your blood knows the journey your body seeks,
the journey I am about to unmake.
under my eyelids, the vivid flicker:
the moths stir, flutter one last time in a
dance you were just now in the middle of.
see yourself moving, but not what moves you —
a song. perhaps it came from my mouth. there,
each syllable a bit of dust from wings.
covered in a cloak of wings, hear the song —
such a lovely wing-beaty quality.
look up and see my lovers dance above
me lightly, like the dust we’re both made of.
fill the serious space in the middle
with some of your poetry. that’ll make
curving lines ending in various points —
a fire. I will crack this dream wide open,
walk the path raw. our very own Silk Road
crawling behind twitchy eyelids, slow walk
back to an older conscience, a raw awe.
speak your way back to the beginning, when
the earth’s crust scorched our feet, the unremitting
fire smoldering at the tips of our tongues.
reach towards the light like silence reaches.
we almost hear the cut-and-paste
language — though a thought walks two paths at once,
twin bright-lit wings, identically shaped;
smile on her face and a fire in her heart,
to bend the poets from their comet course
with smoky kisses and melt with the heat.
the caterpillar is mostly liquid,
dissolving in amniotic syntax.
with this transformation, gone is my shame.
a world emptied of memories but one,
for all the light in the world to pass through.
those heavy wingbeats in the night become
the land of birth brightness of star and scream;
a newborn cries, and somewhere a mother
tongue kicks consonants like a soccer ball,
kicks round the universe when the earth tips
words into a bag & shake them, arrange
them with ease. the earth swallows me in turn.
back to the start, before you stepped into the
middle of an apocalypse, but we
few who choose to linger in this echo
think we can outwit the end — play god with
words that can be used over and over,
recite the words without translating them…
howling incandescent hymns…
listen, o poet, to this marvel of
messages into the air, light patterns
we can’t compute as we gaze into this
battery powered fake tealight candle.Evelyn Araluen, Decolonial Research Methodology after the Bogong Moth
Joanna Stanlake, Icarus
James Midgley, Dance
Shastra Deo, Walkthrough
Dorothea Rosa Herliany / Harry Aveling, Married to a Knife
Michael Farrell, Mysteries of the South Coast
Rosie Brodie, pussy sand
Lucy Morgan, to be held is where hope lies
Samantha Walton, poem for you
Caitlynn Cummings, Mezzo Millemetro
Davide Angelo, Year Zero
Tanya Evanson, Finishing Salt
Soyini Ayanna Forde, Poem for a Gunman
David Adès, A Line In The Sand
Ralph Fonte, Another Gospel of Fire
Lynley Edmeades, The Kangaroos
Geoff Page, The Anthologist
Diane Glancy, Tripod
Atsuro Riley, Diorama
Maya Hodge, daughters of the sea, sun and sand
Jean-Baptiste Cabaud / Jan Owen, The shepherdesses painted in blue
Sarah Rose-Cherry, she / he / they. you (I / we)
Jonno Revanche, Not ever
Francesca Lysette, A DREAM OF THE CYBORG AS METAPHOR…
Lucy Alexander, Crow
Hannah Jenkins, Enderman’s Lament
Ricardo M de Ungria, ɫ i b a w
Ohan Hominis, Beneath A City
Christine Howe, Somewhere in the Suburbs
Pip Smith, On the 36th Floor
Julie Chevalier, more work needed to make a dadaist poem
Himaja Wijesinghe, if he asks you where you’re from
Dakota Feirer, Heal Country
Emily Collyer, With the fishes
Samuel Wagan Watson, Dust and Drag
John Hawke, The Conscience of Avimael Guzman
Rachael Mead, The Waterfall
Lore White, I could eat LIGHTNING
through the dust
By Wren Goderie | 31 October 2021