Across the Way (Photo Manipulation, Kristi Swadley)

November: Prior to the Christmas Rush (Patricia Gomes)

I don't care
that you're a malcontent,
a discontent. I don't
care.

Not particularly.

That your life is not
as you pictured it to be
when you were
15
and a dreamer.
That your life
is
not.
That your life
has
not
happened. Or has —

to someone else.

I don't care. Not particularly.
That you've fallen,
and rose
only to fall again.
Or that your mother was a hag,
your sister a whore,

or that poetry
escapes you.

I don't.

There are leaves
to crunch
and numbers
to rake.
We take
our poetry
where we find it. Take with food
2X daily, but never
before bed.

(Copyright (C) 2005 Patricia Gomes)

Wollstonecraft's Sisters (Patricia Gomes)

I.

Getting back to where I was
is a Fool's Dream;
there is too much of me.
I am solid.Not the fairy-footed dancer
ringing her bell, not the cunning gazelle
running from the hungry lion.
Who was hunter, who was prey?
I am solid. And in solidifying, I have gained prudence,
but lost patience.
Tolerance is the lilac memory
of the girl who wore platform shoes.


II.

Dorcas: It is written that Mary Lamb knew when a fit of madness was
coming on. She and her brother Charles would walk arm-in-arm down
the lane and to the madhouse, weeping as they went.
They carried a strait jacket between them.

Now tell me, does this seem like a bad thing? Feeling the need for
quiet and seclusion, you simply check yourself in. Walk with me,
Dorcas — I'll carry the jacket.


III.

I accompanied him on his quest for fame,
forgetting that I went
only to find ivory-colored roses
with which to craft a gilded centerpiece.
I never found the roses,
disregarded my own name,
and the table we set was plain.
He went on to become A Known,
though by 40, the pills silenced him.
I am writing still.
When we talk, you and I, I remember.
The open road is in your voice, madness
in the way you shiver.
Leave him to travel, Dorcas. Keep your pens,
your paper. Keep
your name.

(Copyright (C) 2005 Patricia Gomes.)

Inside Out (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

Whatever was thought or said,
these persistent, inexorable deaths
make faith as such absent,
our humanness a question,
a disgust for what we are.

Robert Creeley

november has opened as exploding
war silence, 26 reasons to remember
dead brothers have eyes like orange
music trapped in smile-thimble-laughing.
we never listen to the inside out.

shannon is reading creeley again/

is trying to erase a gnawing spider
from his blue-palmed hand/

is singing green violin-paper songs
that scratch cardboard sidewalks/

he doesn't remember writing
why? across his forehead.

i called william yesterday,
we talked about canned peaches,
pale/cross/covered/hands/peeling/clothing
from thigh-frozen children,

how afraid we are of cold-tongue
things that live in our ears.
we both agreed it is better
to color the sleep of our sound.

(First published in Magazine Shiver, (UK) December 2004.
Published in March of 2005 as part of a chapbook
written by myself and Patricia Gomes,
titled: Simple Truths and Coughing Things,
and published by Little Poem Press.
Copyright (C) 2005 Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

"Flourescent Face"

I SWEAR

all the horses are in my hand
i let myself fall backwards

youre a broken blond
the spine is a mammal
in your eyes

bring the horses; theyre tired of standing, inspector

i dont wanna know, i've seen enough
u order me out, u tell the waiter no non for her

someone's in your motto bank landscape

youre not my father, we're not landscapes
my hand is on the bible and i swear
there's a whole lotta mammals in there

im working at a cafe but i think its kinkos
u dont give a shit, all of staurday is
in the front door

your wooden feet are still prime rib and u have one for me

i look at least as good as gold grass

i have your clipboard and your notes

someone likes the horses, the pens, the truth
not the whole truth, i can't put


donna kuhn 2005

To The Stoic One (Kristi Swadley)

