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In this present moment we are either smaller than we once were or else are on our knees.

Alan Moore in Birth Caul
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Up-Wellsprings Poetry From The Coldest; Deserts Hearts

'Up-wellsprings poetry from the coldest; deserts hearts'.
Where; blooms the most exotic flowers of all…
'They're dunes, they're zephyrs, and they're petals caul,
Wrap-around each sunset—sunrise subverts'.

'Yet, they're as real as any pollen-laden bee.
In the art of subtlety, such, interactions…
Deceiving as the moon, undercurrents the sea:
But, these ruses are finite, attractions'.

'They call for intricacy, a little mystery!
And of course they all question what if, anything'.
'Poems are about: Do, they have integrity
Who'll balm just one soul, Lord Where to begin?
Each word, a sphere orbiting—another!
Let's not be over analytical… my lover'.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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Caul

the childrens replay
setting the house on fire
the house that is not set
but setting still
as they say down
the Gospel Road smoking
stalks of old growth put
that in your pipe and be
gone with you

"you must have answered
me in your head"

to be so caught up in the how-to
manual of visual support for
corporate litigation when
James recognized Carolina
as the visionary mecca
and bailed out of Virginia

[...] Read more

poem by Heather Fuller
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The Abbey

No longer knowing what or who I am
I turn,
This way and that for meaning,
Finding none,
But trapped within the body of a man
I know not.

The child I knew, and he remained supreme
Until
This beard turned grey,
The joints began to stiffen,
The dim reflections twisted to betray
One once thought lost to heaven.

Of all my time I have so little left,
And that exhausted, spent –
Squandered by him who thought
There was no cost in spending;
No giving up, no Lent.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Daughter Goes To Camp

In the taxi alone, home from the airport,
I could not believe you were gone. My palm kept
creeping over the smooth plastic
to find your strong meaty little hand and
squeeze it, find your narrow thigh in the
noble ribbing of the corduroy,
straight and regular as anything in nature, to
find the slack cool cheek of a
child in the heat of a summer morning—
nothing, nothing, waves of bawling
hitting me in hot flashes like some
change of life, some boiling wave
rising in me toward your body, toward
where it should have been on the seat, your
brow curved like a cereal bowl, your
eyes dark with massed crystals like the
magnified scales of a butterfly's wing, the
delicate feelers of your limp hair,
floods of blood rising in my face as I
tried to reassemble the hot

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poem by Sharon Olds
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To-Day, This Insect

To-day, this insect, and the world I breathe,
Now that my symbols have outelbowed space,
Time at the city spectacles, and half
The dear, daft time I take to nudge the sentence,
In trust and tale I have divided sense,
Slapped down the guillotine, the blood-red double
Of head and tail made witnesses to this
Murder of Eden and green genesis.

The insect certain is the plague of fables.

This story's monster has a serpent caul,
Blind in the coil scrams round the blazing outline,
Measures his own length on the garden wall
And breaks his shell in the last shocked beginning;
A crocodile before the chrysalis,
Before the fall from love the flying heartbone,
Winged like a sabbath ass this children's piece
Uncredited blows Jericho on Eden.

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poem by Dylan Thomas
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All All And All The Dry Worlds Lever

I

All all and all the dry worlds lever,
Stage of the ice, the solid ocean,
All from the oil, the pound of lava.
City of spring, the governed flower,
Turns in the earth that turns the ashen
Towns around on a wheel of fire.

How now my flesh, my naked fellow,
Dug of the sea, the glanded morrow,
Worm in the scalp, the staked and fallow.
All all and all, the corpse's lover,
Skinny as sin, the foaming marrow,
All of the flesh, the dry worlds lever.

II

Fear not the waking world, my mortal,

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poem by Dylan Thomas
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Dr. sam

TO MISS GRACE KING

Down in the old French quarter,
Just out of Rampart street,
I wend my way
At close of day
Unto the quaint retreat
Where lives the Voodoo Doctor
By some esteemed a sham,
Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhere
So skilled as Doctor Sam
With the claws of a deviled crawfish,
The juice of the prickly prune,
And the quivering dew
From a yarb that grew
In the light of a midnight moon!

I never should have known him
But for the colored folk
That here obtain

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poem by Eugene Field
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From Love's First Fever to Her Plague

From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.

From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.

The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,

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poem by Dylan Thomas
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Totem

All Souls' over, the roast seeds eaten, I set
on a backporch post our sculpted pumpkin
under the weather, warm still for November.
Night and day it gapes in at us
through the kitchen window, going soft
in the head. Sleepwalker-slow, a black rash of ants
harrows this hollow globe, munching
the pale peach flesh, sucking its seasoned
last juices dry. In a week, when the ants and
humming flies are done, only a hard remorseless light
drills and tenants it through and through. Within,
it turns mould-black in patches, stays
days like this while the weather takes it
in its shifty arms: wide eye-spaces shine,
the disapproving mouth holds firm. Another week,
a sad leap forward: sunk to one side
so an eye-socket's almost blocked, it becomes
a monster of its former self. Human, it would have
rotted beyond unhappiness and horror
to some unspeakable subject state—its nose

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poem by Eamon Grennan
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