The Lighthouse Keeper

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Todd Swift

It might be wiser to weather in a lighthouse
Than risk the vertical incisions of the storm
That seems to have rescued the torn sea from itself
Only to let it return, this time as tragedy, as full rain.
No longer as young as when, morning, the sky, like pearl,
Was forming an idea, both pale and rare, you shelve
The green Clampitt and admit night's other influence
Now as the vicious parakeet of light screeches again.
It is a wise reader that stays in for the Horn's winter,
Knowing no matter how literal the mad trades – hurling –
Desire to become, wildness winters in this tall home,
A tower whose saving grace revolves above its calm.
The custom is to lay provisions, storing for the squall;
To reflect on, through the many fog-throttled panes, water.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Calling Home

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Terry Jaensch

Time is the longest distance between two places
    Tennessee Williams

Declarations of love and his voice growing fainter,
      he asks why I'm so eager to end the conversation.
I've one ear on traffic, the other on the receiver
      both anticipating a break in the flow of things.

My feet teeter on the curb, the metal cord connecting
      us fully extended, rod-like, our talk has become punitive.
I'm about to run or not, set something other than my
      body in motion or not, though I'm pressed to reason

any desire in stasis. I've not the stance for answers
      today, I draw breath and from the action, need
but say nothing of it. A security guard motions
      at me from the concrete rim of a flower bed,

his message, visible but silent, cannot be got at this
      distance: the flowers also arrive, poor travellers,
more or less certainly – thirsting. Caught between
      the mall and the street two Tamil tailors, who later

attempt a garment from my necessary indifference
      to them, lock hands. This is love or not – thumbing
the buttons, gesturing – and it will call again before
      it leaves; while there's still money on the card.

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Emperor Go, Godspeed

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Peter Minter

The first sharp salt splash on the brow
     is so like a break-up,
leaves synonymous in the mast,
     a scent of honey
in blue cotton sails, your voice's economy
     with breath. Why don't we
head toward that constellation,
     occasional reception dropout standard

welcome even by the crew.
     Years of freedom finally burst.
There is nothing to eat, so seek it
     where you will, seed heads wired
to a hull full of words, soil
     at home in the book.

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Extinction

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Peter Minter

I was there when the dieback began.
     First I felt the dead drive
toward total florescence, company drying-out
     as the sun went down
on prime real estate, sandalwood, cedar
     feathers in the red run, charred
plains of old geology
     bled maritime types into eternal night

spectral as money gluts.
     The carve-up hits home in total darkness.
But, it's true, I can see you now, standing
     waves lonely as a memory
annihilates the sweet & grassy light, singing O
     we never stood there, never.

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a day in the life long

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Paul Mitchell

The moon forgets its own face.
I'm reminded that I don't like the colour of sky
in summer, ever. Someone asks me to smell
their rose colour. I say, Get out of the way
of my birdsong! Watch the brittle hands
falling from me, dry retching on the taste
of love letters, eyes welling up
with the brutal smell of drumming.
The moon is waiting for a better time
to show its face. It cries, Spoon, dish,
but what about a tuning fork? Its face
an open tub of Brillatine cream, singing
from a bathroom that's lost its house.
The sun comes up, goes down on a pulley.
Breakfast television is changing. Autumn
takes me, I am breathless. It breathes its
brown and gold over my green lentil skin. Smiling,
I realise my treetop walking is coming along,
steadily. No one standing beneath shouting,
Look at old Elephant Ears! The tightrope's
taken down and used as a lasso. Summer
has put its hope in me and I won't let it down
or the crowd of teenagers lining up for a name.
My pen fights like a terrier, a rose tasting
metaphor for itself. And you?

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

writers and editors

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Paul Mitchell

there are writers who are
trying to get into books
and there are editors
that try hard to keep them out

there are writers who are
trying to get in too hard
and there are editors
that try books to keep them out

there are writers who are
out to get into books
and there are editors
that try hard to keep them trying

there are editors who are
trying to get into books
and are there writers that
try hard to keep them out?

try hard books are there,
writers who are too,
and editors are into that –
keep trying out there to get them!

are try hard writers out there
to get into books?
and are there editors who are
trying to keep them that?

out writers are there that
are trying hard books to get into
and there are editors
who try to keep them

and there are writers who are
there that try hard
to get into editors: books are
too trying ? keep them out!