I look for
you in your
words metaphor heavy
you dart through
mulberry trees
laughing that I
know nothing
And you know
nothing
but I feel your
nothing is more
knowing
your wisdom
boys are stupid
is not lost
on me
but they remain
stupid
And your status
hasn’t changed
I finished the
book
squinting between
lines
our twin-ness is
assuredly fraternal
I absorbed the
emotions
I was born
second don’t you
Agree

(Copyright (c) 2005, Kristi Swadley)

Three Tongues For A Crayon Red Mouth (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

Thomas woke this morning to find
green rain slip-ticking,
coma choking, falling in aluminum-dog
stages that hear like asthma breath.

He thought about how he’d give
three tongues for a crayon red mouth,
something not paper-yellowed
and crunch-toothed,
plaster over vaseline eyes.

The splinter-bone war is ear slicing,
is rooster-eye voodoo---
he can’t paint anything that does
not step backward on oil-black piano keys,
when blood tastes like glass bird bombs.

To himself, he speaks
as fast as he can’t hear,
tremble-clicking burnt words
orange in the brain,
while morning slides its thimble
across his dirt-grin mouth.

(Copyright (C) Michael Paul Ladanyi)

Naked Oaks In Sepia (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

UNautumn (Photo Manipulation, Kristi Swadley)

down beautiful way high (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

~for my wife~

(Inspired by Donna Kuhn's
piece of visual art titled:
Fed With A Heart)

i know you are fish-vanilla trees,
bird-gray shallow water stones over your eyes
like finger rain.

you are this peace/chance/girl
in southern november leaves and sand---

your wall-green clocks faux-sun plaster on sex-wet thighs.

you are no bronze-mode city,
no kaminos marias soup
of orange moons sliding my mouth,

no novel/crayon/cigarettes.

your lover is choking on lonely ink
and charcoal film;
where has he gone silver watered?

where, picture-eye-framed,
peach-tin sky burning rattle-cough red,
down beautiful way high like trembling?

i know you are (art, art, art)
pop/paint/explosions,
your tongue blue against yellow
cochlea eye-tapping---

are my hand shock radio static sight.

(Copyright (C) 2005, Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

Exquisite Love (Posted in French and English, Aurora Antonovic)

L’Amour Exquis

L’heure d’amour
Est très exquis,
Plus magnifique que des mots peuvent le dire!Il m’appele,
Il me chante,
“Non, je ne vous oublirai pas!”
Je viendrai chez vous,
Quand vous ne l’attendez pas.”

L’amour me visite la nuit,
L’amour chuchote mon nom,
Comme le chatouillement d’une plume,
Il respire sur mon visage
Avec iris de Florence,
Et bois de santal de Mysore,Avec de promesses de grandes choses
Qui s’accrochent dans l’air,
Sans aucune illusions,
Mais seuleument la réalité

L’amour exquis
Sera le mien
Ainsi promis
Du commencement


Exquisite Love

Exquisite hour of love,
Magnificent beyond words!It calls to me,
It sings to me,
“No, I won’t forget you,
I will come back to you
When you least expect it.”Love creeps to me at night,
Whispering my name,
Like a tickle from a feather,
It breathes in my face
With iris from Florence
And Mysore sandalwood
With promises of great things
That hang in the air
No illusions, only reality

Exquisite love
Will be mine
It has been promised
Since the beginning.

(Copyright (C) 2005, Aurora Antonovic. Previously published in Subtle Tea, Poetic Voices, and Banks of the Little Miami)

When (Posted in French and English) Aurora Antonovic

When

when I was a little girl
I learned the magic of planting seeds in sun-warmed soil,

sat unnaturally still, while sunshine danced
its colour amidst my errant curls,

felt the cocoon of love I thought was forever

and without even asking,
butterflies would come to rest
upon my waiting shoulder


Quand

Quand j'etais une petite fille
J'ai appris la magie de planter des graines
dans le sol soleil chauffe

anormalement assise et confiante
alors que le soleil passer ses couleurs parmi
mes boucles errantes

A pense que le cocon de l'amour et pour toujours
meme les papillons viendrait se reposer
sur mon epaule d'attente

(Copyright (C) 2005, Aurora Antonovic. The English version of this piece was first published in Adagio Verse Quarterly.)

