From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Aug 2 22:44:10 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 2 Aug 2009 22:44:10 -0700 Subject: [Realpoetik] Andrew Kenower Message-ID: <86a3fe410908022244g608687b5j6f67ca351799af37@mail.gmail.com> DUCK CHARM paintings of ducks mean another thing to me cone muzzle toy cleanse the gun’s image with a duck with flannel and quack sound one achieves idyll decoys and budweiser doing their job wet dog has duck mouth I am a humanist I am part of the problem TRANSLATION OF EXECUTION the gallows gone wireless our ubiquitous public ear permits jeers and awe imbued with lo-fi cast broad though changed the lifted veil reveals a blindness *Andrew Kenower* received his MFA from Saint Mary's College of California. He is co-founder of and designer for Trafficker Press. He photographs and records Bay area poetry readings for a blog, A Voice Box ( andrewkenower.typepad.com). -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Aug 9 16:33:07 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 9 Aug 2009 19:33:07 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] Nicole Wilson Message-ID: <86a3fe410908091633v7fd4f1c1ud11f21dfb5e6f704@mail.gmail.com> DASH, CHURN Mother knows each day’s a face halved like the planet of a weather report; she can tell the operator “I like your telephone voice, I like your dimes and radios.” Her plane crash is a birth or a building or stuck levers or a chord composing to house all those vertical bodies unpeeling themselves, and the division sign she etches on top of the table is about hands missing hands missing a groom. Lungs breathe the shape of flesh pins and whiskers like a carousel coming loose. *Nicole Wilson's* poems have appeared in *Columbia Poetry Review, Emprise Review*, *Babel Fruit, **Rabbit Light Movies*, and *Coconut*, among others.* *She works and teaches at Columbia College Chicago where she received her MFA. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Aug 16 18:11:37 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 16 Aug 2009 21:11:37 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] Richard Meier Message-ID: <86a3fe410908161811y46a2bcacsd83be2a2378d0386@mail.gmail.com> The story I knows about the snow on the roof said the airplanes came out of the moon across it a full moon a little extended arm-shaped darkness it didn’t it did but not from where I was sitting. Nana was the waitress next to a cup balanced inside another, Sisley, Lamy, Mother Anthony, Pissarro, Tote, a knife, stack of plates, an apple cut in half, white hat, a napkin between, two echoing hands, graffiti music, dead soldier caricature, or guard duty, 200 workers behind the glamorous below-lit architect Richard Meier. I don’t know about the list in the middle, as in stones thrown musically into the sea are not thrown at other people even if the thrower falls on his butt or misses the sea entirely or just misses the tour boat didn’t see it heading for the cave in which the water and light make us all blue all in that boat all in the sea between that chord of stones the silent spaces between the tones that make the music visible. So you told me. I want to talk to you about a present. It’s not for you, moneyfold, an old friend he’d never seen out of uniform, old friend he’d never seen or known or been friendly with out of uniform; you are part of the largest thing, indicating, to the bees on the street, its smallness. All this lazing around is fuel for the fire, said the cork, as it bobbed with a tentative will in the fastest current phalanx, a deer or something licking its neck, so absorbed had he become by the process. Even the angry mob had begun to cheer. Too late, he’d been identified, leaving the crowd (the missing one, the one of us) milling about with stones hanging, wondering when the secret legislation would at last be directed solely. And another thing, he kept saying to her. And another thing. Was she listening? The wind moves the trees, I see only their tops, I live in the sky apartment, the clouds too are moving, everything seems shaken from the root, from the earth (as when I brought the elaborate crystal tree down on a man and a child, in the form of ice chunks and powdery snow, by just the method I am describing), but the relations are exterior. The tree is pulled this way and that by something inside it, namely the air, the same exteriority with which we speak, with which I am speaking. The clouds move steadily. A cloud never snaps back towards its fundamental reason for existing, or to whip you in the face who has held it aside so the man and the child might pass. Instead it parts, envelopes, disappears, reformulates, evolves, and continues. Just so the large cloud you and the man and the child are inside of and the atmosphere, the outside. The threshold is more at the mouth of a flute, which is to say the lips enter in action and vibration a strange numbness and the taste of silver. The table of sums. I’m going out, he says to her, though he’s still sitting on the couch, and she hears it, still maneuvering with one hand on the cart, cell to the ear, around the oddly laid out store, whose doors bear no relation to the interior, as if the whole building refashioned a fog bank, in which the figure was once clearest and lost, small central clarity we couldn’t escape thinking all of them together, and its thinking, and so on. *Richard Meier* is the author of *Shelley Gave Jane a Guitar* and *Terrain Vague*, both available from Wave Books. These poems are from a recently completed manuscript, *Little Prose in Poems*. He is writer-in-residence at Carthage College and lives in Chicago, IL and Madison, WI. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Aug 23 17:24:09 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 23 Aug 2009 17:24:09 -0700 Subject: [Realpoetik] Lauren Levin Message-ID: <86a3fe410908231724w64e731d4hbc0cee66b8110e35@mail.gmail.com> *from* NOT TIME Remember the name of grandeur’s fortune, Keenan. Your fortune one day. Keenan, the name of grandeur’s fortune one day. One day it feels like we do mock it. It feels like you want to rub your thigh not even to mock it, not even to mock your sight. Option 8 is a bullet, F8, F9 A predator is one extreme end of a group of positions, he does not like having blind spots in his imagination, or horse eyes, or gem-like parents. He had to hear 9 people’s counsel, from which they had their birth. Persons of this type say, and that type say, their candor. The penalty for injustice is according to disposition, I keep cutting this posture back into a sinking knuckle, deep breathing, bitch’s response, I don’t mind. When you talk about belief in the feeling of production, land a beat at the gate, a whole excessive fear of failing my meaning, there must be a knee hand ball joint to respect. She was pleased, I believe, with how death arrived the telling of production, skating off into a production place. Don’t worry, your name won’t represent your actions: in fact, I’m writing people’s names less the more I know them. That’s to Keenan: because I am distracted. *Lauren Levin* is from New Orleans and lives in Oakland. She edits *Mrs. Maybe* with Jared Stanley and Catherine Meng. Her chapbook *Flaming Telepaths* just came out from H_NGM_N B_ _KS; another chapbook, *Not** Time*, is forthcoming from Boxwood Editions. Some recent poems can be found in * Try*, *Mirage #4/Period(ical)*, and *Rabbit Light Movies*. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Aug 30 19:00:55 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 30 Aug 2009 19:00:55 -0700 Subject: [Realpoetik] Charles Bernstein Message-ID: <86a3fe410908301900v1e2de06fh9e3340ea06d704e@mail.gmail.com> THE 100 MOST FREQUENT WORDS IN THE SOPHIST again against air along already always among away block body call called come day does down emotion end even everything eyes fear feel find first force get give go good got ground hand having heart instance itself keep kind know less let life light Lind lines little long love makes man may mean might mind moment need new next nor nothing now old once order people place point Popova purchase put right say see seem should side since space start still take things think though thought time toward turn two use want water whom whose without words world years yet Charles Bernstein is author of All the Whiskey in Heaven: Selected Poems (Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, March 2010), Blind Witness: Three American Operas (Factory School, 2008); andGirly Man (University of Chicago Press, 2006), and My Way: Speeches and Poems (Chicago, 1999). He is Donald T. Regan Professor of English and Comparative Literature at the University of Pennsylvania. More info at epc.buffalo.edu. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: