Category: Poetry
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Class 3: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
Buried at Colleville-sur-Mer We buried the dead with symmetry. Set with precision under white crosses. Très précis, our marked men. In laylines. In rows, in order to be called to march on heaven. Orderly attention arranged. The conflicted contrast from how they died; scattered like celebratory confetti. It was as if God’s hand mistook them…
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Class 2 Assignment: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
Trônes Wood: The Somme They expected the heavens to fall. The stars to wail. Expected the night to rupture white, smite their eyes and pour down ice. They feared their own creation. Now we fear our own forgiveness. We’ve lost their lessons in long green grass, in wide meadows of rye, and in tin-tune birdsong.…
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Class 1: Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster
London: 7/7 We call it seven seven, the day bombs detonated. The Underground. The buses. Explosions in backpacks. We returned to the darkness, crippled as spine-broken books. But we are nowhere near dead. © Misky 2016 The response: The London Bombings of 7/7/2005. We lived in false security, a false sense of safety. So…
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Magnetic Poetry: “The Moaning Sausage”
I’ve been playing with Magnetic Poetry, thanks to De and Björn. Here’s my first attempt at one, and I have to admit that it’s addictive.
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Poetic Bloomings: Playing Favourites
Lost in Paradise Like a parched traveller who comes out of the deep dust — you laughed like bells ringing, despite this bloody journey. And I am an infernal silence. Jaw. Set. Steel. “Let’s go this way,” you say, “an adventure at every corner.” But there is just ever more and ever more distance. No…
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Sunday Whirl #251
The Perfection of Pine It’s May. Enter the flowers, and the perfection of pine. The boys are by the lake – it took days for that fish to take the bait. And a perfect silk of clouds screen the burn of the sun, the hours hung slow, though less we couldn’t have cared. I remember…
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#1
A Few Words About Paolo And so he keeps it brief, “Ciao, are you ready?” His rhythmic voice is a bouncing ball — fills the airy momentary gaps with his memorable smile. But he’s working; the chatter is part of the parcel. It’s a living, like acting, role-play, and he’s proud of his centre-of-attention…
It's Still Life 