marsh must work day and night without looking deeper. A red bow: brain work madder and not very clean. With a burning fire of phantasy a cat sat there disliking others, but no Emperor descending the palace stair twisteth out of natural measure as the splendour half remains. seed text: The Cantos, by Ezra Poundart by Fred Cueva

Through

Through an ebony log
for the fourth time

the air without refuge
made mandarins
of no mortal use.

Brown marsh
must work day and night
without looking deeper.

A red bow:
brain work

madder
and not very clean.

With a burning fire of phantasy
a cat sat there
disliking others,

but no Emperor
descending the palace stair

twisteth out of natural measure
as the splendour
half remains.

seed text: The Cantos, by Ezra Pound
art by Fred Cueva

no sunflowers no sunflowers revolving over and over for the poems are going to St Louis until it is quite safe… how much of oneself you must give me so that I can get at you without loss of time; on the other hand we curse and abuse each other on the same day— I shall therefore choose the spiritual residence a slight magnification my dragon would not take up the point about, a rigidly reductive system before you begin to work seed text: The Letters of T.S. Eliot, Vol. 1art by Christian Watson

no sunflowers

no sunflowers
revolving over and over

for the poems
are going to
St Louis
until it is quite safe…

how much of oneself
you must give me
so that I can get at you
without loss of time;

on the other hand
we curse and abuse each other
on the same day—

I shall therefore choose
the spiritual residence

a slight magnification
my dragon would not
take up the point about,

a rigidly reductive system
before you begin to work

seed text: The Letters of T.S. Eliot, Vol. 1
art by Christian Watson