where is the river :: a poetry experiment

Andrew Wessels :: from That Sunshiny Field Lesley Yalen :: Four poems Stan Rogal :: Three poems Paul Siegell :: Six poems Laura Carter :: Three poems Razielle Aigen :: Three poems S.T. Brant :: Four poems

A Poem in the Margins of Brodsky When the generation, O when the generation and the consequence Construct the Thing, that the night before the day and evening past Were just as much the responsibilities of Sun. We have made horizons Into hills we picnic on and confuse all things for others: so reality is Dreamed, our consciousness mowed lawns. A natural state unnaturally Founded but deemed the same. What is Abyss? Why, This.                                                                                                                    A Poem in the Margins of Stef Pixner Chaos comes In and takes it All: The order, The love, The things I want to stay, And keeps them For itself....

Banisters Enter anywhere. Be diaphanous. Make soft your shape. Cat. Cow. Cobbler. Shell. Let the softness, the inkiness of you settle in in the intaglio. Seep like walnut oil into carved coper ridges of line and form. Leave an impression. Leave an imprint, a mark of your body. Be heavy enough. Be here enough. Decide on something and then make it soft, translucent. Become a feather and float. Become a winter moon and shimmer. Become iridescent as amaranth. Give a blood curdling balk — go ahead, wake them! Now imagine sunlight glittering on the snow. Now imagine sunlight dizzily drinking an open field. Now imagine a wooded creek encircled by a thousand shapes of death, shades of the lily-livered that lay dormant within us, now departed so that we may recoup, so that we may regain our ruddiness and footholds in rebirth. In reemergence we are reeducating, learning, bearing to bear the radiance of it all. All of it. Everything. Every swollen ego and effe...

The tail drew seven crowns and ten horns upon that old serpent’s head. “He is called Revelation, who cause the whole world. Take him as worthy reward attired like the Whore of Babylon reaching the third part of the stars. Do not cause him to die.”           ° Clutch the garment gladly, find it with such difficulty the life persuades back to the body (“native prison”). To gaze on death (“holy beasts”), that earthly form. And God said too late “Let there be,” and the piercing light faltered into two shapes of the tree: an allusion to time (of sorrow) and reward (of death).           ° Beaten, the top of the helmet glitters with anguish flashing as the stroke comes over the shoulder with power. Splendid evening stars. The shield made of one solid diamond, unflawed except with magnificence. In the Letter to Raleigh , it is identified with virtues, containing them all: th...

The Roses Frank, why did you not render the sun? Your father, feeling in Venice, all the time. You were wonderful. But your weather gave abstraction no vestige, the cooler air of metaphor lost. Making you royal again, the language you spoke built need out of the final Camel, up until the last drink. I Fall in Love With Old Rimbaud He is dancing with stars— but not the kind that you find where ice turns into Kanye. Then again, maybe I’m not in love, or what do you know about horses? I kept all my letters. Then I jumped into the world where there is nothing that is not what it is, only figs hiding on the internet. The world is large— the children know what it means, but love is not a funny mythography or a ball of new twine, difference peeled around me. Suddenly, I wake to a text from my sister and then my friend says he left his place for a country and I think it’d be great to do that where I am. Why are you keeping your letters, if you’re k...

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