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From River Cuts: Letters to Robert Adamson

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Paul Hardacre

canberra

raining & the flight was shit / in the sticks
somewhere off majura avenue (dickson) 19:39 0646
abstract & bearded hovering on a twelve foot
cushion of evil / a still from eisenstein's ivan
the terrible, mutation of reading or action in two
parts. early blur of delight, all radioed & human
squawking a row of nameless trees / punctual cloud
swings left onto limestone hunched & rattling, absence
of names he is curled now & breathes through a tube /
attendants measure his piss, milk it into a bag &
store for later reference. said it was okay he camped &
weaved his funereal track / emu park, ogmore, lakes
creek (iced & dealing with horses) proper defences
are wooden & buried in earth. read hart crane (again).
read it aloud in the voice of a woman / only got as far
as ?´surrender'. this city, this great & secret invention
bleak experiment of rooms (death) astounding scrawl of
hair & sunnies / sixty minutes in ash with friends its
flashlights bamboo & giggles / benares or equal dark.
nothing matters. swamp birds dribble & bloat, pilgrims
bob & piss / tabla & skulls / the living dirt in his mouth.
only living brother lost to art & buddhist end-games
the clever panel discuss her artefact collection style:
snipping his hair into a make-up bag or purse, galactic
themed with room for toenails. everything is cut & bagged
& stored downstairs / concrete tubs / the single bulb
of thought, he turns & smiles like a thunderbird
shovels chook food down a tea-stained hole.
in all my dreams the idiot baby with eternal crooked
grin / the story by candle light twisted downward so!
the roll of the drum & hotel in uproar, wilfred owen's
blood-shod barefoot dead, plunging incurably in haunted
latin finale. a little cup of grease that never left his
fingers, upstairs cracked & home / the curtained box (relief).
strange black birds cry from low branches, replacement
birds, the unsettling intersection of transparency & death /
distant bank or silent threat. my father as aguirre slaps
the horse and stares, sinking slowly / ?´mexico was no
illusion' / the invention of fear finds a place in his neck,
whistling & fashioned by unseen dwarven attackers.
always raining, falling into water / choking tastes like
broken lungs / wind in canberra, night. knocks down trees
with words with skin / crude assemblies of metal & wood he
curls in shell & august / cage of eyes the chinese burn of
his throat. black birds hop & fan & unknown morning / red
or north / & feels like winter.

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Where Am I?

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Pam Brown

a sheet of pills
slips from the drawer
to the floor

not near a radio

can't operate
the dvd player,
don't understand
the digital box,
(do I care ?)

air, breeze and leaf
(someone else's window)
tinge the time
(someone else's clock)

sockettes
drying
on the door handles

a precious feeling
like a fungus
or a furball
in my throat

you could
freeze a lioness
in there
that fridge
is huge

can't find any
powdered milk

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Café Filmo

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Pam Brown

the Italians

go to Starbucks –

beam me up biscotti.

Pasolini, the charmer,

orders decaf.

last century

Federico Fellini

made films as if

everyone loved films

that was the gift, the key.

Pier Paolo filmed

like someone

who'd never been drunk

falling in love with wine.

it's long since

the dazey days

when ye olde avant-garde

sat through the world's

longest short film festivals,

when hillbilly dills on pills

optically distorted

nightmarish knots

in wood grain

close-up in 16 mm.

Nino Rota

lights a low tar,

hums to cool

a macchiato,

dotting staves

on napkins.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Haven

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Pam Brown

that's nature
for you —
worried
by a whip-bird,
bitten and blotched
by all
the different bugs
and nanobac
that we find
inside the hut,
the weekender,
the cabin
in the haven.
the shady
scenic-route lookout
marks the place
that feeds vertigo
that induces insomnia,
lie counting
the bouncy
screenmate sheep
all night,
the wheely bin
full of sticks
and plastic curtain rings.