Links to Donna Kuhn's poetry and art

Links to Donna Kuhn's poetry & art

http://digitalaardvarks.blogspot.com
http://www.geocities.com/cfollabwoo42003/donnasuekuhn.html
http://www.onlinewebart.com
http://www.cafepress/donnakuhn.com

Donna Kuhn's latest book is titled, Not Having An Idea
http://www.moriapoetry.com/ebooks.html

Open A Door, Donna Kuhn

OPEN A DOOR

i got the loot, the louse, suck the im your blenders
u look like u might, i draw the line to touch
the talkative slats of love, lord

u were really born as i was lorn, forlorn partner

the couch which keeps a lovesick languish

i remember nothing lost, u jet doea parcel of doe
marbles in the ocean
im a dishonest koala

go away, im a type of writer

he leaves my thigh and u make me tired for knitting the soviet government

people keep the kremlin lacking a heart like holes in lacrosse
your fish lottery is in the kitchen
they want coffee and i dont

i've got my goods, my excellent beans
significant braches, one side of i try to

dont want my intense anything, theres medicine

you're getting the fact of world parrots
desolate the love seat, it seats two

i remember nothing burns
losing your way, low not high
oh claire, u land below under the normal

(Copyright (C) Donna Kuhn 2005)

PULL BACK THE SUN'S LIGHT, Donna Kuhn

PULL BACK THE SUN'S LIGHT

your stereo is crowded, your stereo is moody
i am 200 mammals, im 200 mammals out back

i am 200, pull back, the sun's light

is my lightpull back the sun, how the sky

are we nagasaki, where
u go because u care

i is the improvisational light

your wife pulls the sun's emotions
do u love her, what with me

awesome hostage, light her policies
crowded countries, u steal my abnormal lizards

would the sky, u went up and u sweep

because u come late before my illuminated utensils
how i'm light , all she is for the sun's light

how u went to the sky, went up released the balloon

do u give utensils sun's light
is a mammal a wife, too light

pull back a wife's emotions

live with impossible, his policy is up
i am 200 countries u steal, am 200

i am 200, she's back to give his balloon light

cardboard illuminated his policy
are we downtown? awesome hostage string

where are u, u steal my stereo
u went up to the sky.

(Copyright (C) Donna Kuhn 2005)

Shine, visual art by Donna Kuhn

Shine, visual art by Donna Kuhn

Fed With A Heart, visual art by Donna Kuhn

Fed With A Heart, visual art by Donna Kuhn

A Supper of Ghosts, Michael Paul Ladanyi

~For Vincent~

i want to commit suicide 100 times,
99 selves to shelve like lemon-water,
while night is still orange manic depression,
violin fish half-swimming.

mondays, vincent and i paint
black birds like winter eyes,
red and yellow lines on gray,
eat beans, potatoes and bread
on naked-speak afternoons,
a supper of ghosts and river stones.

he and I are pain in water flowers,
god a dead hero in stillborn eyes,
39/tin/rabbits/blue, our acoustic fear.

the cellar is damp, is 60’s albums
boxed and spider-lost.
vincent no longer lives there,
he and i are hungry,
wood-chimed and lung-fumbled.

(First published in Underground Window, July 2005.
(C) 2005, Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

The Bohemian Poet, Michael Paul Ladanyi

The Bohemian Poet is a place where poets and artists, through invitation, may publish their work and info about themselves. Comments about work posted here are welcome from all those who value poetry and art. I hope you will check back over the next several days, as myself and friends will begin posting their poetry and art on The Bohemian Poet.