Month: December 2011

International Poetry Month 2012: Time to submit!

INTERNATIONAL POETRY MONTH 2012 IS NOW OPEN FOR SUBMISSIONS from now until 31 January 2012. KEEP READING BELOW FOR THIS YEAR’S THEME AND HOW TO SUBMIT:

Vedi sotto per le linee guida per la presentazione in italiano (tutto in verde)

Voir ci-dessous pour les directives de soumission en français (toute en blu)

The theme  for IPM 2012 will be The Gesture:

political gestures, gestures of affection, heriditary gestures, cultural gestures, empty gestures’

corporeal gestures (body language), and gestures towards communication (the gesture of writing,  translation and reading).

Send submissions in any language (no more than 3 poems of any length) to:

bmcclellan.lapoeta@gmail.com

You will receive a receipt confirmation and a response within one week of your submission.

Poems will be published during February of 2012. For poems in other languages an English translation is welcome but not obligatory.

ITALIANO

INTERNAZIONALE MESE DELLA POESIA  2012 è ora aperto per contributi provenienti da ora fino al 31 gennaio 2012. Continua a leggere sotto per il tema di quest’anno e come inviare la vostra poesia:
Il tema di IPM 2012 sarà il Gesto:
gesti politici, i gesti di affetto, gesti ereditari, culturali gesti, gesti vuoti,
gesti corporei (linguaggio del corpo), e gesti verso la comunicazione (il gesto della scrittura, traduzione e lettura).

Inviare la poesia proposta (non più di 3 opere di qualsiasi lunghezza) al redazione a:

bmcclellan.lapoeta@gmail.com 

Riceverete una conferma di ricevuto e una risposta entro una settimana dalla vostra presentazione.

Le opere saranno pubblicate nel mese di febbraio (2012) come l’anno scorso, ma voglio avere la poesia in gennaio se possibile (in qualsiasi lingua – traduzione in inglese gradito ma non obbligatorio).

FRANÇAIS

INTERNATIONAL Mois de la poésie 2012 est maintenant ouvert pour les soumissions à partir de maintenant jusqu’au 31 Janvier 2012. Continuer la lecture ci-dessous pour le thème de cette année et la façon de présenter votre poème:

Le thème de l’IPM 2012 sera le geste:
gestes politiques, des gestes d’affection, de gestes héréditaires, les gestes culturels, les gestes vides,
gestes du corps (langage corporel), et des gestes vers la communication (le geste de l’écriture, la traduction et la lecture).

Envoyer une proposition de poésie (pas plus de 3 œuvres de n’importe quelle longueur) à la rédaction:

bmcclellan.lapoeta @ gmail.com

Vous recevrez une confirmation et reçu une réponse dans une semaine après votre présentation.

Les œuvres seront publiés en Février (2012) que l’année dernière,
mais je veux avoir la poésie en Janvier si possible (dans n’importe quelle langue – traduction anglaise bienvenue mais pas obligatoire).

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Regained: Still life with Romance (Natura Morta)

Still Life with Romance (Natura Morta)

For my sister Robin Glynn (1962-2006)

My world, if full – is full of sunlight and bees.
We both know that Courbet was a communard;
without looking down.
I hear the water in his painting singing below.

A plover calls.
The soft scent of not wisteria,
The Pollack swirls of dried grass,
Make no shape, no pattern.

Acquacheta / still water

Fat unthinking bees hover.
My sister says it must be a sweet life if I’m pissing on rose petals.

There is that air about it:

The Romance

Begun at 38 instead of 21 when one is meant to have the grand adventure;
At 21 when it is impossible to imagine how sharp pain will taste when you let it age.

And so it begins:

I was in love with a sculptor, born in Louisiana, who now lived

near the Adriatic coast. I came to live in the hills outside Florence

looking to find the shape of my soul and to unwind the threads of

our love…

How much of that is real and how much a hollow in the light?

Sitting on a bench in front of a small cabin that
I share with a bulb on a wire, a suitcase and a family of rats;
Drinking grappa, smoking Gauloises,
Watching the sun set over the Tuscan hills.

This is real
No more and no less real than
the romance
Driving from DeSoto to Irving, Texas.
Having de-composed my ordered, still life.

Cutting down through weak and inconsistent flesh,
To find the white, persistent honesty of bone.

Orpan Poems or Paradise Lost: X. Virgil/Vigil

Virgil / Vigil

Will you boldly walk with me the road our good intentions paved;
Or stand balking, faint
    with fear at that long path from there to here
Trusting my hand, like Virgil’s to lead you through the gates?

Advent

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat…

Advent calendar our family made together

and I think he’ll keep getting fatter because we can only afford a chicken! At least my daughter still thinks it’s cool to make stuff. Last night she asked me to cuddle up with her and talk about Christmas. She asked me what I liked best about Christmas and I listed the standard stuff: the songs, the tree, the decorations, the visiting, sitting by the fire. When I asked her the same she said: “Snow.” It’s cold here but no snow yet…maybe she’ll get her wish yet (along with a puzzle and a yo-yo).

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: IX. Water from a Stone

I have pounded myself out

on the rock of this memory,

cracked open and drained out;

is there water left

in this stone?

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VIII. Enchanted Rock / The Ides of March

Enchanted Rock / The Ides of March

I will remember the branches and the light
filtering through the locust grove.
You will remember the emerald brilliance
of the grass.
We will remember together the unyielding line of granite
that still gives way over time:

the fine fullness of the moonlight across our whiteness
the vermilion flash of the cardinal
Cool air rolling lightly over and under everything like water
filling our mouths with flower petals
tasting of honey olive oil fresh bread

The sacrament of breath.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VII. Tishomingo Granite

Tishomingo Granite

From the Quarry at Tishomingo
Comes this Pre-Cambrian intrusion
Begotten when the first rain dropped on boiling rock.
Only later to be named
With sounds recalling some child’s summer game.
These random elements, the stuff of stars
Cooled by Bowen’s ruled order (though he was not invented yet)
Pyroxene first, then salmon coloured plagioclase;
Last, cloudy silicate of common quartz
All this a billion years ago.
You know I loved you even then;
The day this rock was formed.