shared emotion: by Ken Gierke

thought, emotion
in a relay race
through body and mind
each lap igniting sparks
firing across synapses
spoken, unspoken

thought, emotion
facing a tsunami of
slowly seeping away
leaving behind
sodden ash

thought, emotion
in a dull glow
re-firing to
bridge a gap
commune with
the outside world

To hear the poet’s reading of the poem, click on the player below:

Ken Gierke is a retired truck driver who started writing poetry at 40 as a way to sort through his thoughts. He’s been honing his writing skills over the last 3 years at his Wordpress blog and you can find more of his work HERE.

Prologue to My Birth: by Stephanie Harper

This is neither a beginning
nor the prophecy of an ending
for beginnings & endings are lies
told to the once-living

it is not the exemplifying
of the aberrations the alchemists made
when they dethroned our Divine Queen
& transmuted her golden honey
into their iron pyrite philosophy
that left us to wither
inside our stunned husks

& so    this is the emptying
of our errant devotion
to the denial of bodily hunger

the sanctified unbelieving
in fairytales of heavenly salvation

& it is the vital refilling
of infants’ gaping mouths
with earthly fortitude

& here    now    is the weeping

for our birth-story    interred
with our long-dead mothers
who delivered us
& secured our velvety    aboriginal flesh
to their warm breasts—

the saline unleashing
to purify our Logos
our will to creation    our innate need
to manifest our god-selves

it is the recovering
of the Life that was severed from our psyches
when it was reduced to a Word
& uttered    bereft of melody—

the unrepressed singing
Artemis awake from her slumber
beneath her ruined Temple in Ephesus

at last    this is the extricating
of shame that made our tongues
untie us from our Mother’s holy earth
& swayed our ears to scorn her winged songs
even as she kept flying back to us
ever thick-limbed & fragrant
with nourishment from lavender blooms
solely that we should swell in our birthing cells
gorged on her royal jelly

This poem is my body
embryonic    translucent
distended with new hope

it is my luminous    black eyes
grown huge with their memory
of who I am


To listen to a reading of this poem, click on the player below:

You can read more of Stephanie L. Harper’s poetry on her blog, HERE.

Topografia #20 (a D): di Luka Stojnic

Eppure hai pensato di aver visto tutto il visibile.
Dieci diversi profumi,
Venti colline,
Due fiumi.

Hai annotato tutto.
E la penna scivolava,
Scivolava in fretta.

Sulle mura delle caverne hai disegnato immagini.
Hai coperto di volti le umide rocce.

Il verde si espande, goccia per goccia…
Pennellate su superfici ferme, immobili.
Refoli di un’aria che viene da fuori,
Laddove ci si perde, ci si ritrova.

I luoghi….
Un filo s’allunga, passo per passo.
Ed è il calore della stufa a farci dire di aver sbagliato.
Offuscato, che muta da un freddo reale.

L’aria viene da fuori.
Hai acceso un fuoco dentro,
Bruciandovi il filo di bronzo.

Ammassi di segni sulle pareti,
Contorni di linee che vogliono spiegare.
Il perchè.

Non c’è errore, non c’è.
Si passa in luoghi diversi,
Dove s’impara a guardare.
Scoprire il già veduto.

Topografie #20 (aan D.)

En toch dacht jij al het zichtbare gezien te hebben.
Tien verschillende geuren,
Twintig heuvels,
Twee rivieren.

Je hebt alles opgeschreven.
En de pen gleed,
Gleed haastig.

Op de muren van de grotten heb je beelden getekend.
De vochtige muren heb je bedekt met gelaten.

Het groen breidt zich uit, druppel per druppel…
Penseelstreken op stille oppervlakken, onbeweeglijk.
Vlagen van lucht die van buiten komt,
Daar waar men zich verliest, waar men zich hervindt.

De plaatsen….
Een draad wordt langer, stap voor stap.
En het is de warmte van de kachel die ons doet zeggen dat we fouten hebben gemaakt.
Verduisterd, veranderd vanuit een werkelijke koude.

De lucht komt van buiten.
Binnen heb je een vuur aangestoken,
Waarin je de bronzen draad hebt verbrand.
Massa’s tekens op de wanden,
Contouren van lijnen die willen verklaren.
Het waarom.

Er is geen fout, er is er geen.
Men gaat naar andere plaatsen,
Waar men leert kijken.
Ontdekken wat al gezien is.

(vertaald door Tineke Pockele)

Topography #20 (for D)

And yet you had thought you’d seen all visible things.
Ten different scents,
Twenty hills,
Two rivers.

You had noticed everything.
And the pen slid,
Slid hurriedly.

On the walls of the cave you have drawn images.
You have covered the vaults of damp rocks.

The green expands, drop by drop…
Brushstrokes on surfaces firm, immobile.
Wisps of air that come from outside,
There what is lost, is here found again.

The places….
A wire lengthens, step by step.
And it is the stove’s heat that makes us say we’ve made a mistake.
Obfuscated, changed from a real cold.

The air comes from outside.
You’ve lit a fire inside,
Burning there the bronze wire.

Gatherings of marks on the walls,
Contours of lines that want to explain.

There is no error, there is none.
One goes to different places,
Where one learns to look.
To discover the already seen.

(translation by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard)
%d bloggers like this: