From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Mon Mar 1 13:39:45 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Mon, 1 Mar 2010 13:39:45 -0800 Subject: [Realpoetik] CATHERINE THEIS Message-ID: <86a3fe411003011339u42c9aa11n1c86cb1d98d224c8@mail.gmail.com> MARTIAL Bring me my spring cups, fill them with thrum, with spring crocus, hailstorm, foxglove. Bring me those purple flowers on tall spikes, drooping and tubular, no— bring me the nectar. Let the cups be contrived of white petal, of coma-inducing digitalis medicine. Put the jewel heist in my spring cups. Retching on the clover, the clover comes into focus. *from* THE JUNE CUCKOLD Shitty sun my own kind You hate to touch it Until you do Love, The Insects in the Insect Trees *Catherine Theis is the author of The Fraud of Good Sleep (SUN SUN SUN Press), and her new poems are forthcoming in Action Yes, LIT, Sonora Review , Volt, and New Pony: A Horse Less Anthology (horse less press). She is the recipient of a 2009 Individual Artists Fellowship from the Illinois Arts Council.* * * -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Mar 7 21:29:20 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Mon, 8 Mar 2010 00:29:20 -0500 Subject: [Realpoetik] DAVID HIGHSMITH Message-ID: <86a3fe411003072129y28b0eae3i2dc939fd70077925@mail.gmail.com> TRAPPE a blinking star the germ of it all to hatch lines parallel & crossed a scratching within *l’oeuf cosmique* St. Johns’s shadow in a lithograph by Durer a grammar of escape & detachment a hymn sung above the winepress it’s what it means to batten down retreat to a bubble of air within water & then to claw against containment to peck this hole & walk through it to fly toward sleep as if to trace this constellation under glass *David Highsmith* lives and works in San Francisco, and hopes to retire to Casper, Wyoming. He currently organizes poetry readings and other community events at his store in San Francisco, Books & Bookshelves, for which he has received The San Francisco Bay Guardian’s coveted “chain alternative” award, *7 x 7 Magazine*’s Best of the Best award, a personalized martini shaker from the *S.F.Weekly*, and the Bookstore Poet of the Year Award from *the glade of theoric ornithic hermietica* blog. His latest book is *your wilderness & mine* from BlazeVox. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Mar 14 16:55:49 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:55:49 -0700 Subject: [Realpoetik] PAIGE TAGGART In-Reply-To: <86a3fe411003141636q6ad20633ub3799caee75cd33a@mail.gmail.com> References: <86a3fe411003141636q6ad20633ub3799caee75cd33a@mail.gmail.com> Message-ID: <86a3fe411003141655t1a905bd0ye1a53512b6bc38ac@mail.gmail.com> *from* TO PEOPLE WHO SOMETIMES READ There are gaskets inside us, turning movie reels. In the box office, two nights ago, I had meant to say, I collected all your pictures and hung them inside my head. Without further attention this amounts to: I won’t ever have to look at an image of you, in order to imagine you. This is the same feeling as standing really close to a tree and smelling its bark. There is one bird’s nest close to my house, made of hair and Coney Island salt. Someone should tell the island they worship that they are coming home. I am looking past myself. Past the point of batting the air. I think lying down, sorta in the light but also among beautiful objects spinning around. I don’t want to recycle anything. I would never let go of a balloon. *Paige Taggart* lives in Brooklyn. Her chapbook *Polaroid Parade* is forthcoming with Greying Ghost Press. She has an e-chapbook, *Won't Be A Girl* with Scantily Clad Press. She's a 2009 recipient of the New York Foundation of the Art’s grant. More poems from *To People Who Sometimes Read * can be found or are forthcoming in *Raleigh Quarterly*, *Sink Review*, *No Tell Motel*, *pax americana*, *Glitterpony*. Check out her blog: http://mactaggartjewelry.blogspot.com/. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Mar 21 18:52:29 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 21 Mar 2010 21:52:29 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] =?utf-8?b?VE9NQcW9IMWgQUxBTVVO?