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‘Phasellus Ille’

1 his papier-mâché, which you see, my friends,
Saith 'twas the worthiest of editors.
Its mind was made up in 'the seventies',
Nor hath it ever since changed that concoction.
It works to represent that school of thought
Which brought the hair-cloth chair to such perfection,
Nor will the horrid threats of Bernard Shaw
Shake up the stagnant pool of its convictions;
Nay, should the deathless voice of all the world
Speak once again for its sole stimulation,
Twould not move it one jot from left to right.

Come Beauty barefoot from the Cyclades,
She'd find a model for St. Anthony
In this thing's sure decorum and behaviour.

poem by Ezra Pound
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Poets Creed

Though I may be tempted
I shall not fall below
to gravities;

dive beneath life's geography
to Depression's
crevice
and ravine.

I shall not sip Dark Sufferings-
Edgar Allen Poe elixirs;
unredemptive dark poetries.

I will not cuddle dread,
or slurp Death's Gruel.
I will stand up to
wily winds.

I will not paper mache
enthusiasms

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Plagiarized Flesh

I have plagiarized your flesh a hundred times or more.
With words
with paint,
even with bone and paper mache sculptures.

I plagiarized your eyes once
with a tattoo gun
on to another woman's back.

I have stolen and misused your face so many times
with hypodermic needles scraping away at black ink from white scratchboard.

I have used your breasts and torso
in many drawings scratched with ball point pen
drawn while I was bored on many, many, napkins.

I have 'lifted' you so many times,
I was shocked when someone called my name at the grocery store
and I turned around to see you.
Somehow I figured you were someplace...

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poem by Brevet Wilson
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Elegy Written in a Country Coal-Bin

THE furnace tolls the knell of falling steam,
The coal supply is virtually done,
And at this price, indeed it does not seem
As though we could afford another ton.

Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite;
The radiators lose their temperature:
How ill avail, on such a frosty night,
The 'short and simple flannels of the poor.'

Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid,
The rude forefathers of the omlet sleep,
No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:
We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.

Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bust
Revivify the falling pressure-gage?
Chop up the grand piano if you must,
And burn the East Aurora parrot cage!

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poem by Christopher Morley
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Ode to a Dressmaker's Dummy

Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover. Metal stand. Instructions included.
-- Sears, Roebuck Catalogue

O my coy darling, still
You wear for me the scent
Of those long afternoons we spent,
The two of us together,
Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes
Of household spies
And the remote buffooneries of the weather;
So high,
Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky,
Which, often enough, at dusk,
Leaning its cloudy shoulders on the sill,
Used to regard us with a bored and cynical eye.

How like the terrified,
Shy figure of a bride
You stood there then, without your clothes,
Drawn up into

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poem by Donald Justice
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to the artist of Endelicio

i

the tall man in his sixties
when we enter your house
says that shattered glasses
are bad for feng shui

ii

your garden chair is a mosaic
of broken glasses matching with
your lampshade of broken bottles
and your floors of broken tiles

iii

it is cruel to hear that they
view you not as an artist but
a mad man

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Backdropp Addresses Cowboy

Starspangled cowboy
sauntering out of the almost-
silly West, on your face
a porcelain grin,
tugging a papier-mache cactus
on wheels behind you with a string,

you are innocent as a bathtub
full of bullets.

Your righteous eyes, your laconic
trigger-fingers
people the streets with villains:
as you move, the air in front of you
blossoms with targets

and you leave behind you a heroic

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poem by Margaret Atwood
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Love Poem Without Commas

Like twin ghazal of origin co-eval
each a brandish bound and confessional
falling satellite-like through the seven rings
of very little I quit balking to recall
futility of anything's everything:
the this-new-old-world-agricultural
all-clinging mache of meaning
dependable and workable

until until until
crossing the rainbow-constellation of you
then with a secret smile
space lit all its candles occultly colorful
as old crystal prompting an indefinite while.

Now I'm a cat up the tree of your good will
firemen circle the base-breath-taking some;
soon they'll try to fetch me. What a pill!
Over there's a truck red as the sun
I watch all through my diamond slits-

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poem by Morgan Michaels
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When Will Life Begin

Seven A.M., the usual morning line-up
Start on the chores, and sweep 'til the
floor's are
clean
Polish and wax, do laundry and mop and
shine up
Sweep again
And by then
It's, like, seven fifteen
And so I'll read a book
Or maybe 2 or 3 Ill add a few new
paintings
To my gallery
I'll play guitar and knit and cook
And basically
Just wonder, when will my life begin?
Then, after lunch, it's puzzles, and
darts, and
baking...
Paper-mache, a bit of ballet, and

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poem by Pawan Kumar 'Meonlafesta'
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Fine Young Yesterday

Soft pacifists in murals of malaise:
I can barely see you sweaty over the bedroom of
My young days,
Because my ears are burning from cheap wine,
They don’t hear reveille or get up on time,
And they are past over like sated lions on Mondays,
And the tourists have all gone down their enthroned
Gullets like strawberry Sundays,
And up in the sky didn’t I say they are advertising
Your wedding day;
But anyway, hip hip hurray: and didn’t they once have
The world fair in Saint Louis or
Chicago; and weren’t we there high stepping through
The papier-mâché jungles-
And didn’t you know that Sara Teasdale is buried
Belle Fontaine, that she was married to someone she
Didn’t love,
And the way she thought of him along the stark midways
Of her younger days- I’m sure I know, if I can’t rightly
Say-

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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