Brunswick

Brunswick
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Friday, February 27, 2015

And Then They Clearly Flew Instead of Fell


Because You Asked about the Line Between Prose and Poetry
by Howard Nemerov

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned to pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn’t tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

poem

Depression Poem

They’ve come this far.
The car door’s open
To Charlie Fuqua’s guitar.
The cloth is spread.
“You like it rough,” he says.
“It’s not a question.”
The Ink Spots sing,
I’ll get by,
As long as I have you.
He isn’t getting by;
Nobody is.
He doesn’t have her.
Nobody does.
Back then,
She liked Lucky Strikes
Luck seldom struck.
She thought of
 Switching to Pall Malls.
She liked the way
The dice rolled
out of the cup pell mell.
Chance was clean
As a one-word answer.
“No,” she answers.
“I like it smooth.
I like it clean.”
                                                It isn’t always.
It’s sometimes

Oily and mean.

W.Derge 2/25/15 

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Bondage: 50 shades of white out

chop a few crisp words
blend swirling juicy plosives
drink the images


...


you leave neither choice
nor existential ending
chickens without eggs


scylla bares her breast
charybdis beckons slyly
harder than it looks


canvas propped on wood
slurps rich reds and drinks the blues
brush slides double-time


sure I wish you well
you liver-lillied sucker
call me up some time


Laura D

Sleeping Women

For my people
The sleeping women without a voice.
Who swallow their words.
End every statement with a question mark.
For the women who hide their nakedness.
Fear the sweet caress of life.
Who feel lost from love.
Doubt darkens your slumber.
Waken the timid girl.
Speak with exclamation points.
Smell the sweet scent of sex.
She who wakens the silence.
The world moves in her.

JK

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Someday Crop: A Sestina

 Today she labored in the garden which includes
  meticulously buried seeds in mounded rows
  with signs on sticks to signify this someday crop
  of radish, lettuce, broccoli, and all the like
  ‘neath warming sun, a place well known by keen eyed birds
  which, in the past, would stop here once her plants did sprout.

  As history reminds, the healthy seeds should sprout
  just as before, with signs of spring, that would include
  a gentle sun that melts the frost and hungry birds
  that flock about the tender shoots aligned in rows.
  But well you know that circumstances seem more like
  mere happenstance when planning for a veggie crop.

  She waters all the seeds sown in this someday crop
  and calculates what time might pass before they sprout.
  She reads the weather page but finds she doesn’t like
  hypotheses of climate change, for such includes
  her space, her land. It could, no doubt, destroy the rows
  she’s planted, leaving naught for her nor myriad birds.

  For she supports the predilections of these birds,
  that silently flock to this place to taste the crop
  the swell of tender shoots along the many rows
  is glorious. She tugs at weeds so up will sprout
  the robust produce to be canned. The list includes
  tart relishes and chutneys that her neighbors like.

  Hat in hand, she peers with arms akimbo. She’d like
  hues of green; there’s still only brown, much like the birds
  she wonders why they’ve stayed away, if this includes
  the migrant types, not yet arrived to eye her crop
  of fresh spring greens, of course, that is if such should sprout.
  She shields her eyes, surveying dearth among the rows.

  In evening news the candidates are lined in rows
  by left and right (and centrist types). Some seem to like
  to stay the course, they have no plans that fully sprout.
  Their status quo Kyoto take: “It’s for the birds.”
  She wonders if they understand a someday crop
  cannot endure the indecision that includes

  Ignoring trends and more than that, crises that sprout,
  that spurn advances by the birds. Her soil includes
  a battlefield, a raging war with this, her crop.

                      Laura Dvorak


Because it's too cold out...

  Because it's too cold out ....

  divine proportion
  eludes the wistful body
  chowing down on pi

  overcrowded page
  inimical typeface
  communication

  hagiographies
  will shun the stroking ink pen
  caressing my name

  punctuation marks
  like scattershot on paper
  deserve more respect

  an untimely death
  bleeds needless repetition
  superfluous scythe

                      Laura Dvorak

Monday, February 9, 2015

Time Again

Time to bring Brunswick poetry back to the fore. The Slant Light Drop-in Workshop at Beans just had its fifth of ten Monday evenings. (Please hang out with us at 7p.m. from now until and including March 16. Non-poets welcome.)
Why take art when you have to buy paint and canvas? That and the cost of piano lessons are what made us poets in the first place. We are the one-pair-of-Cons-and-somebody-else's-basketball kids. We make art out of the raw material of language. On paper towels.
The good news is that the 4th annual "Slammin' in the Belfry" may finally see the wheels of "Regular Folks" poetry in Brunswick turning on their own. No arm twisting. All those people in the packed houses who left Beans in past years saying, "I can do that" are coming back around. At the workshop tonight we had two people say: "Definitely. Count me in."
So within the next few days we'll be contacting past winners and those who have (Virgilio, Z-R, &) come close to taking the mike in the past. Get in touch at poetsrebrunswick@gmail.com to ask questions or express interest.

To submit something to be printed here, send it to Slant Light Poetry of Brunswick.... poetsrebrunswick@gmail.com. 

Publication is open to friends, cousins in Indiana & anyone.

Do not confuse this with trying to bring culture to Brunswick. It's time to take some of the "culture" out of poetry.