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Dead March

Under the bunker, where the reek of kerosene
Prepared the marriage rite, leader and whore,
Imperfect kindling even in this wind, burn on.

Someone in uniform hums Brahms. Servants prepare
Eyewitness stories as the night comes down, as smoking coals await
Boots on the stone, the occupying troops. Howl ministers.

Deep in Kyffhauser Mountain's underground,
The Holy Roman Emperor snores on, in sleep enduring
Seven centuries. His long red beard

Grows through the table to the floor. He moves a little.
Far in the labyrinth, low thunder rumbles and dies out.
Twitch and lie still. Is Hitler now in the Himalayas?

We are in Cleveland, or Sioux Falls. The architecture
Seems like Omaha, the air pumped in from Düsseldorf.
Cold rain keeps dripping just outside the bars. The testicles

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poem by Weldon Kees
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Ved en givet Forestilling til Indtægt for,,den blinde Soldat

Tillad jeg siger hvad De alt veed,
Meget her maae De ikke vente,
Den gode Villie og vort Øiemed
Maae smukt De have in mente.
En Anecdote jeg husker paa:
I een af de store Stæder,
En stakkels Blind man paa Gaden saae,
Han stod i fattige Klæder!
Og Mængden stormede travl forbi,
Den Blindes Hat kom ei Skilling i.
Da saaes en Sanger, Scenens største,
Han stillede sig ved den Blinde hen,
Og sang en Vise, een af de første
Der faldt ham ind; — hvor greb dog den!
En lyttende Skare stod rundtenom,
Og Penge der til den Blinde kom.
Her er Noget ligt og dog ikke ligt,
I Villie og Hensigt De Ligheden finde,
De Ringeste er vi for Scenens Digt,
Og ingen Betler er vor Blinde.

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poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The Squirtgun Uncle Maked Me

Uncle Sidney, when he wuz here,
Maked me a squirtgun out o' some
Elder-bushes 'at growed out near
Where wuz the brickyard--'way out clear
To where the toll-gate come!

So when we walked back home again,
He maked it, out in our woodhouse where
Wuz the old workbench, an' the old jack-plane,
An' the old 'pokeshave, an' the tools all lay'n'
Ist like he wants 'em there.

He sawed it first with the old hand-saw;
An' nen he peeled off the bark, an' got
Some glass an' scraped it; an' told 'bout Pa,
When _he_ wuz a boy an' fooled his Ma,
An' the whippin' 'at he caught.

Nen Uncle Sidney, he took an' filed
A' old arn ramrod; an' one o' the ends

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Beat Of Sorrow That Thinks Of Beauty/Otkucaj Tuge Sto Ljepotu Mni

it takes a memory that runs over itself
to get to learn and endless southern rhythm
it takes a fire that burns itself down
to get to know an ocean wave
it takes tender enough strong enough fingers
to summerize anything into a touch
so that the heard amidst the things could recognise
a beat of sorrow that thinks of beauty

it takes much more and reaches much stronger
to ask for more to search and look
so as to eventually know
the one in the seed of wake planted
the being cut off from itself
into the cliffs of the world pushed forever
it takes a huge knowledge an endless one
of this world's drama
for just one beat of sorrow that thinks of beauty

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Gouge, Adze, Rasp, Hammer

So this is what it's like when love
leaves, and one is disappointed
that the body and mind continue to exist,

exacting payment from each other,
engaging in stale rituals of desire,
and it would seem the best use of one's time

is not to stand for hours outside
her darkened house, drenched and chilled,
blinking into the slanting rain.

So this is what it's like to have to
practice amiability and learn
to say the orchard looks grand this evening

as the sun slips behind scumbled clouds
and the pears, mellowed to a golden-green,
glow like flames among the boughs.

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poem by Chris Forhan
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Matrix/Matrica

I have a knowledge of order that will not deny me
In the shaking fences of Maria denials
Conceived in rebellion ending in mercy

Because nothing has stood on the night assembly line
To be merely a morning awakening and a step halted
In time accounts self subtracted
Hours dripping self added
In the moment endlessly divided
And the moment endlessly multiplied
I'm removing the layers - Zenon-like, unmovable ones
A frozenness forever thrown into the ashes
Is looking for its countenance in vain

Because I know time is just a mask of a woman
With the face of the ploughed fields
And a pendulum X- ray discovered
Of her head grown within numbers

Because nothing can stand on a matrix

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Slow Pacific Swell

Far out of sight forever stands the sea,
Bounding the land with pale tranquillity.
When a small child, I watched it from a hill
At thirty miles or more. The vision still
Lies in the eye, soft blue and far away:
The rain has washed the dust from April day;
Paint-brush and lupine lie against the ground;
The wind above the hill-top has the sound
Of distant water in unbroken sky;
Dark and precise the little steamers ply-
Firm in direction they seem not to stir.
That is illusion. The artificer
Of quiet, distance holds me in a vise
And holds the ocean steady to my eyes.

Once when I rounded Flattery, the sea
Hove its loose weight like sand to tangle me
Upon the washing deck, to crush the hull;
Subsiding, dragged flesh at the bone. The skull

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poem by Yvor Winters
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Or Voy-Je Bien Qu'il Faut Vivre En Servage

Or voy-je bien qu'il faut vivre en servage,
A dieu ma liberté:
Dans les liens de l'amoureux cordage
Je demeure arresté.
J'ay conoissance
De la puissance
D'une maistresse,
Qu'Amour adresse.
Ô combien peut sur nous une beauté!

J'ay veu le temps que l'on me disoit: Garde
Amour te punira;
Tu ris de luy, tu ris, mais quoy qu'il tarde
De toy il se rira.
Je leur disoye:
Devant que soye
De la sagette
Qu'aux coeurs il jette
Atteint au coeur, le monde finira.

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poem by Jean Antoine de Baif
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She Won't Swallow It

Warning-Sexual content! May not be suitable for all readers!

Parody of the classic song from the film of the same name The Girl Can't Help It

She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it

She walks by, got mine standing at attention
Tight inside of my jeans
Still...
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She winks her eye, flirts with me so outragous and naughty
Gets me so damn horny
Only to burn me like toast
Cos no matter how often I ask
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She' s got me turned on the most
Yet even if I got down tonight on my knees
I think I know still what her answer would be

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poem by Ramona Thompson
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Na dan kada naucimo kako ulice dobijaju imena

I zaronimo u geometriju oštrih slijepih uglova
Što žive svoje živote izmedu dva sna
Milimetri snage mogu se istopiti
U mapama i stazama
Muzejima na raskršcu
U semaforima što bespomocno trepcu
Kad želje bilborduju staze do pakla
U slike obmane grube zabave za posjetioce što kažu
Mi smo sad fini pristojni ljudi
Više ne gledamo kako mecka igra
Probadana žaracem
Jer smo saznali bol njenog makabra
Ali ipak smo stavili rukavice
Otišli do njenog Zoo vrta
Tražeci da nam da intervju
Iako nikad ni rijec nije rekla

Na dan kada naucimo kako ulice dobijaju imena
Ispisuje se jedan aforizam bola
Što hrani se na kraju redova

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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