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  1. #11
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    Hacked last night and revealed today -

    Marshland

    We are all intruders here
    though we fool ourselves this late winter day,
    carving a place on the banks
    to anchor our heels.
    We stretch over the water, hoping
    to slip onto the wings of a great blue heron
    but afraid to get caught in the trap of reeds, twisting
    in the foul water.
    The marsh ignites: will-o'-the-wisps,
    sprites, a wisp of flames,
    torches held aloft by villagers
    marching on the manor.
    We've read too many fairy tales
    but this much is true:
    I heard voices.
    Not the call of a willet or clapper rail
    but a child caught beneath the ceiling of water
    the thin reed of its voice
    rising in the brackish light.

    Carol V. Davis

  2. #12
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    Smile It's the nice thing to do.

    If you like, "Marshland", do ring the USA on (310) 434-4000 and ask for Carol V. Davis and tell her how much you like her poem, but you just wanted to hear her voice, warm muzzle to warm ear.

    It's the nice thing to do.

  3. #13
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    Smile The Queen's Medal for Poetry

    I have just discovered that Les Murray, the Australian poet, has been awarded the Queen's Medal for Poetry, given by the Queen herself.

  4. #14
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    Hacked last night and released today -

    Day Moon

    Too late or too soon, none can say,
    the lantern you hold out mere
    rumor now, your desert Sea
    of Tranquility nothing more

    than dust, or less, dissolved at last
    in the waters of the sun's rays.
    You the dime that midnight lost
    to the bright distance of a day,

    the coin that rolled through a ruin
    of stars, out the acropolis
    of our dead gods. You the crown
    that handed down its human place.

    What is your vigilance if not
    the scratched mirror of our light.
    Constellations cast their net
    in the morning sky. Too late,

    says the sky, and yet too soon
    to tell, to read your beaten riddle
    of things to come, the afternoon
    of those who walk each year a little

    closer to the ground, who would pull
    through the hole in you, the hole
    of you, as if you were the portal,
    the pupil, the wound that never heals.

    A window to the sun that stares
    at you there across the room,
    you the Cyclops of the nightmare
    sent to wander over the rim

    of dawn, unconscious of a fever
    daybreak brings. You who howled
    in the throats of us believers.
    We were children then who held

    you in the evening of our eyes
    the way a bowl of water holds
    a drink, a face, a dark sunrise
    worlds beneath the underworld.

    - Bruce Bond

  5. #15
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    If you liked, "Day Moon", you might like to ring the poet, Bruce Bond in the USA on 940-565-4139 and tell him so. And say you just wanted to hear the sound of his voice.

  6. #16
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    Hacked last night and revealed today -

    At the end of the text, a small bestial form

    This is the glimpse of the god you were never supposed to get.
    Like the fox slipping into the thicket.
    Like the thief in the night outside the window. The cool
    gray dorsal fin in the distance. Invisible
    mountain briefly visible through the mist
    formed of love and guilt.

    And the stranger's face hidden in the family picture. The one

    imagining her freedom, like

    the butterfly blown against the fence
    in her best yellow dress
    by the softest breeze of summer:

    To have loved
    and to have suffered. To have waited
    for nothing, and for nothing to have come.

    And the water like sleek black fur combed back that afternoon:

    The young lovers rowed a boat. The boy
    reeled in a fish. The husband
    smiled, raising
    a toast.

    While the children grew anxious
    for dinner. While something
    struggled under the water
    bound by ropes.
    And the warm milk dribbled down the sick man's chin.
    And the wife, the mother, the daughter, the hostess, and those
    few people on earth she would ever
    wish were dead
    would be the ones she loved the most.

    - Laura Kasischke

  7. #17
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    Hacked last night and revealed today -

    Without Mercy, the Rains Continued

    There had been
    A microphone hidden

    Beneath the bed
    Of course I didn't realize it

    At the time & in fact
    Didn't know for years

    Until one day a standard
    Khaki book mailer

    Arrived & within it
    An old

    Stained cassette tape
    Simply labeled in black marker

    "Him / Me / September 1975"
    & as I listened I knew something

    Had been asked of me
    Across the years & loneliness

    To which I simply responded
    With the same barely audible

    Silence that I had chosen then

    - David St. John

  8. #18
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    Oz is a Continent of drought and flooding rains. And we have had and are having our share of flooding rains. But enough literalism, let us enter the merciless rains of David St John.

    Why not ring USA (213) 740-2311 and ask for David St John and tell him whether you liked his poem below?

  9. #19
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    Hacked last night and revealed today -

    All the Sciences

    The year I fail all the sciences there are
    many factors but no one's in any way confused.
    The radio brimming with everything it knows
    about some shooters until it gets the shooters
    down to two. The dead men's rooms reveal
    nothing about unhappiness. What starts out
    as reason refusing to make more of itself
    has a way of becoming several mixed reports
    from the field, where I'm having a feeling
    of being eleven and watching the sun set.
    I'm having a feeling of my chest as a trunk
    full of blankets and answers to questions
    about who gets to keep a garden. Often
    enough we return to the field with trowels,
    intentional. I'm told this is an American
    approach to the problem. I've been trying
    to figure out what it means to have
    an American approach to a problem.
    Maybe it's when I think the thoughts I have
    that don't work hard enough to stick
    probably weren't deserving of the field,
    and not when I think the ones that do
    are lucky. We like to be told what we're doing
    is difficult so it's correct that the sky's mostly
    a flubbed forecast until the part where it tums
    to light or to egg down the calm sides
    of a mixing bowl. I remember that to make
    a solution, something needs to dissolve.
    Sunsets. The library. The parts we've picked
    apart with borrowed beaks or tractors.
    It feels good to get an old thing next to
    a new thing because of how sure it is
    that they'll never turn into each other, or
    maybe it's because we like what putting a rock
    near a rocket says about what we can do
    in the meantime. Sometimes I like to read
    backwards until the bullet re-enters its gun.
    Until the dead men remove their heads
    from the bags and are about to be
    hungry or can almost remember what
    they came into that room for or are born.

    - Laura Eve Engel.

  10. #20
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    Vote Assange

    Good news, Julian Assange is thinking of running for the Australian Senate. The only question is whether the Australian people will get to vote for him or will the Americans get him first?

    In the meantime the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section, releases one poem a day - read it and it will show on your face all day.

    Of course Oz Branch, Wikileaks, Poetry Section, doesn't hack poems ourselves, rather we rely upon those brave souls who go out every night to hack mainframes, personal computers, servers and even, I am reliably told, Echelon (Signals Intelligence).

    No, we don't hack ourselves but we assiduously vet each poem sent anonymously to us to ensure that the life of no poet, no muse, and no poetaster, is put at risk by releasing a poem a day.

    Remember - vote Assange.
    Last edited by Mole; 03-21-2012 at 07:54 PM.

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