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  1. #61
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    If you would like to see and hear the poet, Lia Purpura, author of the poem, "Noosphere", do click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYtjAGrrmFk

  2. #62
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    Little Jack Horner
    Sat in the corner,
    Eating his internet pie;
    He put in his thumb,
    And pulled out a plum,
    And said 'What a good boy am I!


    'Jack Horner', as you may know, is the nom de plume of one of our most prolific moles, or as you may call them, 'hackers'.

    And Jack is famous for including his little rhyme above with with every hacked poem he sends us anonymously, but we have absolutely no idea who he is, or whether he is a he or she, or even if he is one or a number of people.

    Some say she or he or they are Netochka Nezvanova the author of nato.0+55+3D, while others point out that Netochka Nezvanova is the first unfinished novel of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. So whoever Jack or Netochka is, they remain anonymous to the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section. And every now and then they stick their thumb into the internet pie and pull out a plum and send it anonymously to us -

    Echo
    In memoriam Emily Dickinson

    It would not sound so deep
    Were it a Firmamental Product—
    Airs no Oceans keep—
    Afloat between your lens
    and your gaze,
    the last consideration to go
    across my gray matter
    and its salubrious
    deliquescence
    is
    whether or not I'll swim,
    whether I'll be able to breathe,
    whether I'll live as before.

    I'm caught in the bubble
    of your breath.
    It locks me in.
    Drives me mad.

    Confined to speak alone,
    I talk and listen,
    question and answer myself.
    I hum, I think I sing,
    I breathe in, breathe in and don't explode.
    I'm no one.

    Behind the wall
    of hydrogen and oxygen,
    very clear, almost illuminated,
    you allow me to think
    that the Root of the Wind is Water
    and the atmosphere
    smells of salt and microbes and intimacy.

    And in that instant comes
    the low echo
    of a beyond beyond,
    a language archaic and soaked
    in syllables and accents suited
    for re-de-trans-forming,
    bringing light
    which brings out
    melanin
    from beneath another skin:
    the hollow of a voice
    which speaks alone.

    - Pura López Colomé
    translated from the Spanish by Forrest Gander.

  3. #63
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    If you would like to see and hear the poet, Pura López Colomé, do click on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RQns8-R0P4

    If you would like to see the tranlator, Forrest Gander, please click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CevCKxMjWFk

    Some say Netochka Nezvanova is Rebekah Wilson but this is plainly a furphy, or misinformation, to hide the real identity of Netochka and so the deeper idenity of Jack Horner, our anonymous mole. But for the record you can see Rebekah posing as Netochka by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yy9gr...eature=related

  4. #64
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    The ancient cathedrals were built by anonymous, just as this poem was sent by the same anonymous last night and published today -

    Electron

    Who housed you
    here, sweet fix of smoke

    Bells, warning flies
    held & moled

    Paraglid amid
    cages. You tab

    The slip, & I

    Flash silhouettes
    of burnt

    Tree, anemone. Blue
    & red bloom.

    Color me, lip the lumined
    structure: how

    You live where you live.

    - Karen Lepri.

  5. #65
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    If you liked the poem, "Electron", you can hear the voice of the poet, Karen Lepri, translating a video poem, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swbXlAojgMs

  6. #66
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    The same anonymous who wrote, "The Cloud of Unknowing", sent us this last night, and we publish it today -

    Incinerator Road
    Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.
    —Psalm 139:16


    Without an authorized guide, you can't find it.
    Off Route 20, headed out of town we turn left
    onto Research Road, entrance to a once grand

    southern plantation. We drive behind the med
    school chaplains, Donald and Paul, turn onto
    the graveled curve of Incinerator Road.

    We slow as a truck marked "biohazard," follows
    us, passes after we turn into the small lot in front
    of metal barns. Up the hill stands an old incinerator,

    under an open shed. A hayfield stretches out morning's
    cold mist. Chaplain Paul says, "This view is usually
    lovely." The mist makes views invisible.

    Mountains, dark clouds in the distance, penetrating
    cold. He points where he scattered my mother's ashes
    with the others, years ago, tells how he offered prayers.

    What text for this morning, Tibetan Book of the Dead,
    Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, Course in Miracles,
    Tao te Ching? I choose a psalm, three years after

    my mother's death. It's difficult to bring grief back.
    It isn't out of character, this odd memorial, or even
    that the ashes were mixed up. Maybe this is another

    of her odd gifts to us. How we can recognize eeriness
    in a damp, gray day, note a dead deer on the road, a wet
    field, view obscured by mist, a truck marked "Danger"

    logging past us again. Signs are her odd offerings to us:
    black antique hearse passing. Batesville Casket Company's
    truck in the oncoming lane scatters a murder of crows.

    - Susan R. Williamson.

  7. #67
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    If you liked the poem, "Incinerator Road", you might like to see the poet, Susan R. Williamson, by clicking on - http://www.facebook.com/dejavusuew#!/williamsonsr

  8. #68
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    Just as anonymous puts on the mask of Guy Fawkes and protests Scientology, so anonymous also hacks poems and sends them to the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section, which we publish for your delectation and delight and even improvement -

    After Grass and Long Knives

    Suspect enthusiasm—
    having eaten pins before—
    but that's what keeps one
    quiet, that's what makes one

    stay. Empty is just the first
    temporal name
    after something smaller sat there is gone.

    Then that space
    regains its height and wild.

    Let let lovers be
    light thoughts, just touch
    remembered in some not unkind way.

    It was all fine.
    It was all right.

    And now what's next is
    clerestory:

    wait become place—and not a cowardly one—
    like in some great house made of purest plank,
    place to pause, place to be welcomed.

    - Olena Kalytiak Davis.

  9. #69
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    If you liked the poem, "After Grass and Long Knives", below, you might like to see and hear the poet, Olena Kalytiak Davis, on the Emerging Poets Panel by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XBAH2eH-z0 or maybe not.

  10. #70
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    An anonymous hacker has sent Wikileaks this poem last night which we post today -

    Tulips

    These tulips make me want to paint:
    Something about the way they drop
    Their petals on the tabletop
    And do not wilt so much as faint,

    Something about their burnt-out hearts,
    Something about their pallid stems
    Wearing decay like diadems,
    Parading finishes like starts,

    Something about the way they twist
    As if to catch the last applause,
    And drink the moment through long straws,
    And how, tomorrow, they'll be missed.

    The way they're somehow getting clearer,
    The tulips make me want to see—
    The tulips make the other me
    (The backwards one who's in the mirror,

    The one who can't tell left from right),
    Glance now over the wrong shoulder
    To watch them get a little older
    And give themselves up to the light.

    - A. E. Stallings.

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