Running Poetry Thread

[Tom Bomb]

Pellet eyes the prize, my cool'd air'd ampersand me down.​

 

[Tom Bomb]

Hatbox

My love lives in a hatbox,
at the bottom of the tank
of an abandoned car.

Says it's safe there,
for now.

Engine's still warm
but the view's lousy.
And ten gallons
won't get you too far.

​

 

[Volker Kirstein]

 

[Tom Bomb]

Wallpaper a tom -
color in a well of silence
gone space traveling ​

---

The Indoors is Endless
By Tomas Tranströmer

It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven
hoists his death-mask and sails off.

The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.
The wild geese are flying northwards.

Here is the north, here is Stockholm
swimming palaces and hovels.

The logs in the royal fireplace
collapse from Attention to At Ease.

Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,
but the city wells breathe heavily.

Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas
are carried by night over the North Bridge.

The cobblestones make them stagger
mamselles loafers gentlemen.

Implacably still, the sign-board
with the smoking blackamoor.

So many islands, so much rowing
with invisible oars against the current!

The channels open up, April May
and sweet honey dribbling June.

The heat reaches islands far out.
The village doors are open, except one.

The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.
The rock slopes glow with geology’s patience.

It happened like this, or almost.
It is an obscure family tale

about Erik, done down by a curse
disabled by a bullet through the soul.

He went to town, met an enemy
and sailed home sick and grey.

Keeps to his bed all that summer.
The tools on the wall are in mourning.

He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter
of night moths, his moonlight comrades.

His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain
against the iron-bound tomorrow.

And the God of the depths cries out of the depths
‘Deliver me! Deliver yourself!’

All the surface action turns inwards.
He’s taken apart, put together.

The wind rises and the wild rose bushes
catch on the fleeing light.

The future opens, he looks into
the self-rotating kaleidoscope

sees indistinct fluttering faces
family faces not yet born.

By mistake his gaze strikes me
as I walk around here in Washington

among grandiose houses where only
every second column bears weight.

White buildings in crematorium style
where the dream of the poor turns to ash.

The gentle downward slope gets steeper
and imperceptibly becomes an abyss.

“The Indoors is Endless” from New and Collected Poems by Tomas Transtromer, translated by Robin Fulton. Published in 1997 by Bloodaxe Books. www.bloodaxebooks.com
Source: New and Collected Poems (Bloodaxe Books, 1997)

​

 

[Tom Bomb]

Potholes in the Road

The rain it raineth bombs
Atmospheres a river
Flows like a diatribe.

But who's talking?
My neighbor's mute
Orphan socked cornet.

A voice barely registers
Something sounds
Through the laundry.

A tree frog lives
In a termite trap
Happy to talk.

But she doesn't see
The point in engaging
With the half heard.

Nonsense can affix
Stilted limbs will fail
Wording slumps.

The wetting wind
Drives sodden wheels
Awaiting the blind

Potholes in the road.

​

 

[Discount Bassy]

@Tom Bomb has been prolific this week with some really good stuff. It will be tough to choose if there is voting. If not, I am enjoying the reads. Thank you.

 

[Tom Bomb]

@Tom Bomb has been
Prolific this week with some
Really good stuff.

It will be tough to choose
If there is voting.

If not, I am enjoying
The reads thank you.

​

Thank you. You win again

​

​

 

[Volker Kirstein]

DOG FINDS A TREE (2013, Saskatchewan)

Branches bare and grey
A weathered tree stands lonely
In a field of gold
Turquoise sky endless
I can see the dog running

Crisp through the distance
The tree suddenly awakens
With dog’s arrival
The once empty tree explodes
Tiny birds scatter

Three seconds later
Excited barks and drumming
As tiny wings beat
Hundreds of small wings
And excited chirping cries

Crisp through the distance
My laughter turns to coughing
It’s damn cold out here
I should get back in
I smoke, waiting for the dog

Breath turns to ice
Tiny crystals floating free
Pinpoint sparkles flash
Microscopic suns
The dog returns, time to go

 

[Volker Kirstein]

Another tie in the results Congrats @Tom Bomb and @Discount Bassy!

I'll contact the mods tomorrow (I don't wanna bug 'em on a Sunday morn) and ask 'em to remove "/Contest."

So without further ado, the contest portion of this thread ends.

Feel free to continue posting poetry here anyway.

 

[Volker Kirstein]

On the premise that anything will sound romantic in French:


Je Peins

Je peins les murs et les meubles avec la merde
J’éclabousse du brun, et de l’égouttement avec le vert
Mouches entourant, tortillement de larves
L’odeur prolongée toujours apres
Vomi et pus partout tout suite
Ce bruit romantique

Spoiler: Translation

I Paint

I paint the walls and furniture with
I splash with brown, dripping green
Buzzing of flies, wriggling of larvae
The smell lingers long after
Vomit and pus everywhere quickly
This romantic spew

 

[Tom Bomb]

enough

 

[Winslow]

Je Peins

I gotta be more awake before I wander into some places.

 

[Tom Bomb]

Feelings I don't understand,
Line byline by punch-drunk lineup,
Usual suspects redefined,
Something different
Comes to mind,
O Captain! My Captain!​

​

​

 

[Discount Bassy]

No simple pleasures.
Anger cannot supplant fear.
Priorities lost.

 

[Tom Bomb]

​

 

[Discount Bassy]

I know that my poetry offerings of late have been on the darker side of things. I speak not so much of myself, but watching the passing of my father as he gradually succumbs to aggressive liver cancer. He's been an angry man as long as I've know him and even at death's door, cannot let go of his rage. I cannot pretend to understand him. I do my best to support him in his time of need. If he needs to yell at his pillows for being too heavy or rage at the logo on his cell phone, so be it. I watch. I learn. I think about my own mortality and how I want to deal with the time when I leave this world. Surrender is not in his vocabulary.

 

[Winslow]

Sympathy-"Like." That's rough.

 

[Volker Kirstein]

I know that my poetry offerings of late have been on the darker side of things. I speak not so much of myself, but watching the passing of my father as he gradually succumbs to aggressive liver cancer. He's been an angry man as long as I've know him and even at death's door, cannot let go of his rage. I cannot pretend to understand him. I do my best to support him in his time of need. If he needs to yell at his pillows for being too heavy or rage at the logo on his cell phone, so be it. I watch. I learn. I think about my own mortality and how I want to deal with the time when I leave this world. Surrender is not in his vocabulary.

No huhu. So sorry to hear. Go as dark as you need to.

 

[Discount Bassy]

 

[Tom Bomb]

Thoughts

A tortured kitty

in her eyes, I see knowing

escape
​