From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Jul 5 20:40:52 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 5 Jul 2009 23:40:52 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] Jack Lynch Message-ID: <86a3fe410907052040n3a57e3c3rd4bfb1cbdc31fa49@mail.gmail.com> WAVES OF CHILDREN Through the two mouths of the house the wind blew in, blew out. One by one with our two names we came: Maureen Harriet Barbara Marie Paul Thaddeus James Henry Margaret Mary Michael Kenneth Thomas Joseph Theresa Jean & me Which birth marked the turn from *few* to *many*? Whose departing left none? Now from hospitals two by two we bring you, Mother. Still, through these doors, waves of children. This wind. *Jack Lynch* received a Bachelors of Fine Arts from the New School, and is a graduate of Hunter College’s MFA Creative Writing Program. His work has appeared in *Ology, POZ Magazine, The Paterson Literary Review, The Bellevue Literary Review*, and *Diva Complex: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them*, edited by Michael Montlack and published by University of Wisconsin Press. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Jul 12 18:27:59 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 12 Jul 2009 21:27:59 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] Sampson Starkweather Message-ID: <86a3fe410907121827j5e8e8481g493ba47a1555c8de@mail.gmail.com> *from* *LA LA LA* when in large groups I often want to swing Thor’s hammer I call it POWER POETRY transforming irritability into energy should win a prize for almost existing like a *superlove* say forbidden how weird is becoming a tunnel more of a pastime than an act of civil engineering no gland to regulate this emotion life is another way to say proportional to the push-button moment my fortune cookie a drawing of a mountain appearing to disappear I am the goat perched on anything a branch of shame the denial that one is one’s own flag it doesn’t have to be whole to break everything is an action watch the poem sail into itself did you say river without *bend* or *end* if it didn’t hurt I’d have gone a long time ago good looking out Pain everything is a game to my niece only this makes sense the pesky not-world hiding somewhere I want poems to be like 80s video games land and sky forever off either side of the screen New Zealand is like that a promise held out two horizons that never come together are you wet yet you love when I talk landscape in overalls scamper the flattened world pick up the occasional coin or sledge hammer someday I’ll mushroom-leap those goddamn digital clouds we lie under and cry every poem should begin I’m kinda of in a dunebuggy it’s a fact feelings of powelessness lead to killing and shopping sprees weeeeeeee oh there’s more where that came from a growing demand for designer vaginas in other news ghost slugs are real people can be so quiet they barely exist images of earth always make me horny it sounds like a soap opera when it hums all God’s children are brats probably Brazilian at that products of product placement know when to say when how dumb is that just keep going swallow sand try to finalize any love endless like the games people play on the subway get in follow me anywhere have you noticed pussy foot is always singular iron lung killjoy sound like bad ass Indians take the longest breath any man’s ever taken and begin again the poem is its own audience scientists say the soul has the consistency of an expensive milkshake bagpipes are bad for the environment Dear Mom you don’t know shit about poetry if you were a think tank we’d all be making cartoon balloons I love hitting *U*ndo poof I made the rain go away chin music is not a cliché to say we’re all alone your name is # 2 on my things to do list Google Earth knows dick about my birthmarks let’s all change color what are people who study traffic called a lot of love has died technically anything can be counted *Sampson Starkweather*'s most recent chapbook, *The Heart is Green from So Much Waiting* is forthcoming from Immaculate Disciples Press. He is also the author of *City of Moths* from Rope-a-Dope Press and *The Photograph* from horse less press. He lives in the Qua. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Jul 12 19:56:09 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 12 Jul 2009 22:56:09 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] Introducing new editors: Lily Brown & Claire Becker! Message-ID: <86a3fe410907121956g5ac10577tc90cddb787803ad@mail.gmail.com> Dear readers, Happy summer. I'd like to share some news with you: I'm delighted to announce that two new editors, the wonderful poets Lily Brown & Claire Becker, yes: Claire Becker & Lily Brown, will now conduct your weekly encounters with RealPoetik. It's been an honor sending poems your way for three years (some of them yours!), & reading your comments and submissions. I send hugs and take a bow. I hope you'll keep in touch: write to me at anabobo at gmail.com, visit me at www.nightcommute.org, and look for my book due out from Tarpaulin Sky Press in the fall. I'll be reading on with you, so let's see what Lily & Claire have in store for us: [exit Ana Bozicevic] [enter Lily Brown & Claire Becker]: We're excited to be taking over editorial duties at RealPoetik and look forward to building on the work Ana and previous editors have done. The poems published as emails in RealPoetik are able to go virtually anywhere--read on your phone on the train, aloud to your dog, on a braille display; or