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Sabin Balasa, Atlantis, Wikiart |
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3/9/19
In Translation | Poetry | Jose Manuel SÁNCHEZ
3/7/19
Two Poems | Mazarine Treyz
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Winslow Homer, Indian Village, Wikimdia Commons
Light sensations
To put
among the stars
A
constellation
Reaching
out
A
chartreuse wave runs
Eagerly
touching
The
mountains on Jupiter
It
houses itself
In a
dormant stage
These
little balls blown hither and thither
Bursting
their coats
Naked
again
A
flower spreading its petals
Lipping
outward rippled edges
Dramaturgy
in small things
A
skirt throwing itself
Into
a dance
Around
and around
Spinning
and looking
Who
will I thrust myself into next
To
play with the patterns of existence and
Arrange
them in new and original ways
So you
induce the dark to emit
So
many gleaming nuances
In a
purple sky, in green lightning flashes
You
show the aching pulse of each passing moment
I
notice your simplicity
And
your activity
In
the service of images that fill you
They
lead you mysteriously onward
And
somehow I am discovering you-
With
the point of my pen
Certainly Not
I am certainly not thinking of
The luxuries of your table
The sausages, cheeses, olives
Lamb, chicken skewers, salad or
anything so delicious
Nor am I thinking of the beehive
inside my dress-
Living in perpetual fluctuation,
excitation and tension
At a high temperature, with an
animating self-heat
Closely packed, vibrating incessantly
Putting into luminous form
What the multitude inarticulately
feels-
Jostling inside: conflicting impulses
to get
An intimacy and spiritual nearness-
or run away
A heroic passion or fantastical
daring-causes us to
Approach but then reject
the couch
For sensual gratification elsewhere
Certainly not remembering
Your excited eyes and smile-from time
to time
Anarchy from above
So far we have hardly mentioned your
body- This was intentional for
You are a world unto yourself
That we must explore slowly!
Then your tongue between my thighs
My arms outstretched, back arched,
crying out
Is it a fact, or is it a problem?
Does it slide between being one and
being another?
Rashly I fall on you, and the
inexhaustible
Foaming joy of your body, overripe
and sensual
Breaks apart under my fingers
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3/3/19
Prose poems | Alex Stolis
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The
man on the radio says, today we should ask our friends the open-ended question;
'So
what was it like?'
It was like a sonic
boom with the sound turned off. It was like a puffed
up robin shivering in a
tree. It was like nothing we’d seen before. It was
everything we never
expected it to be. It was not it but something else.
The something we were
searching for. The something that felt like being
lost; lost in someone’s
voice, lost in between the molecules that make up
the air we breathe. The
something that became it; the something that got
our skin to tingle, our
stomachs to churn and our mouths to go bone dry.
It makes us hard and
wet; it makes us want need desire yearn. Go ahead.
Tell us what it feels
like.
The
man on the radio says this next song is for you
as if he knows you. As
if he saw you in the front yard
in a worn pair of
jeans, dirt on your hands planting for
spring. As if you slept
next to him in nothing but an old
t-shirt, one leg
wrapped around the bedspread. Does he
know the scar on your
back, does he remember the day
your mother died; how
you love to make up backstories
for people you see on
the street. I try to recall the last
time we met. I try to
remember the sound of your voice,
the curve of your jaw;
I’ll try to find you, left of the dial.
The
man on the radio laughs because the man on the radio fucks a model too
If this were a
screenplay there would be a slight break in the action;
time for a little
narrative exposition. Time to make the scene some-
thing right out of a
movie; complete with neo-noir dialogue, a verite’
look and killer
soundtrack. If this were anything but what it really is
it might not be
artificial; it would be colored inside the lines, names
redacted. This is the
last leg we will stand on before the credits roll
us over: Me wondering
where the hell I went; you, all blearing eyed
and wet, waiting for
another chance to reshoot the final scene.
It’s a square room.
There’s always more to the picture than meets
the story; more to a
smile than glossy lips, intentionally exposed
bra straps and ice-cold
fresh wet martinis. We imagine there are
corners; rounded, sharp
or hidden. We imagine blind intersections,
imagine the person next
to us making small talk knows when to hit
the brakes. We hit the
skids, we circle the square room. Find where
we’re made; who we’re
made to make it with. Imagine a slow wind
crashes the party,
imagine we don’t want to get lucky; that we mint
our own luck. Imagine
there’s more to our story than this picture.
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