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love in the accusation

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Michael Farrell

   somewhere between ´blood in the wind'1 and ´died to no avail'2
   is this (´From The New World') what they call ´smear
   campaign' or ´once more around the block'?
reading, breathing in insects/gas, fifty years getting something
right, some image to tear at our last moments
(a tone according to Breton)
   Jorie Graham: the stamp
   26 lines in blue like payslips or half …
   the guilty boat, the without warning
   the weather today said your mother 106
   they were 107 voting for me
   it was an election & id never need to breathe again
   in the stable (at the airport)
   what about your passport doesnt it mean something to
   you? in ´japanese'?
   ok
   suddenly it does
   The Dream Of The Unified Field 106-109
   The Creation Of Eve 1356
   1974-1994
   bembo
   as a friend, a reputation. ka: known as.
   one knee on the neck, like they
   country without hollywood
   language of the pillow; unlearned
   (the left side / star of india)
   these are diversions: the blue, the red, & more red
framed; books
   there were four elephants. somewhere between ´the
security you want' & ´ ´
   evidence suggests the news was meant to be sung.
   cutting off bits for pots.
   phones give us something to talk to; old people.
   she was our own martyr, of sorts —
   knowing our joy is made of their dissolution.
   moving over property like it cant touch me/us
   though it might love accuse
   i hadnt read this before, in my study 108 do you
   remember?
   the poem invites 109 ´a tone' (Breton) knowing
   our joy? in the st in the air?
   what were stanzas,
   evidence
wh– (request)
./place x 2

 
 
 

1 ´At The Cabaret Now' (Jorie Graham)
2 ´Untitled' (Jorie Graham)

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Apophansis Republica (2)

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Michael Brennan

First effect: the erasure of singularity.
Second effect: a pattern of necessary associations.
Ethical Adjustment #1: Deny all lies, greater truths justify these equivocations.

Third Effect: the possibility of insight.
Fourth Effect: the emotive response.
Ethical Adjustment #2: Enclose the political within the gambit of an image.

Fifth Effect: the supposition of understanding.
Sixth Effect: the demands of interpretation presuppose understanding.
Assertion #1: Your eyes are rusted gaskets.

Seventh Effect: the joy of bathos.
Eighth Effect: irony.
Ethical Adjustment #3: Regularly oil and sharpen the blade's steel.

Ninth Effect: the realisation of meaning.
Tenth Effect: a desire for boredom.
Assertion #2: You are irrevocably late.

Ethical Adjustment – final: Incise left to right; dispose of appropriately.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Apophansis Republica (1)

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Michael Brennan

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Sweet Child O’ Mine

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Liam Ferney

departure brushes up against you
a hurried commuter on the rush hour line

it was really something to take part in the hubris
a signed deal & a backslapped afternoon

digital authenticity drowns out static
& we forget how good it felt to shatter fibro

axl rose makes a performance art comeback
& i slip into a vodka collins in the front row

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Dulce bellum inexpertis

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Liam Ferney

pull the stitch through
and sew the night wounds.

the best time for war
is while the enemy sleeps.

Wilfred Owen of Tikrit
breathes freely

(not a mustard gas insectoid
of trench warfare).

they are the nonchalant Knights
of the Kevlar Table.

Incubus sticker
on the side of his helmet.

residual radiation
doesn't feature in barracks conversation.

in the middle of November
he starts to wonder

if the reindeer
know the way to babylon.

some turkey turns up
celebrating the pilgrim's progress.

a constant jumbo jet tinnitus
and sleep dep hallucinations

keeps his patrol
as keen as rambo's knife,

but the worst news comes
on Christmas Eve

and the e-card
Pvt. Taylor sends his girlfriend

bounces back,
address blocked.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

They Do Their Best

Posted on June 27, 2005 by John Leonard

They do their best–not wanting
To show an ungrateful face,
Not wanting to step out of line,
To show difference

They do their best–crowding out
The shops, being up with the latest
This or that, the most pressing of
Consumer needs.

