Tag: a.i.Art
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9.2. Wisting
It’s Saturday, 21.00, and I am watching Wisting on BBC 4, Norwegian, subtitled in English, although I don’t need the subtitles, and there’s a man standing on a wooden dock that rocks with the brush of each wave under its pontoons, and a large dog standing on heaped mounds of rock that look shaped by…
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31 Jan: Found Poetry of Ragnarök
Ragnarök: Found in The Weavers c.11 He sleepsLike an eagle swoopingAnd wakes with wolvesAfter prey. Riki sitt rikiHis kingdom his Sparks from sparks.Secret from silence. Löst at lifaLost to Life And a thousand knowWho rises wiseIs wise , swoopingOver old oceans This is the continuation of the series of Found Poetry sourced from Ragnarök, The…
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23 Jan: Found Poetry of Ragnarök c.10
Ragnarök: Found in The Weavers c.10 And of this I know Ár skal misseriA year shall pass He lives free and boldand fiercer than fire Perches on a hill,and on the sixth day Ár skal rísaYear shall rise He measures a half loafagainst sand and sea but he waxed too wiseand never knew happiness Ár…
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21 Jan: Found Poetry of Ragnarök
The Weavers c.9 And of this I know.He is life and Was meant for a friend Last,Longest, butTo be fair, FatesGave he and gave he again Litilla sanda To friendsBestowed laughter for laughterBy this friend, he hadBefriended foe Litilla sanda kömer The Weavers spokeTo bearBewareThe snare of laughter Young, you were once,BewilderedWho gave and gave…
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13 Jan: Found Poetry of Ragnarök c.8
Straight be their road and short,Whose heartsLean into one They ask, nor answer nought. Ërusk gægnhőllir About this better cravingThis bleeding heartThis unsure knowingThis table round as it is long. Ërusk gægnhőllir Yet loveBe their reward, and Straight be their roads and short. This is the continuation of the series of Found Poetry sourced from…
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19 Dec: Found Poetry of Ragnarök c.5
And this I also know. The power of gods and foeShall swallow with ice-cold jaw. Gáttir allar, apr gangi fråm, ’tis old lore to the ear.’tis a wits-word.’tis ever wisest the Weaver Of word-keep and secret, sheWho is called Hearth-Warm, she Of fated lip that speaks in silence.Once and again. She who wanders wide for…
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4 May: A Cadralor Poem
A Few Thoughts After Lunch 1.There’s a bird by his foot. It doesn’t fly.It’s not asleep, and it doesn’t move.It waits for him to turn the soil,so it can peck at what’s trapped beneath. 2.The air is still as grey. Grey is never noticed.Invisible. Unseen as the back of a page.I remember the Grey Man.…
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7 March: FOWC “Cook”
Who’s Cooking When I walk to the shopsalong the footpath, downby the winter-filled stream,I look to where the pub is, scaffolding on the frontageand tables still on the lawn,the carpark weedy and wild,and I stare up at the pub roof, the sky falling on the beamsand rafters, and I wonderwho was cooking that nightwhen the…
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3 March: Reworked Mezzaluna
A Mezza Luna My mezza luna, crescent moon. Up there, pronging errant clouds. Up there, where stars move heaven and earth. Cut and sliced, night’s fabric redressed. Full to blousy. Wax to wane. Sad and joyous, so pale and faint. Up there. Up there. We stare up. Up. ©Misky 2023 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter.
It's Still Life 