Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Joy V. Sheridan paints


Rupert Loydell writes

FERMENTATION

She looked like someone I didn’t know yet,
so it was hard to say hello. But there was
something I recognised, a premonition
that meant I knew she would turn up again
in a few years, for a proper introduction.

Peter brought his wife along. There she was,
the person I had seen running along the street.
In a similar way I realised Martin had sold me
LPs in the record shop near school, and Susan
had been a librarian when I’d first borrowed books.

People waiting to meet, bump into each other
before they are ready, wires and pathways crossed,
friendships not quite fermented or ready to happen.
Now there are short silences, brief notes in the post
or via email, so few new names to learn.



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Rene Magritte GIFs-- Feliks Tomasz Konczakowski

Adam Levon Brown writes

I am Poetry


I am poetry
My body, the lines that tell a story
My mind, the stanzas that fit into a puzzle
My spirit, the words, easily lifted or broken with utterance
My blood, the flow, coursing its way through my veins, always close to my heart
My sweat, the hours improving and getting everything just right
My tears, which I cry for the world as it descends deeper into darkness
My pain, relatable and felt to my deepest core
My joy, being able to share all of this with you

Image result for human as poem

June Calender writes


Answer to Bishop Berkeley

The wind blew and blew and blew,
the snow fell and fell and fell.I
In their dens and lairs the foxes,
rabbits and other little creatures slept
curled against their mates and kits,
their burrows warmed by breath alone.
The deer bunched against one another
in the shelter of vines and shrubs.
Huddled in the trees, deep into the low
piled brush and old leaves, wild turkeys
and smaller birds, feathers fluffed,
heads tucked under wings, slept, waiting.

The little animals were shaken awake
when the earth shuddered. They snuffled,
and moaned, and moved and groaned; 
the birds felt the branches bounce,
clenched their feet and jostled closer, 
warmer together. All returned to sleep.

A great tree had fallen, crushing smaller
trees, snapping limbs, spewing snow, balling
a great clot of earth and roots. The giants fall
was felt as much as heard by all woodland life.
Creatures large and small did not dream disaster.
They dozed as safe as they knew how to be.
Those who survived awaited the quiet after-storm,
sunshine. They renewed endless search for sustenance.

(Berkeley seems to have been the first to ask the question: If a tree falls in forest and no one is there does it make a sound? To the philosopher only humans are sensate beings.)
George Berkeley, by William Skelton, after  John Vanderbank, published 1800 - NPG D31705 - © National Portrait Gallery, London
George Berkeley -- William Skelton