His house had cracked vinyl siding, cobwebbed windowsills, and blind mammals nesting in the chimney. There was a continual scent of expired milk and a trigger-happy answering machine with messages leftover from the college years.
Winner of the 2001 Electronic Literature Award for poetry, Cayley's windsound is a long digital poem in QuickTime format. Poet Heather McHugh was judge of the competition.
A multilanguage blog with links and information on poetic invention – our term for exploratory/ investigative/ experimental/ radical/ conceptual poetry. [Graphic poetry, or poetic graphics...]
a poet uses fragments to imitate and so to make an assertion about the nature of human perception: perception consists of fragments, fragments are what we assemble into meaningful wholes...giving haibun a sense of immediacy...
I think we're in the ghost-town whorehouse in Blackhawk. Under one roof ..........sleeping with all of them -- ....................bush clover, poker chips.
We could shut the door / on this vertigo, but Mother when we / come to ourselves our feet skim the tiles./ Spoons shine on the table, and Mother, / we're dancing. I'm mouthing the words / to a song I never knew...
Touchon's works are constructed from distressed street posters that have been carefully edited...almost become recognizable letters or perhaps proposals for a new poetic alphabet but always slip back into forms and spaces...
By using nothing but the figure/ground relationships of letters, engaging and powerful pieces are built up through a process that is less reminiscent of collage than it is of burnishing, worrying, plying, or even kneading.
This feature begins with questions of fidelity: how close should the poet remain to his or her source text? What does it matter? Other contributors ask more technical questions, how to translate names, what to make of computer-generated translations, how
Doorstep is a jumble of debris: clay, straw, twigs. Some moments pass before I notice three baby house martins among the mess, a couple of days old, dead. An almost imperceptible motion - one of the babies is moving.
I could never face anything / without the wig. Transformed, the old vaudeville desire / struts & kicks its satiny legs, the desire to be / consumed by ruined marquees, these last drifting hotels, / to be riven, served up singing, arched & prismed / from a
I have always loved these moments of delicate transition: walking alone in a borrowed house to a slim meridian of dawn barring the pillow before the cool breeze, a curtain of rain on the iron steps, rain laving lawn chairs arranged for a conversation fini
pilgrim, i did not mean to be so loose / of tongue, so bold in all i loosely told / in my smut so smug, so overly sold./ i did not mean, pilgrim, to traduce. // ...poet, though you have the right to scold / it was highsouled you who made my mouth hold / w
The Bush administration / the people who chose / The Perfect Bacon / the game went on / the media company / The Ducks won / the Stooges brought / the tough bake-sale squares / the best place to learn [paraphrased]
Exhibition space of the Ontological Museum of the International Post-Dogmatist Group. The poetry on this site has been selected from 'CollagePoetry' postings.
The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze at the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.
Now, THIS is what I've been looking for in a poetry blog (or in any writing on poetry). Absolutely compelling, both in terms of selections and criticism; so spunky and smart, I enjoy every bit, including the sour, "rhubarby" flavors...
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
The man who was to fall to earth in four years' time still floated in his cloud of silvered fame...He'd been a Kon-Rad, King Bee, Manish Boy, a Lower Third. He'd be a thin white duke. He'd be a Christ, an alien, he'd be a dance club king.
We look at a statue and feel uncomfortable. I am backwards light, which isn't as cool as it sounds...Time is a series of pellets...It's my own fault I'm anywhere. When the rain in my mind begins, I don't run for cover.
There's a hole in the middle of life. (the body) The flashbacks will remind us. See what the room sees. A collection of cells. Your face on that small screen. Your blonde guitar, my plaster Buddha.
You are so high in the tree. If you jump you will live a full life while falling. You will get married to a hummingbird and raise beautiful part- hummingbirds.
Among poets there are probably higher than average rates of clutch burnout, job turnover, rooting about, sleep apnea, noncompliance, nervous leg syndrome, depression, litigation, black clothing, and so forth, but this is where we live...C D Wright, Coolin
A haibun is a terse, relatively short prose poem in the haikai style, usually including both lightly humorous and more serious elements. A haibun usually ends with a haiku. Most haibun range from well under 100 words to 200 or 300. Some longer haibun may
Lynda Hull in her short life (1954-1994) wrote memorable poems, distinctive for their flamboyant shadows, a created world where pathos always has some swagger of the doomed: a quality that you might call (depending on your decade) Goth, punk, noir or maud