They do their best–to make
A life, to find things to follow,
Not wanting to have nothing
To hold to.

They do their best–to be part,
To share the hatred that has been
Crafted for them, hate not
In their hearts.

They do their best–at the moments
Of desolation, to pretend there is
Something that connects, some reason
Why they belong to this here
And now–the here and the now
Made of the nothings, of the hate,
Of countless unbelongings.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Man with a Newspaper

Posted on June 27, 2005 by John Leonard

It's a metropolitan weekend paper,
As thick as a doormat, in several sections.
He spreads the front page out on his lap
With a satisfied look–he's going to enjoy this.
But about half way down the trouble starts–
His brow furrows, he reads more slowly,
Then breaks off to scan the other stories.

There is nothing new here, no news.

He hurriedly glances across the other pages
Of the first section, and then puts the paper
Down, dissatisfied. From time to time
He glances furtively at it, occasionally picking
Other sections up to thumb through,
But to no avail. At last his flight is called;
He stands up with his case and strides off,
Leaving it behind. Then he turns quickly,
Snatching at it. He holds it awkwardly,
Rumpled, under one arm, as he marches off.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

there’s only ever been two

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Ivy Alvarez

in our eyes' dilatory
dance our irises open
admit missed steps faults it marks
the corona every break
is here dot dot dash your bones'
brittle semaphore tattoo
out how far you fell how much
we have a third between us
a shift a shadow drawing
down the lids in noonday sun
shuttering hush of lashes
we say too much with fragile
instruments supreme geiger
counters tick tick tick burr
the needle swings don't you know
the meaning of it we dance
I lead you follow outside
are common house diamonds
winking out the clouds melting
a mushroom soaks in honey
the room whitens like a bone
exposed and we stand like posts
a thin string nailed between us
our eyes feel the heat shimmer
as something evaporates

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

That Second Heart

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Ivy Alvarez

I cannot accept it. How can
one be ready for this gift? My
belly cannot curve to tightness,
my skin cannot hold a drum (that

second heart). I cannot accept
it – limbs bursting buds. I cannot
have the end to blood. I cannot
bear your blood, child, and I think of

you, often.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Asteral

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Ethan Paquin

if you come over i'll give to you what I can

i heard you're in L.A. for the protest and the Post-sit-in
i heard you're in L.A., shirt not buttoned at the top

got a yellow flower patch spiting the horizon line
got a yellow shirt     whyn't you here to try it on

got some far-off friends' shirts and shoes and socks
got some far-off friends     they're funny babies very odd

asters in rain     you won't believe how they blow
asters in rain     you won't believe how they move

got a rock collection and photographs of smoke
got a road on my mind     whyn't we walk it slow

that bunch of asters on my windowsill     in bloom
thine bunch of asters callin me     hey pick us soon

asters in rain     you won't believe why they move

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Dead Poem Office

Posted on June 27, 2005 by David Prater

I read the last rites over your submission today
& since our procedures have been streamlined
I'm delighted & at the same time proud to say
That we've found a place for your poetry here.

Give us your poems & in several years' time
We'll give you an idea of death's landscapes.
Redundant rhymes, image, metaphor sublime:
Your four line stanzas, our grim burial plots.

Taking a rejection personally is well-advised.
That's why we never say no to anything sent.
Our acceptance procedures have been revised:
Please note in case of future correspondence.

Simultaneous submissions remain unwelcome
As we pride ourselves on our unique position
Within the mortuary canon. Flattery seldom
Impresses as much as genuine humility does.

On behalf of our hard-working gravediggers
Congratulations once again on your success.
In future issues, as our catalogue gets bigger,
May we all transcend our obsessional deaths.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

One Line Poems

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Catherine Vidler

Closure

The mirror shrugged, the sky blew shut, and you were gone.
 
 
 

Tradition

He laid an egg every year. Every year a poppy in a ditch.
 
