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Samsara

ufo camera reels
Samara slowly reveals
secrets of creation

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Measuring/Premjeravanja

The length of the word ‘hand’ depends on the circumference of the slap.

Duzina rijeci ‘ruka’ zavisi od opsega samara.

©Miroslava Odalovic

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Emma and me

Running, Singing, Screaming, Camera Whoring,
Our lives are never boring,
Stalkers, creeps and fatty freaks,
We are total geeks 8-]
Dibs that hottie,
oh wait thats me,
God its good to be free,
window shopping, starbucks,
Thats all us,
Scared of indians with plastic bags,
free sprinkles in a paper bag,
dont forget that time at nerd camp,
elyse was doing flips on the tramp,
We learnt and that was cool,
Camp ended and stuck back at school,
funny faces on the rocks,
wearing froggie socks,
Hair-dos like Samara,
Scared stiff watching Tamara.
practicing soccer kicks from the goal,

[...] Read more

poem by Jess Terry
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Learning the Trees

Before you can learn the trees, you have to learn
The language of the trees. That's done indoors,
Out of a book, which now you think of it
Is one of the transformations of a tree.

The words themselves are a delight to learn,
You might be in a foreign land of terms
Like samara, capsule, drupe, legume and pome,
Where bark is papery, plated, warty or smooth.

But best of all are the words that shape the leaves –
Orbicular, cordate, cleft and reniform –
And their venation – palmate and parallel –
And tips – acute, truncate, auriculate.

Sufficiently provided, you may now
Go forth to the forests and the shady streets
To see how the chaos of experience
Answers to catalogue and category.

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poem by Howard Nemerov
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With Fingers Of Sand

WITH FINGERS OF SAND

With fingers of sand, with hands of water
with hearts fuller than apples with night,
we reach out to pluck the orchid on the moon,
to touch beauty on the wing,
the coal swan with feathers of flame,
the shadows that wear our face,
the skin of a waterleaf of gold
that evaporates like an eyelid of dust,
the pilgrim on the smoke-road of the candle,
the black panther in an oildrum,
and the vision is blanched from the seeing
like the albumen of an egg,
the albino leper cooked in the mouth of the moon,
we reach out for what exceeds us,
for the dark thresholds of blood
in the palace of the rose,
the vivid windows of the sea
with their curtains of light and salt,

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poem by Patrick White
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If Only I Could Remember Things For Awhile

If only I could remember things for awhile
as they were before they changed. Savour them.
Let the flavour of the jewel
that's been ripening in my voice
wash through my mouth
like the mystic blaze of a star sapphire
and every word I say be a firefly of insight
that can shed some light on dark matter.

Would that my tears fell fruitfully enough
to feed the world, that one dropp of my blood
after years of preparing the potion, were enough
to immunize a whole planet from affliction.
And what marvels would my eyes not delight
in showing anyone, if they could astonish the blind
like an orbiting telescope that's just had
its cataracts removed
like the reflection of the moon peeled
like an albino eclipse off the black mirror of the lake
only to discover that all this time they groped through the dark

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poem by Patrick White
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No Matter How Far

No matter how far into the past the star travels,
plunging its white fingers into the expanding womb of the past
to pull its own damp head out of convulsive space,
it will never find a beginning, the widening cleft between two thoughts
opening like a mouth full of silence, a sluice gate of thick water,
a dark prelude, the first letter alpha breaking like an eye
out of the eclipsed envelope into a splendour of light
to hang its jewel, its dropp of flammable water
from the incredible webs of the night,
to shine alone in the dark with millions,
the elemental heart of an abandoned lover. The void
became a tuning fork and struck itself, became
a nugget of gold and dropped itself into the world pond
sinking like a throne through a center of infinite haloes,
disappearing into the origin of its own undulant pulse,
a fish leaping out of the stillness of the mirror
into the encircling waves of its own event
or an arrow into the target of its own ripples,
or God lost in his own universe without a return address.

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poem by Patrick White
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Buzz Aldrin, Space Imperialist

Buzz Aldrin, Space Imperialist,
discovers a tiny brown lesion
on the end of his nose.
he uses his wife’s
concave make up mirror
to examine it more closely
and confirms his worse suspicions:
It’s malignant.
Coolly, he makes
one appointment with his dermatologist
and another in Samara.
After brushing his teeth
he takes another look
at the tiny brown Angel of Death.
It flakes off
-a brown booger.
Buzz cancels his appointments
and craves a celebratory drink terribly,
but summons his fantastic will power
and resists the urge.

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poem by Percy Dovetonsils
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No Ray Of The Star

No ray of the star in the lead,
none following, no one vector of light,
the compass needle for all the rest.
Eye to eye, side by side,
like the spikes of an onion gone to seed,
companionship and parity,
even after billions of light years,
every one's still shining among their peers.

Even your best efforts
to make it all into one when it already is,
are in musical harmony
like dissonance in jazz
with every wavelength of heart and mind
in a great creative collaboration
with every thread on the loom of a flying carpet
as big as the universe, growing
into the vast expanse of the chaos
it's spinning itself out of like the three fates,
the daughters of night with their thread and shears

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poem by Patrick White
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The Swan Flies Over The Lace Corals Of The Trees

The swan flies over the lace corals of the trees.
Albireo in Cygnus homing west.
The boa of the moon unfeathered
by the brittle eclipse of broken shale
that shatters its vase upon the waters
like a high note cracks an hour glass
or a snapping turtle rises
from the bottom of a lake
to pull the full moon down by the leg.
My path is strewn
by lunar peony petals,
by the twilight of a blue rose,
by the silk parachutes of the milkweed pods
by the ghosts of the medicine men
among the wild poppies
shaking their dry rattles at the moon
long after the fire's gone out
at a ghost dance for rain.
And I'm sad like smoke
for reasons I can't discern.

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poem by Patrick White
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