Transcription
NOON 15
NOON journal of the short poemISSUE 15August 2019
weightless a moment over the green pond
a glint of drone in the sky we’ll fold 1000 foil cranes
absinthe sky –the nasturtiums take onan eerie hueClayton Beach
cherry blossomflavoredhyper-violence
bud breaks nowwider thanour words
i momentarilytrade an adverbfor fallen leaves
side 4: a millennium’s worthof fallen leavesaflameScott Metz
Phoenix(Quercus agrifolia)Black trunk of oak,singed and seared,shelvedwith a conkof fungus,from the ashesyou bringshoots of shine,tart leaves,teal wings.Paul Willis
a tendrilgrows, turnsmakes its ownsutracatch meif you can, she sings,our age is fouland deviousdawn’s tepid choruswashes light on tundra;wedding of sunand veils
day beginson cursal heightsof musak, thentrills to duskpale mist;crocus flatteringthought’sacresnakeskins drop,curl; hardeningto dustand serifsRufo Quintavalle
beads of rainon the spider’s weba pronoun climbsinto my lexiconJohn McManus
winter stillness :: the crash and burn of semicolons
Out in the WorldWhere do you putyour eyeswhen you have alreadyseen everything?Look for the tarnish.Anything.Escape to other worlds.Reduce the inverted afternoon.A chair is just a cube.Black is a losing color.Like water into concrete,a title comes.Source: A cut-up/remixed poem composed fromFlowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews.Shloka Shankar
Book Reviews1.you can’t put this book down –your fingertips stick to the coverlike tongues to frozen ironand your eyelids burn away2.a book certain to start a religion –a moral tale, so simple, so powerfulwhoever disagrees with itmust die3.every sentence is memorableevery line is quotable,and every quote is:the world is a terrible place
Rohingyasunset at Sittwe:a slice of red, a cutinside my navelbleedingprofuselyinward
UvulaHeresy,to worship only superficial beauty.Beyond your lips,past the pink porch of your yawn,font, chalice, and grapewait in holy union.Deep in that unlit nave,the moist paradise of Beulah.Imagination, depravedabases before no cross,no rose-stained glass,but your uvulahanging immaculate:the Church of the Red Bat.C.E.J. Simons
from Lampedusa2/duewe rented a carwith no brakespigged outon orangefireballs& amber beerwhen weget homeI’ll lather your hipswith gram flour& turmeric paste
3/thria distant scootersaws the nightin halfgrooves cut freefrom ends of partiesfloatelectrical &pulseloopedanchorsilenceto infinitybelow the coveis motionless huesoonI will sit outin first lightand waitfor youto wriggleslowlyfreefrom sleep
4/quattrufish swimin theirown shadowsretracing vectorsacross ashimmeringgrid of light
from Barcelona3/treslong shell oyster fossilolive leather poufs& gilded doorknobs castin squeezed fists of clayit’s nice to be home with you againespecially now we don’t knowwhere we live anymoreSimon Marsh
o and by the waves who’s we
all the acorns taken out to sea float back into her hands
the raspberries in her stomachthe bee@her ear
new year’s eve a beach fire we inherit and abandonScott Metz
()each matchcontainsan unhatchedflameBob Heman
thesepossibilitiesmake meill at ease§News Cycle
spring is the poet’s job interview§Poetic EconomyStephan Delbos
first datehe polisheshis avatar
a lifetimeof protest votesday moonDave Read
spring morningcops cite a saxophonistfor disturbing the peace
above the mallthe rest of the mountain’sunrestDave Bonta
The sky the kind of blueyou can’t take seriously.Mark Terrill
from Subway Poems10-22-14What kind of day is it?It’s cold and rainy,leaves blowing downfrom the trees.It’s not a nice day,not out here on 7th Ave.,unless you’re in love,or having brilliant ideas.It’s cold and rainy,leaves blowing downfrom the trees.
3-6-15On these cloudless days,the sky stretches off in every direction,pulls your eyes in every direction,you feel like you can goas far as you want in every direction.Is that a good thing?It sounds like a good thing.
2-12-16In the train on the opposite platform,I see one of the clichés of American art:a woman looking out the window with longing.She has raven black hairwith a shock of white in front.She looks like a skunk.It has to be intentional.Is it possible for a skunk to feel longing?Skunks are unloved, that’s for sure.Perhaps skunks, from time to time,feel a longing – not to be unloved.
3-7-16Today, on 7th Ave.,there is no vanishing point,nothing to yearn for.Too many delivery trucks double-parkedto see any distance at all,much less to the fulfillment of dreams.Michael Ruby
A Manoeuvre of Words and WordlessnessWhen I wake in the middle of the nightolder than I would like to beI feel a twinge of freedomI look out at the moonsurly and aloof and malformedand see beauty embracing the twingeas though it were in full flight.Isn’t that what’s exciting about freedomthat it can freeze or paralyse you?And might I add, free or imprison,a manoeuvre of words and wordlessnessthe mind’s cunning at the body’s expense.J.J. Steinfeld
PunctuateA body in motion or at rest must be determinedto motion or rest by another body, which otherbody has been determined to motion or rest by athird body, and that third again by a fourth, and soon to infinity. The dead, who have felt nothingfor so long, begin to sway happily on the far shore;memories lap against their feet, spray in fine dropletsover their breasts, their beautiful heads. Fire is known tobe fireby the heat; fire in the eye, fire in the heart, fire inthe loins, all die, and this dying is the heartof the matter. The endeavor, whereby a thingendeavors to persist in its own being, involvesno finite time, but an indefinite time.
It from BitIn thirty minutes there will be silence settling in backstageshadows, in the curtain’s high folds, along the floor’s dark,waxed-wood sheen. Because of this wormhole connection,he explained,‘Ted and Bob are the same.’ So the result is sort of likethe happy ending of one of those screwball romanticcomedies that involve mistaken identity, and thehandsome vagabond turns out to be the prince indisguise: Alice can marry Ted who is really Bob,and the bonds of matrimony extend smoothlyacross the edge of the black hole. She clears brush from herraspberry patch, re-puttys low windows she can reach.Howmany thousand provincial capitals blain America?Joel Chace
Secret V’si.m. Ray Tremblay 1950-2004Mythical placesunattended.We don’t know wherewe’re goingexceptwalking west.This street is a mystery-to-me.I think it’s smoke, but it’scurtainsrippling in the breeze.I thinkit’s curtainsand the fire truck comes.
Disjointmy old mother’s rheumatic handsthat didn’t actor look in the end likehandsHer WrynessGuy Birchard
Occasionallywhen I am reading a book and havemy hand on the page I notice my handas if it belonged somewhereelse, or to some otherbeing. Knuckles, veins, fingers,skin, color, all peculiar andas if alsoby an author I'll never meet.
Illustration of Methods of Breaking the PanicStricken Grip of a Drowning Person(for Carolie Parker)The illustrator imagined those wavesaround the young bodies going down: swirls, thicklines, empty air. I imagine the unnamedillustrator thinking I should nothave taken this job,should nothave pictured thosein despair, in the water, thecartoon dread, cartoonyouth.