 
 

Story

Now look! the plant said, and grew.
 
 
 

Dental anxiety

Tooth, tooth soup. 77 white sharks.
 
 
 

The cactus

Rain in September. Checking if the cactus got wet. Checking again.
 
 
 

Examination

“The crab cut the fish.” Discuss in three pieces.
 
 
 

Secret

Behind the dead tree, I ate honey and grass.

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Dunedin and Around

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Catherine Vidler

Arrival

The light will let you know
that you are really here.

You will appear,
both to yourself and your companion

as bones, glowing in an x-ray,
or teeth, exposed in a dark mouth.
 
 
 

Acclimatisation

You will shed two dimensions
and unfurl,

like ink in infinite water.

Thoughts may turn to helium,
or the clouds.

Hearts tend to respond by lifting;
so many red balloons.
 
 
 

Accommodation

Proud shapes step in,
control the situation.

Be careful not to cut yourself
on corners.

Sleep comes quick as a knife.

 
 
 
Attractions

Further on, you may notice eels,
being fed blancmange

by an old woman.

Generations of fangs
have known the lightness

of her recipe,
a lesson in antonyms.
 
 
 

Afterwards

Photographs are best
viewed in the negative.

Light still fascinates
at the edges.

Scooped-out versions revolve,
like looted display cases.

Posted in 23: EDITORIAL INTERVENTION | Tagged

Why Trains Crash

Posted on June 27, 2005 by Carlie Lazar

stop the trains. a crash appears imminent.
i'm playing with machines that control
whether trains crash into each other.

german trains crash head-on.
and, wow, do those trains crash:
into the water, into buildings,
into mass quantities of fish,
and into each other.

why the carnage?

trains take enormous amounts
of time and space to come to a stop

then, in a thunderous, grinding crash,
the trains collide. the two locomotives
rise up at their meeting and erupt in steam
and smoke; flames billow from the wreckage.
carriages, jammed after impact,
trap many passengers inside.

(speedometer malfunctioned/the morning was overcast
and visibility poor/the procedures were either
misunderstood or poorly designed/human error

has been blamed for the crash.)

the trains were freshly painted. the locomotives hit
with a crash which was followed by a roar as one
of the boilers exploded, sending debris in all directions.

witnesses said the trains were on the same track,
heading towards each other. an investigation into the cause
of the crash – and why the trains were on the same line

is underway.

——–

two trains crash somewhere in russia, one carrying a nuclear payload.
a nuclear explosion follows the crash and the world is on alert.
eventually a train will derail or a truck will crash:

a mobile chernobyl. a nuke train.
the logic of failure: why do trains crash when the signals are working?
why does a nuclear reactor melt down with all operators alert at their posts?

even professionals make mistakes.

——–

please don't let the trains crash.
don't have any more circus trains
crash into passing parades
and spilling over into the zoo.
repair broken music boxes and other toys.
i was always finding ways to crash the train, like gomez addams.
when two trains crash head on with each other, not only do the potential energies
add together, but solving this school algebra (versus calculus) equation shows that
the trains crash when t = 350/60 hours (no need to simplify).

i'm not making excuses. i've loved trains my whole life.

———

so trains crash, the roads are congested
and you don't know if your food is fit to eat.
livestock is diseased and plants are modified genetically.

so trains crash, water can't be drunk and cities lose electricity.
ferries sink, bombs are planted on buses,
automatic teller machines self-destruct.

show me the trains and give us all engines.
yes, this is where we wreck stuff.
my ideas are: let us be able to drive
the trains, lorries, buses, planes, etc.
and crash them if we want:

a collection of some of the wildest crashes
and most outrageous stunts.

you can jump half-pipes,
play chicken with subway trains,
crash through windows and perform realistic tricks;

i will be spending new year's eve standing on top
of the hill at alexandra palace,
waiting to see planes fall out of the sky.

(this will happen only if you mess up)

——–

damn, those trains gonna crash!
the men at the bar suddenly paid attention. what crash?

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