= Message-ID: <86a3fe411003211852w53308994rc26287b2f5a00e44@mail.gmail.com> ‘SLEEP POURS IN…’ Sleep pours in on the Polish hills, an arm grabs a golden stamp. A squirrel dies in a bag. A cricket flies over a clearing. We know where the sword of the brave is from. The mutation of the eye is the secret. FOUNTAIN The lion, which falls on its face, bends the little girl. Red blood spurts. ‘THE GAME IS DEATH…’ The game is death. Husk before death. In euphoria there are the blackest flowers. ‘YOU *ARE *MY ANGEL’ You *are* my angel. Mouth strewn with chalk. I am the servant of the ritual. Intact. White mushrooms in a white field. In a plain of fire. I walk on gold dust. Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry. "Fountain," "'The game is death...'" and "'You *are *my angel'" from *Sonet o Mleku* (*Sonnet on Milk*), 63, 30, and 26, respectively. *Tomaž Šalamun* has published more than 37 books of poetry in Slovenia and 11 books in English. His many honors include the Preseren Fund Prize, a visiting Fulbright to Columbia University, and a fellowship to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He also has served as Cultural Attaché to the Slovenian Consulate in New York. His poetry has been translated into more than 20 languages around the world.* Woods and Chalices*, translated by Brian Henry, appeared from Harcourt in 2008. *Brian Henry*'s sixth book, *Wings Without Birds*, will appear from Salt Publishing in April 2010. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun Mar 28 20:40:57 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 28 Mar 2010 22:40:57 -0500 Subject: [Realpoetik] AMY BERKOWITZ Message-ID: <86a3fe411003282040i7af92e27u7d32bbfd4a1322b3@mail.gmail.com> *MICHIGAN I put my wet socks on the radiator and take my dry socks off the radiator. Outside, it’s still snowing. It’s snowing. All of us buy the same black coat. Leaving parties, it takes us a long time to figure out which black coat is our black coat. We go to a lot of parties because it’s always snowing. The socks on the radiator are dry now, and warm. I put them on and put wet socks on the radiator. It’s snowing and the snow covers the ground. On the way to a party on White Oak, we get stuck behind a salt truck and creep along behind it, watching the automatic mechanism swing left and right, shaking big grains of salt on the ground. The party is terrible. There are blankets on the floor and there’s no whiskey. We would leave the party, but it’s snowing and we need a ride. Snow falls in shoes hanging from telephone wires and makes perfect snow molds of the shapes of the insides of shoes. Snow collects in open mailboxes. Snow carpets the steps and makes them soft. Snow covers my porch and my welcome mat and nobody knows how welcome they are. ESALEN The traffic stopped us So we stopped. We were near Gilroy So we got off at Gilroy. The streets were lined with antique malls So we each bought a felt hat with feathers And a delicate smell of the past. The diner had Chinese food So we tried it. The diner Had a bowling alley, so we bowled. We found a box of clothes so I wore a blazer. When it got cold, I bowled In the blazer. When we got bored the traffic Had moved on. When we got lost We called a number. When we arrived A guide met us by the road. The hot springs were hot so we got in. It was quiet so we were quiet. The guide was young So he got in with us. We were hungry So he unlocked the kitchen. There was A separate walk-in fridge for fruit. The fruit fridge was full of fruit so we took fruit To eat with the pulled-pork sandwiches >From the normal fridge. The ground Wasn’t too wet so we sat on the side of the hill And looked out at the darkness Which had the feeling of water.* * * * * * * *Amy Berkowitz* is from New York City, and currently lives in Michigan. Her work has appeared in *Coconut*, *Shampoo Poetry*, and *Spooky Boyfriend* and is forthcoming in *751 Magazine *and *L4*. She is a founding member of the Washtenaw County Women's Poetry Collective and Casserole Society, whose first collection of collaborative poems is called *The Feeling Is Mutual*. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: