From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Fri Jan 9 11:07:47 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Fri, 9 Jan 2009 14:07:47 -0500 Subject: [Realpoetik] Sean Patrick Hill Message-ID: <86a3fe410901091107l2f390758qd40a276e78039e31@mail.gmail.com> *The white concern of our sheet* I bought my wife an antique mirror—Blanched glass. Crazing frame. Imagine the tsar's parlor paneled in amber. Gold foil, gouache. Fence of iron roses. Merrill said, poets choose the words they live by*—Spindle, lathe. Hammer, linen. Ghost towns hung in the elms.* I remember weathered waterwheels, fulcrums clogged with crushed birds. My wife says, *the flaws give it character.* Clangors of bells as trains leave the yard— *A band of horses in a canyon of thorns.* *Sean Patrick Hill*'s poems are currently in *Exquisite Corpse, elimae, Alba, diode, In Posse Review, Juked, Ditch,* and *The Corduroy Mtn*, and are forthcoming in *Willow Springs, New York Quarterly, Copper Nickel, Apocryphal Text*, and *Quarter After Eight*. He is a travel writer, husband, soon-to-be-father and teacher in Portland, Oregon. He graduated with an MA from Portland State University and has had residencies at Montana Artists Refuge, Fishtrap, and the Oregon State University Trillium Project. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Wed Jan 21 18:11:19 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Wed, 21 Jan 2009 21:11:19 -0500 Subject: [Realpoetik] Skip Fox Message-ID: <86a3fe410901211811rd845c19pc79ab4badee69283@mail.gmail.com> *approaching storm* dead leaves, some the color of cement if cement were rust, scrape my knees on their way to the grave, buried in gravity, the maple still full and maple leaves soft as spring, drops begin their pattern on the pond, leaf rustle hath a new inflection, foliate, smallest sunfish leap, dace shimmer, scurry to every edge where arcs lap, cross, fade back into pond, there is no pause, can be no interruption, below words is sound, beneath sound, silence, then dark cacophonies of need, a river, swells, above sound are the sounds creatures make to each other by which they are known, above these song, all this winding its way into winter, time's valance most acute in the fall, you're over- taken again, there's nowhere to go except in, to listen as Babels of rain sweep across the roof in a darkening room *burial of caves* Saint-Saëns saw a sea in his sleep. Dropped in a key. Since he'd visited a zoo only that day (trying to win the favors of one slight puff, some thirty years his junior), his dream threw up the stuff of tigers, a twirling crock, one bird's full throated, Barely dying yet, boss, crest stiff in morning, rigor of the quick (she stirs?) music is always right in middle of (definitely indefinite), where surface turns, blinks, swirls with what's moving to edges (like- wise indefinite), always (if listening).That is, sweet caves she had & all her caves gave way to caverns, each a life renewed, a site in which to bathe existence in the waters of her oblivion. Saint-Saëns forgot all about the animals, & his music disappeared into night sky, into ranges of her hair, the soft light of her eyes, & into all her tangled being. *Skip Fox *has published several books of poetry: *For To* (Potes & Poets), *At That* (Ahadada), and *For To *(BlazeVOX). *Delta Blues *will be published this spring. He teaches the University of Louisiana, Lafayette. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: