Faerie Drill*

 

Each day must whimsy

A kindness, a cement truck

Calculus of the usual commute torture

 

Go under the microscope

Veins in the green over grey, grey over green, oops – the grey grey

The fairy fly terminate in hairlike fringe

 

Full body vibration as earth charged flesh with a zing zazz

Tectonic nerve tissue

Excavation of bones for romance

 

We held hands beneath the dirt

We wanted to be trees

 

*with thanks to Kevin for conjuring the concept of faerie drills

Heart Spell (co-opted from ad I see in the subway)

A heart with wings

A heart for discover.com

A heart for the gluttonous

A heart for the homeless woman

with two kids and a heart

saying “every little bit helps”

A heart for the lonely, hungry

A heart for the oil companies

A heart for cancer and its bodies

A heart for virus and survivors

A heart for bankers

A heart for farmers

A heart for mothers and soldiers

and fathers and children

A heart for teachers

A heart for plankton

A heart for baristas

A heart for anarchists

A heart for capitalists

A heart for the sea urchin

A heart for the shark

A heart for algae

A heart for tree bark

A heart for cosmopolis

A heart for socialites

A heart for the housewives of New Jersey

A heart for poets

A heart for Boston

A heart for prisons

A heart for free bodies

A heart for binaries

A heart for the dialectic

A heart is comfort

A heart covers the wound

A heart for the paradox

Field Guide for British dragonflies (Odonata)

Mesothorax –

Large energy heart field

 

At the attachment

Swollen segments

 

A yellow sun, a black sun

Between the wings yellow

 

The length of imago

Denticulated at basal half

Dorsal longitude

 

A nymph’s inconvenience

A collection of pet insects

 

Generally speaking, among the tentacles

Specimen –

 

Fossilized species

The contents are granular

 

Changes of skin occur

The larvae, the pupae, lacunae

Thoracic atmosphere

 

The insect is exhausted

Weak and feeble light, wings glissant

 

false translation

I thought it would be fun to practice doing false translations, so I took the writing prompt from NaPoWriMo as a jumping off point for Day 16. But, I’m posting it today because life.

Since I first learned about this exercise while studying with Diane di Prima, I’ve become more compelled by this idea of the vagaries of translation: from language to language, from perspective to perspective, from identity construct to identity construct. How all we are and see and do alters our perception so that really, everything becomes a translation filtered through our human, our animal skins.

I do not especially like this poem. In fact, it irritates me and I almost feel shamed by it. I’m posting it anyway because fuckit. (original poem follows)

Bimbo, nestled placenta

Bimbo, in cup of media

Morbid curtain of Pele

Enduring the putana

Rose red, flame of what disgrace

Red of your bloody body tongue

Appending the fat

Bimbo, ladled out there.

Bimba nella
placenta, bimba
sotto coperta,
nella corteccia
morbida di pelle,
indurita dal
bosco, rossa
come scottata,
rossa che nuoti nel
tuo sangue,
appena fatta, bimba
qui scodellata.

© Elisa Biagini
From: Cappuccio Rosso
Publisher: Einaudi

Dictionary Poem

Cleavage appears first

Any member a mouth

 

Developing indeterminate isotopes

The sea squirts, the fish in layers

 

A penetration of epithelial

A substance of killing

 

To draw in water

A baby, a cloud

The edentate

Colorless material relating

 

Latitudes for the sidereal

Established for the treelike

 

Used furs a number of ornamental loops

Haunt of the ferocious

 

Armor from the splinters

I made my own scaffold

 

Deracinated

Granular anthems the shrub of a genus

Sometimes used as a gemstone

Married, transparent, from rendered fats

Hereditament

I.

In the garden

 

I water                        I watch

 

The lace-winged labor of play

The animals loll and swat at plants

 

Fur rubs the sidewalk

Camouflaged skins burrow inside

Fur lines the flesh light

 

II.

In the gnawing chew             of sidewalk hum

I played street games

 

The sun a vector                                     I hid in the cool dark

 

Aimed cue ball at bruised knuckles

My father taught me

 

How to hurt

How to be pennies

 

III.

On the fire escape             I grew like a dandelion

Greedy for pigeon talk and flowered skirts

 

I wanted to be a garden

So I doused myself with hosewater

 

Painted my arms with thorns

In the wandering dusk

 

How to be a fortress

Tenement of my red mouth

 

How to be quiet

Dig under the belly

Lift the stone slab

 

(from a writing prompt by Elizabeth Treadwell and anthologized in “Hereditament”: http://secretmint.blogspot.com/2013/04/hereditament-flash-anthology-no-2.html)

NaPoWriMo Day Five

The body met with an alter of the image of the body

What we see when we seek reflection

The ever a whisper an incandescent eye droop

Gravity seeking its own breasts cupped so the light can laugh too

How time makes us empathic for women we once reviled

Neglect and its chambers of dropped infants

The insouciance of stubbed cigarettes as woman spooned the creamed peas

Time is making my ankles heavy where I ripped and ripped out my roots

Extirpated that woman in the kitchen smock

Extirpated that idea of seeking permission