alone in a cemeterythe newsJohn Levy
dead men, nights, in my dreaming,tell me this, or that sad tale,tip the wink, that this won’t do,what seems to mean, won’t do at allRay Malone
cold cellshoelaceless thoughts
the hanged poet’s fallen members mulchinga fragrance of gabirolian figsDanny Blackwell
gibbous moon a glimpse of his hereafter
forsythia the scent of her subjunctive
blue horizonwho will carrymy bag of bonesRoberta Beary
starlightthrough my bodyof metaphors
crossing the river on horseback the riverMichelle Tennison
each/your ownthe rain beats downthe hill untilthe hill’sthe Ground
tomorrow/never comesflesh of cloud, voice of trafficthe body alwayswithin reachSabine Miller
Water DiscoIt blinds – the asphalt nightclub’sthrum and vapor. A backward glance,I-29 all steam and water stippled down awindshield.Outside, oak leaves decompose. There’s toomuch noise,light drawls I can’t unhinge. In dark,cicadas cease, from parchment shelters,trilling from a kudzu wall.Rain rings the car roof, fallsin beaded curtains through the back door of my vision.Streets, glossed and igneous, spilling buttons.Valerie Duff
Sign abovea urinal:Water will flowwhen no one is here.Warren Decker
death poem . . .all my attemptsstillborn
snowbeitChristopher Patchel
zen gardenerthe gap in his smilein his rakePeter Newton
from tool boxthe gracklefoot-long wood-raspthe plansketched outbeyond metrowelI revert to bare hands
handsawtaped griptakenknee holdsdown boardteeth topencilscored edgethumb-jointbreath drawnsoft pineJohn Martone
where the dove tamer hangs his traps summer cloud
through Homer’s blind eyes sunspots from MarsRéka Nyitrai
blood moonthe suddennessof the gunBen Moeller-Gaa
probe snaps my world a distant periodHelen Buckingham
from Solitary ConfinementDay 23 Give me a breath-holding lessongive me hunger. Tear outbook pages, bite my fingertips,swallow the air. Make mestronger than granite,louder than church bells.God laughs, watching me stuckin the slow lane to piety, and ordersRepent. I grin a hundred times.Jesus and Father Michaelhold hands, kneeling on flint.Mealtimes, I chew glass shards.
Night 55 Someone turns a key, the lockclicks and a brief sound of rainsneaks in through the opening.It feels like a sharp scratch.Day 63I clench my fists on the tablehiding two buttons rippedfrom mother’s dress last timeI saw her. You’d say they looklike half-cracked walnutsbefore Father picks up a hammerto split them open.Maria Stadnicka
ObjectsHow theyburn and drop.The fork fallsjust out of reach;the dryer bursts on fire,sets off the smoke alarm.How they resisttheir square holes.The anchorrips through the deck,the mastfails.
If You See A BeeMy mother said: “Why do you always tellthe truth?”And: “You’re like all the childless women I have everknown.”“Close your mouth if you see a bee. It might fly in.”Wes Lee
in her breath,a trace of onion . . .mom tries to revisemy controversialmemoriesAnna Cates
FuneralFirst time ‘home’ in over twenty yearsI find myselfStandingStaring for hoursInto pouring backyard rainI realize I am the perfect portrait;Same heightSame weightSame ageSame goddamn doleful stareI am the perfect portrait of my own abusive fatherAnd no funeral can ever bury himKen Troklus
blood tests my daughter becoming a ghostRich Schilling
Griping at my girl’s books on the floormy stoop my father’sand his his mother’sand hers her mother’sAndy Fogle
on good days I seeonly beautiful thingsa man splitting a pastry with his daughterripping it in half and sherocks her body from side to side in anticipationof the bigger halfwhich she gets
A failure to experience my life as something other than atransatlantic flight of absurd proportions during which I availmyself of various distractions; convenient and indefensiblefeeding, snacks, hot drinks, alcohol, pills, movies, and tripsto the toilet, all the while struggling to get comfortable asothers do the work necessary to ensure that we arrive at ourdestination.
Nothing to say,but that doesn’t stop me.Cralan Kelder
digging through the fat on either marginJacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah
category tombs of a lost cause
barefoot boythe search for cardboardalmost dry
moonlit redactions of a frond danceBill Cooper
Graveyard Shadowsedimentof silencea polonaiseof sunlightpiercesthe gauzeof raina dimwhirringof shadowthe wingbeatof a moth'smeditationon timeWilliam Cirocco
Time I reada few poemslooking out overthe hillsbeforethe mosquitoescomeSitting herenot noticingit’s raininguntilit stopsJohn Phillips
Edited by Philip RowlandCover photograph by John LevyPublished by Noon Press, Tokyonoonpoetry.comISSN 2188-2967
A chair is just a cube. Black is a losing color. Like water into concrete, a title comes. . to worship only superficial beauty. Beyond your lips, past the pink porch of your yawn, font, chalice, and grape wait in holy union. Deep in that unlit nave, the moist paradise of Beulah. Imagination, depraved abases before no cross, no rose-stained glass, but your uvula hanging immaculate: the Church .
