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Wikileaks and Poetry

Mole

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20,284
The Irish Parliament from -

The Crystalline Heaven

The new people, the quick money
Dante's Inferno 16.73​

I sit up here, in the crystalline heaven,
High as Dante, looking down
On the dog-eat-dog of Florence, Dublin town,
Through the marvellous dome of glass above Dail Eireann.
Coffee is over; a quarter past eleven
And the deputies file back in. Concentric hells
Of seats are filling up, conspiratorial,
Till the banging of the gavel, the Ceann Comhairle
Shouting for order, and then the division bells.

As suddenly, the House empties, through its backstage doors.
Charlie Haughey crosses the floor,
Engages a woman I know in conversation—
Still beautiful, still a gazelle. After how many years
Of marriage to a Dublin auctioneer?
Above, the forces that govern the universe,
Light, reason and love, a Dantean vision,
Stream through the windows. I am alone up here
In the public gallery, as mid-morning disperses

Its scattered attendance, snoozing, as if not there,
Through the luminous room.
My minister rises. I fold my Irish Times
And watch O'Snodaigh, leprechaun and elf,
Nervously scrape the three remaining hairs
Across his bald patch—him, my immediate boss!—
The prompter through the stage door of 'Whereas ... '
A minor civil servant, like myself,
A lifer, splitting hairs till the crack of doom.

And darkly think to myself 'Inadequate
For the business of state,
A Johnny-come-Lately ...' Afterwards, in the lobby,
Hearing him talk, relaxing over a fag,
'Let Charlie soon starting shiting golden eggs
Or the country's fucked—' I'll know myself a snob,
A shadow of Dante, the chip on my shoulder,
Disinheritance, crystallising to heaven
High and light as the dome above Dail Eireann,
Sitting in judgement on Dublin, and getting older.
 

Mole

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20,284
It's a -

Poem maybe

On Margate sands I connect nothing with nothing
As our old pal Tom once remarked. These sands
Are damp and littered, not at all appealing,
Not like the soft sands of Manfredonia where the
Italian boys grew onions and garlic for their
Lunch. Can you imagine how much I wish I were
There? No, you cannot, my dears. Especially not
In the little time we have left to us.
 
R

Riva

Guest
Victor why do you like Wikileaks so much? Or is it poetry that you like?

I'm stumped.
 

Mole

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The Ecudorian Embassy and Typology Central

Victor why do you like Wikileaks so much? Or is it poetry that you like?

I'm stumped.

Looks like I've bowled you out.

And as Wikileaks reveals the secrets of the world, the best kept secret of Wikileaks is the Poetry Section.

And what a Poetry Section it is. Short poems of high quality, suitable for publishing on the internet.

The internet is made for poetry, for poetry comes from our past in our deep spoken culture, and everyday as we move into the electronic culture of the future, we are also recovering our spoken culture of the past through poetry.

Literacy privileges the eye, while poetry recovers the ear.

So our warm muzzle whispers a poem into your warm ear everyday.

Of course Wikileaks lives right on the edge, with the Americans after our founder as he seeks asylum in the Ecudorian Embassy in the heart of London, just as each poem here lives on the edge of tolerance and on the edge of understanding here on Typology Central.

And just as our founder, Julian Assange, takes refuge in the Ecudorian Embassy, so we take refuge on Typology Central.
 

Mole

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20,284
Adding up the years -

At the End of a Ninetieth Summer

They drink their cocktails in the calm manner
of their middle years, while the dim lights
around the swimming pool make shadows
of that world they've almost fully entered.

Like Yeats's wild swans their uneven number
suggests at least one of them is no longer mated.
Added up, their several ages are short of a millennium.
This means the melting ice cubes are silent music beneath

their slow talk, and slow talk is how gods murmur
when eternity comes to an end.
The way it feels for these friends who amaze themselves
with what they remember—not the small details—

but how long ago lives happened and how fast.
Occasionally, usually from the wives, there's mention
of the War, as if they'd endured before waiting like this,
except now there's no uncertain homecoming,

no life to be beginning and nothing to complete
that doesn't wear already the aura of completion.
Listen, they are laughing. One eases himself up
to refill his drink. His wife, in a wheelchair, wants one, too.

Another makes a joke about making it a double
and gets up to help. They are gone so long,
or not long enough, that someone asks,
"Where's Bob and Jim?"

Now and then a tentacle of the robot vacuum
submerged in the pool breaches the surface,
squirts a welcome spray of water
then retracts where it continues its random sweeps,

until it breaks into the air again.
Bob and Jim are back, the drinks get passed,
even so Jim's wife asks, "Where did you go?"
Instead of answering, he raises his glass.
 

Mole

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20,284
In Chile -

The Pacific Is the Sky

So torrents of the Seventh,
Fifth and Ninth. Riverbeds of
Bach, Beethoven and Amadeus
rapids of the sky, peaks and pastures
Estuaries and waterfalls of the Fourth
tributaries and sounds
of air, organs, summits
of Michimahuida, Aysén and oceans:

—The Pacific is the sky

Torrents of the sons of Espolón
Yelcho, lake and surroundings:
—The sky of Chile alive, spuming
The Pacific is the sky bearing themselves then the rivers
that love each other opening themselves

Like fans swelling until they smash down in the waves
of the ocean that shatters over the horizon They are the
ancient rivers note the men looking at them No: they are
the tides of the sky answer the crests of the Pacific
squalls coming on among the clouds

In the foreground receiving the thousands of rivers
that once went to the encounter of those beaches It
is the ocean they repeat coming in No: they are the
beaches of the horizon it is the snow it is us rising
to find each other in the final torrent of all souls
the flayed of Chile scream revived among the waters
This is because I am the sky the Pacific repeats again
alive blue spuming with love above the mountains
 

Mole

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20,284
Strung out -

At Villeneuve-les-Maguelone

On this strung-out strand where once the Saracens raided
and the bishop defended, now only surf whirs in—
tumble, soothe, and seethe of waves at a slow boil.
We lie motionless and cracked as driftwood.
Middle age has tossed us here. Salt sears each wave,
sand crusts your eyebrows and the rim of each ear,
and the sun licks hunch-backed breakers with a tongue of fire.

Hypnosis of foam: the surf sounds endless.
Nothing is endless. The cathedral of Maguelone
hulks, a battered shell on a wind-roughed island.
Seagulls perch on the rafters in the shadow of cypress.
And if we two, sprawled below on the sand, are burned
and offered, it is to no god we will name
and the sea that lulls us is spelling its own end.

Yet we are given. For now, day is suspended,
a kiss is a salt mirage in smitten air,
the brush of your hand on my hip a tremor of sunburn.
I could see you, but instead I turn my head,
glance up, and the whole sky hurtles down—and where
we were, we aren't: just a long horizontal seizure
of aquamarine. Tide spittle. The shuddering shore.
 

Mole

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20,284
My mind and my -

Dear Doorknob

I turned you and you slipped off—cold, heavy

brass in my bewildered hand
as your counterpart

dropped on the other side, baritone clunk
against the hardwood,
nothing to say but
what rose to my lips: "Whoops."

I wobbled from wine, so

sliding your spindle
back
through the spindle hub

wasn't easy, the other guests
tipsy in the living room, oblivious

to my clumsy handiwork—that goes into
this that
way—No,
like this.

There is a click, a round
gold sound that tells me

I fixed you.

O, if only
you could return the favor, repair this
small defect of my mind,

some shoddy
wiring with the on/off switch
that sinks me

mercilessly into darkness
no matter where the sun is.
 

Mole

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20,284
Why are we -

Listening to Black Birds

eye listen to a flock of black birds jamboreeing high up
in the large mango tree in my backyard in guadeloupe,
wonder what they are jabbering about hidden
within lengthening shadows of twilight approaching darkness
spreading its wings like these birds when they take flight,

their jabbering reminds me of black people gathered on corners
underneath my window in harlem during summers running down
whatever game their jazzy, jambalaya language offers up
as food for thought—the loud insistent slap of dominoes hitting tables,
spiced with boasts of men—women, too—who have mastered
the sarcastic lingo of tongue-in-cheek put-downs mixed
with salt & pepper wisdom saucing up air around the game,

eye have always loved listening to language like this improvising
solos spit from lips—or beaks when talking about black birds—dripping
syllables popping through firecracker sentences dropping neologic words,
sounds into everyday lexicon of hip oral speech—language
has always been the fuel driving duende/music of my poetry,

but these black birds are a special case since eye can't enter
the meaning of their language—are they happy or mad, hungry
or sad, making fun of humans like me listening to them perplexed,
trying to decipher—translate—their intricate jabbering music
packed with jackhammer rhythms—a language so high-pitched,
so insistent it seems close to frenzy, as if they were discussing
important topics to themselves, relevant to survival of the globe,

perhaps what they are jabbering about is crucial for us, too,
though how would we humans know since few of us listen,
or even hear anything we say to each other
when it comes to important matters
like, for instance, the waging of eternal war
pollution of the planet with oil—what about the gulf of mexico, alaska—
the politics of corruption by outright bribery, runaway, rampant greed—
the list of human deafness goes on & on, dominates the sordid,
sad history throughout the blindness of the world,

so why would one think anyone would pause to listen to black birds
jamboreeing high up in a mango tree in guadeloupe,
jabbering away about whatever in their jackhammer rhythms,
in a high-pitched language so insistent it seems close to frenzy

perhaps a poet like me—or you—would listen to that language
possibly holding mystery, magic, beauty, if only for clues
we may decipher from secrets these black birds might know—
the boasts of men—women, too—who are masters of the sarcastic
lingo of tongue-in-cheek put-downs, the wisdom saucing the air
surrounding the insistent slap of dominoes smacking tables—

what the language could offer up for me or you—if you are
out there—perhaps, is a thread, a possible connection, where
we might locate our spirits in a common, fertile space, where words,

language might be the glue holding communities together in place
 

Mole

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We long for -

A Peaceable Kingdom

This dream is too dry:
it takes moistness to survive
the night, not broken towers,
flattened obelisks, hills
reclining like a sluggish lover
beneath a sun-bitten sky.
So this is how it feels
when the wind comes
scratching at that door
you closed: your pillows lie
abandoned, an erratic landscape
chisels into the marrow
of your sleep. They've got
a sale on plots like these,
and they've saved one
just for you. Let this emptiness
be your permanent bed.
No king spread these sheets.
No queen will stretch
from satiny sleep bearing her peace
like a cup of blessed wine
into the day. Oh shadowy
swiveling angel, is it enough
to let light fall
on half a face?
If a door exists in every story,
a window in every dream,
this vacant bed
might still conjure flesh,
conjugality, mirrors that glint
with what could have been: a blue frame
extending out, a checkered
pathway in.
 

Mole

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20,284
For my little -

Barbarians

Long after the days and the seasons, and the beings and the countries,
The pennant of bloody meat against the silk of arctic seas and flowers; (they don't exist.)​
Recovered from old fanfares of heroism—which still attack our hearts and heads—far from the ancient assassins—​
Oh! The pennant of bloody meat against the silk of arctic seas and flowers; (they don't exist)​
Sweetness!​
Live coals raining down gusts of frost,—Sweetness!—those flashes in the rain of the wind of diamonds thrown down by the terrestrial heart eternally charred for us.—O world!—​
(Far from the old refuges and the old fires that we can hear, can smell,)​
The live coals and the foam. Music, wheeling of abysses and shock of ice floes against the stars.​
O Sweetness, O world, O music! And there, shapes, sweat, tresses and eyes, floating. And the white, boiling tears,—O sweetness!—and the voice of woman reaching to the depths of the arctic volcanoes and caverns.​
The pennant .....​
 

Mole

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Read yesterday's poem, if you are lady Gaga's little monsters or if you are our little barbarians, take your pennant and weep, for the poet stopped writing and went and sold arms to the arabs.
 

Mole

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Read the poem below called, "Barbarians", and tell me whether you think it is cryptic or crystal clear?
 

Vasilisa

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Instinctual Variant
so/sx
And what a Poetry Section it is. Short poems of high quality, suitable for publishing on the internet.

The internet is made for poetry, for poetry comes from our past in our deep spoken culture, and everyday as we move into the electronic culture of the future, we are also recovering our spoken culture of the past through poetry.

Literacy privileges the eye, while poetry recovers the ear.

So our warm muzzle whispers a poem into your warm ear everyday.

I thought of you when I heard this and thought I would post it in your thread.

Gillard Goes Gospel
 
Last edited:

Mole

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First Love

When Ethan appeared after school
to help Angelina with chores
even the little ones knew
from their stiff silent dance

something was up just not what
though they could see
clear from the henhouse
he wasn't helping with theirs

and after that first teasing chant
shushed by their mother they
noticed their sister was given
a job away off in the orchard

where through that fall
planting the ladder with
the greatest possible care
he'd help her clean every tree

they'd take turns catching
the apples the other would toss
down then sort in four baskets
for market eating pie and cider

precise as any grownups
finally gather windfalls for the pigs
where sleepy yellow jackets still abuzz
in their moldy frostbitten cores

would draw her small O of surprise
that he would mirror steadying
her on tiptoe long and lean
kerchief round her flowing hair

contained reaching out overhead
where he dreamt of catching her falling
kept his eyes up his feet planted
as she with eyes averted would bestow

on him from her apron pocket
the best ripest one from each tree
perfect for his dark walk home
for his personal eating.
 

Mole

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20,284
Babel

The day is perfectly just out of focus.
Its blurred overlay almost fails to pause us.
It's not that we get bored here while we're waiting—
we were bored solid before the beginning—
but there are specific displays of power
(like dropping a word from an off-white tower)
that we hope to call abuses of power
in the future, even if from said tower.

Rain bounces back into itself from the road;
a flag moves, but without our feeling the wind.
The wind moves without our seeing it, and what?
At this point it's as if we're wearing frameworks
or scaffolds of balsa, crucifixes all,
unaware of who we've been or where we are.
Our doorways don't look out on one another's.
We have our portraits done in charcoal on tar.
 

Mole

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Quink

1

Sick of ink (a professional worder)
I went into the biosphere
With two botanizers, a birder,
And a Leave-No-Trace-Trained mountaineer.

We witnessed the sacred in several classes.
They showed me how elevations flatten
On a topo map. Through fine field glasses
We confirmed a quantity of Latin.

2

Idle by nature, sick of talk,
I went into the somewhat wild
With an undifferentiated dog,
An apple, a gum wrapper, and a six year old.

The crags scratched our eyeballs. A brace of Quink
Came burtling out of their whiskets. Old Breather
Whulphed. It wasn't what you think,
Exactly. I guess you had to be there.
 
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