Noggin

Root words
line the caveat.
A hearing
claws the surface,

pores over future
obvious reclassified
conveyor belt elan,
until the snow drops gather,

one cell turned
into a whole
collective sunlit
craft, precursing

foreloft, whose criteria seep
through music

dispatching hinges,
one upon the next.

Sheila Murphy, From Issue 3

Remember when we tried

We tried to protect the growing grain

by killing off  the sparrow, once,

in a landscape swarming with men and boys

all running, shooting, shouting, beating

the air with fists. So hard a chase and the birds

so tired they fell in scores from emptying skies

while locusts, free of claws and beaks, hovered

above the succulent crops then plummeted

down, more after more, like a biblical plague

foretelling death, like a blinding, shocking rain.

Mandy Pannett, from Issue 3

Installation

Room I

There are abstract objects hanging from the

ceiling. Visitors are encouraged to try and

create a meaning for the objects. To give an

example, one idea might be: ‘This strange

collection may represent unimaginable and

unforeseen incidents hovering in wait.’

 

Room II

A recorded voice tells visitors that there

are untold tales in the textures of a painting

displayed. The voice says: ‘The secret stories

can be excavated and exposed if the layers

are removed.’ It then adds: ‘But, as there is often

great beauty in ambiguity, it is fine if visitors

would prefer to opt out of this activity.’

 

Room III

There is a large screen, on to which a film montage

of people’s childhoods is projected. If visitors

wish, they can get in touch before they visit, so that

footage of their own childhood can be integrated into

the film to enhance their own personal experience.

Some visitors may not find this a particularly pleasant

prospect though, so please note that it is only optional.

 

Room IV

There is a wall, which hundreds of butterflies have been

stuck to and varnished over. There is a designated area

where visitors can catch their own butterfly with a net.

Inside this large, glass container, classical music is

played. Many visitors enjoy this activity and can be seen

wreathed in smiles, giggling rapturously, whilst running

around with the net. However, some consider this to be

unbearably cruel and are not quite as enthusiastic.

 

Room V

In central position is a circular tower that, in its vast

circumference, dominates the room. As the tower reaches

right up to the ceiling, visitors are encouraged to use the

ladders provided. Attached to the tower are thousands of

paper scraps bearing words, phrases, proverbs and quotes.

Some are French, like Jean Anouilh’s ‘Rien n’est vrai que

ce qu’on ne dit.’ (It means ‘Nothing is true except what isn’t

said.’) This is often visitors’ favourite part of the installation

and they are known, on occasion, to spend hours here, their

eyes like prison search lights scouring the tower up and down

for more quotes they can relate to in some way – quotes they

will enjoy, quotes that will make them feel happy.

-Vik Shirley, from Issue #3

The Empress

approaching the Cinderella-stage
the boundaries between
the flush of carmine, of blue, or of scarlet

means a door altogether above the Abyss
She bears the lotus, spiral lines, fleurs-de-lys, and fishes
perching upon the sparrow and the dove

curved interwoven threads, She is fitted to represent
roots in the earth, petals to the sun
their tendency is to awaken

yet the truth is that the temptation,
an inheritance of blood, iridescent light,
this beauty becomes

a body composed of innumerable
arms and torso, the nub of this
green seems a distant child

keep it clear and precise
the imperial crown and vestments
a throne whose uprights suggest blue

the dismal tincture of selfishness or fear
this man coveted place or power
for this very reason She continually recurs

to work backward, the arch or the door
our ravished eyes entirely incomprehensible except
one who studies, raying outwards

Venus, the only one, binds all forms of nature
impulse impressed upon it together
She can be raised to her throne.

Carol Shillibeer, Issue 2

 

TERRESTRIAL ILLUMINATION NO. 69

How could those
Who had red doors
And had white roofs
That from a distance looked like large wings be so wrong,
Or so right.

The firefly torch lit the fallen webbed brown leaves fallen on
Hated schoolyards.
My teachers like snakes had shed their skins, their human skins.

I thought the leaf that looked as if squeezed by the moon
Had an other side. The other side
Had touched earth, and a speck had become the earth.

Duane Locke, From Issue 2

But who has looked behind the circle and its children of the moon.

Is better to have a hand full of sand than a hand
Plucking a sky harp that has no strings. You think,
Then don’t think, then sing sand.

How can you say to those who race in marathons I don’ t hear
Your footsteps.
I have never lived your lives,
And you have never lived my life.

The wolf on cement floor of zoo, the shadows of bars
Crossing the blond hair in bushy tail, ages as Europe ages unseen.

Middle Age, Marriage and the Empty Nest

So close, too close in the distances we keep
to truly know our own hidden truths
lost in the absences of and within us
as we hide from each other these secrets
that only strangers seem to know
whispering in the shadows,
stalking like scavengers
feeding on scraps, dining on the hunger we leave
at a full table
and it’s true someone should have left long ago
still we stay,
no longer for the children who have
left us alone in this empty nest of silence
to ponder the “why” when all we can think of is leaving
and maybe it is only for appearance sake now
though we know somewhere in our denial
the reality of our transparency
or perhaps it is the fear
that we’re just too damn old to start over,
that maybe no one
really wants these two old crows
wrinkled beyond the wear of their worth
spent on a happiness that in a lifetime,
could never be bought,
borrowed, stolen or found in the all the wrong places
we kept looking
until it was too late
to see…

Debbie Berk, From Issue 1

Power Outage

The night the lights went out
I was stranded at my parents’,
a pimply teen, a few months shy
of a license, but even if I could drive
I would still have been snow-bound.

I cursed the countryside, my parents’ decision
to yank me from Weston Field neighborhood friends
and move me to Mountain View,
where my new friends were separated
by 30 minute car rides.

The night the lights went out
I read by candlelight until my vision blurred,
and then drifted downstairs to play Monopoly.
Father peeled open Oreos and asked about school,
while mother doled out paper bills as banker.

Sitting around the table with them,
while flashlights shined on plastic hotels and metal pieces,
I disarmed and quit cursing the house they built
and frequent storms that slicked up roads, knocked out power.
Sitting around the table with them, I laughed long past midnight,

until my brother arrived to gas up the generator
and I went to bed, certain I’d wake to the comfortable glow
of electronics, the rumble of plows clearing roads. Next day,
a friend picked me up, and like a stranger, I passed my parents
at breakfast, said little more than hello before I left.

Brian Fanelli, From Issue 2

The Bedside Book of Bending Down

We will remain ambivalent
about animals and animal
control.

We will shield our eyes.

We will choose between secret and sacred
passwords.

We will fondle the dirt
in the garden,

wash our hands and pile salami
onto a slice of bread.

We will listen as the Violent Femmes
scream for their runaway
train to let them off.

We must figure out how to ask.

Something that fast.

And then it hits the wall.

We are listening.
We have been listening all along

to their harried song,
their hair-brained scheme
to escape from it.

We don’t want to live this way.
We will straighten up and fly
right

into the wild blue.

 

Glen Armstrong, From Issue 1