printed out and scribbled on; deleted; or replied to. Through email and the RealPoetik blog, we will bring you poems straight from the physical world, where real-live poetry communities won’t be superseded anytime soon. We're dedicated to publishing poems that are engaging, challenging, and aesthetically diverse. We look forward to this new endeavor and would love to hear from you at any time! Lily & Claire About the Editors: Lily Brown holds an MFA from Saint Mary's College of California. Her first book, *Rust or Go Missing, *is forthcoming from Cleveland State University Poetry Center. She lives in Chicago and in Athens, where she is a Ph.D. student at The University of Georgia. Claire Becker lives in Oakland and teaches high school at the California School for the Blind. She is the author of the chapbooks *Untoward*, from Lame House Press, and *Get You*, from Duration Press. She holds an MFA from Saint Mary's College of California and an Education Specialist Instruction Credential from the California Commission on Teacher Credentialing. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Jul 19 15:18:01 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 19 Jul 2009 17:18:01 -0500 Subject: [Realpoetik] Ryan Murphy Message-ID: <86a3fe410907191518u6910b945y46c426af8af4b6d5@mail.gmail.com> I DO NOT WANT TO STAY I do not want to stay Or say Anymore. The birds fog in Like Tyvek flapping >From scaffolds. The bare spring trees, I peel the label off Carefully, carefully Take a tranquilizer The landscape regains dimension. The men in their demolished Sheetrock rooms. AUTUMN IS FOR BELLS Autumn is for bells And sagging ceiling plaster. Oars plough wake: Warn and victim we. I am afraid to die But RJ Reynolds whispers I’m not And dying I believe him. This is not the same as weeping for a cat’s mortality. Dear , I would like to tell you that making people from words is not the act of a tubercular child in an attic with construction paper. Worth and companionship. Is not lonely. That they are more than parts of speech. My friends might say otherwise, but fuck them, what do they know. That it is, and has been, worth it I would like to tell you. I wrote and wrote and the words began to fall off. Dear , The benches for the infirm and the insane. I watch for a flash of pink on Broadway, what you wore when you left, but the men on the bench zip their jackets to their chins, read paperbacks through stacked pairs of glasses. I thought you would pass on your way north. Or I chose the wrong route, the wrong time, the wrong day. Blooms early this city And we are like that. Leaves black in the sun. This is the hieroglyph of the sheets in my skin upon waking. And thus I wrote this to you in the dark. Dear, It’s true, the spokes of a wheel only appear that way when they're spinning. Commuter trains are terrible in every way. We name the stations for our friends, or our friends for the stations--I forget which, it doesn't matter now--it is better living on a real island now. Geographically speaking. Since it has always been this way anyway. Is it more important to be remembered right, or to see the flames lick the gunwales? Is it always the perspective of the mourning? I never said these things: That boy is dead. And who is left to write letters to? The rain that makes your hair grow. *Ryan Murphy *is the author of *Down with the Ship* from Otis Books / Seismicity Editions. His second book, *The Redcoats*, is forthcoming from Krupskaya. He has received awards from Chelsea Magazine and The Aldrich Museum of Contemporary Art as well as a grant from The Fund for Poetry. He is an editor for Four Way Books and teaches at Pratt Institute. He lives in New York City. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Jul 26 19:51:30 2009 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 26 Jul 2009 21:51:30 -0500 Subject: [Realpoetik] Norma Cole Message-ID: <86a3fe410907261951l83b780fu3e040254f35ad38b@mail.gmail.com> *from* 14000 FACTS * Slow walking, play of evening, the silver ships measuring time Venus, a sliver of time beyond words * The clearing, the light no gate separates day and night more than ever place of indivisibility the wolf sees all * Like souls greeting each other from the windows of eyes form or harm turn back any time snowflakes on a blue ground * Floating sea ice as if we’d seen it just yesterday not used to hearing that music again * Looked like rain peremptory music from the limbic system—lucky you’re not still in prison somewhere * To imagine a fortress we’re given a loop a curveball come in to play * The manner of their presentation aspects of vision “we’re getting killed” the burning zone shifts, continuous *carmen*, song * See what you expect, a page of flames, a cloud the color of her old heart, displayed in a glass case * Fiction: bacon and eggs in a parallel universe smells just as good he ran away as if the exigency of is and is not * Potatoes, stones their living eyes atoms existing in unparalleled worlds as if to turn their eyes from particular stars Among *Norma Cole**’s* books of poetry are *Natural Light* (Libellum) and *Where Shadows Will: Selected Poems 1988—2008* (City Lights). *To Be At Music,* a book of essays and talks, will appear June 2010. Cole has received awards from the Foundation for Contemporary Arts, the Gerbode Foundation, Gertrude Stein Award and Fund for Poetry. She teaches at the University of San Francisco. -- RealPoetik realpoetik.blogspot.com -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: