The Bohemian Poet

Beans and Bread

2010-03-25T11:05:00.003-04:00

If we sit and talk of beans and bread,
death without hesitation,
will you remember me, Joseph,
radio-electric, standing in cold
drum-apple rain?

These things will die
in our silver-water ears,
eat piano colors before they
reach our sputtering eyes;
they are vaseline covered mouths,
snap-necked and blue.

This day is scribbled browns,
yellow leaves porch-dead,
velvet lined bird throats;
still, we refuse to speak.

First appeared in Lily Literary Review, Jan. 2006

Michael Paul Ladanyi

Almost Sounds

2010-03-25T11:02:00.001-04:00

Alone, this dada-ism room is empty,
4 hazel shades of wood and glass.
Blood flows crooked down
the muted TV,
falls like eyeless warbirds,
yellow in red November fields.

I want to be a dead brother,
aluminum-limbed and vacant,
finger-blue to fit inside this room
like sharp machines canning pears,
silent/open/mouth/scream mechanical dogma.

The black cordless phone,
the one with the answering-machine-woman-voice
that almost sounds human,
has not pop-rang in days,
mocks the table we once laid
against in good sex.

Michael Paul Ladanyi

Erased Like Perfect

2007-03-04T14:44:00.000-05:00

Erased Like Perfect

thursday morning again,
aluminum-green and matted,
dead though listening for sophia
to click-step the short hall,
orange and erased like perfect pacifism.

she won’t come again after today,
vein-gnawed and mealy,
ceramic-yellow,
hum-broke/plaster/wounded.
i will miss her.

thomas called at 9, his voice thimble-bushed,
hazel-doored noise murdering
simple words in machine-red rows.

he asked what i was reading.
i answered honestly; myself, sophia and cigarette packs,
things that taste like almonds and warm glass.

sophia, you have gone, your winter-mouth
is pouring chicken bones---
your lovers are drowning;
i am crying in your sizzle-blue ears,
listening to beautiful violent colors
of your wrist-snap literature.

(First published in my chapbook, Two Strophes for a Stain Bleeds Her Lover, co-written with C.E. Laine, published through Little Poem Press, Oct. 2006. (C) Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

Open A Copper Pouring

2007-02-15T12:00:00.000-05:00

(Open A Copper Pouring was nominated for the 2006 Pushcart Prize for Poetry by the Editors of Arsenic Lobster Magazine.)

Open A Copper Pouring

they say, come now down
the violin-welted and finger-drunk sky,
painting a winter-bark mouth,
ceramic-blue-mad-scratching;
angela and sylvia are humming
clay-sparrow crimes,
7-4-3 and its reverse---

where thigh-dress country roads
bird-pop-chatter and fork,
way down where white-washed
spellings of god-crossed words
are acoustic hymen painted fish.

their house is hazel frost,
crows and bees,
venus-glass-beautiful---
scallop-plain men now gone,
apple-oil a shelter
of daubing mud and dabchick birds.

come down, come down,
electric and violet salmon-green sky,
open a copper pouring,
angela and sylvia are crane-tooth-whispering,
keeping forked secrets from dog men.

(First published in Arsenic Lobster, 2006. (C) Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

Den Mother

2006-06-06T18:00:00.000-04:00

SCIENCE LIKES MY EAR

the month pulls and the month is at first glance
make the girl whisper so minimum
insanity in her world

made in a certain whisper
chop this year when it has become skillful
reset the girl, what kind of plastic horse is safe

purchased form america
i address the thing when
it does not have popularity

o salary which shatters
the world of my eye
she makes the shriveled world

loves the united states
of science likes my ear
father makes language

and mother grasps u
look for the first time
father to pull the world

this year is a place when it changed
your eye is newly built noise
science likes my ear under my fingernail

mother grasps u to become her
u is possibly my ear
world requirement certain fathers

handing over the crunching fritter skillfully
make the girl with any type of plastic horse
u are sure to buy the usa

pure wages to destroy, good popularity
duh of the world, using the duh of american
im in love the usa, its u

o red grass, manufactured recently

donna kuhn 2006

Bird Falling (Poetry, Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2006-04-11T12:32:00.000-04:00

sophia feels the need to cry,
watching crows gather like horse-rain,
liquid under telephone lines.

she needs their witchcraft--
they have her curtain-drawn face,
she sees the rest of her life
in their split-pressure mouths.

sophia remembers being burned at 9,
staring like water stones
at yellow sun; how her arm
was almost beautiful before the pain,
as bone-cored birds falling,
gray sculptures singing with dead eyes.

a zebra-coal sky is listening
like a hostage for god,
is tangled fish in tar,
rubber-trembled,
long, scream-dark music.

sophia burns quiet like perfumed thighs,
one coma hand tracing her face,
chasing chatter-asthma
ghosts through brown hair.

(First published in Ash Canyon Review, July 2005. Later published in Other Voices International Poetry Project, Nov. 2005. Soon to be published in my upcoming chapbook co-written with C. E. Laine, which remains untitled at this time. Copyright (C) 2006 Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

I WONDER IF THE POLLUTION

2006-04-06T20:28:00.000-04:00

HE TACKLED YOUR EYE

the floor looks like excuses
i know fake footballs
abusive zebra amputee

2000 legs open your heart
tell people your eye wasnt real
your father is maps on the table

money cant drool in your eye
rain tackled a man
the man is a toy

the sun is a train
money is the executive
of money

rain drinks the mortgage
open your head
money is tape

open your heart
i dont open your goat
i was your scary rain, drink

float float, tackle the sky
time wasnt real
nobody wants to hear about it

nobody hears your train
your heart is like a toy nazi
your rain is money

your rain cant drool in the sun
open your toy excuses
father is an eye

he tackled your eye in the rain
rain knows mortgages
open legs dont want to hear it

the table drools
the money's in the rain
i am the executive of power

of money, or rain; drink the mortgage open
your money accounts for ribbons open
to your heart, do not float your terrible rain open

nobody is real, he wasnt
nobody feels there that
your train is your heart

such a toy, nazi
your rain she opens
youre in the rain of rain

know that it opens mortgages
do not want to feel them

donna kuhn 2006

Vine and Rattle (Photography) Michael Paul Ladanyi

2006-03-10T12:29:00.000-05:00

Bleeds Her Lover (Poetry) Michael Paul Ladanyi

2006-03-10T12:11:00.000-05:00

~For My Wife~

she steps many times through
smoke-drunk kudzu to find her lover,
through shallow-rooted rain
and more rain and water-stone
winds and more rain---
and her lover is bleeding.

artists and dogs and she,
climb wooden green-soup fences
to speak with crows,
to hear a drumming shelter.
she hurls round, angry stones
at spider-field words---
and her lover is bleeding.

through straw-break yellow on red water-color drizzle,
her swollen rain is sleeping,
mouth painted,
as wine on tasted tongues---
while shoulder-naked kudzu bleeds her lover.

(From the first stanza, words are graciously
adopted from poet, fiction writer and author
Patricia Gomes’ poem, titled,
Rain and More Rain and Winds and More Rain.)

not everything i say has to make sense or have a name for that matter

2006-02-21T14:01:00.000-05:00

i judged myself too harshly
by you
you never said a word
i know
i said enough to fill
your silences
didn’t know you had not
said anything
did you?
not to worry
no big deal
it wasn’t your fault
honestly
it’s not you
it’s me
good thing you
don’t know who
you are
else you would
read this
and think me
dangerous

(Copyright (c) 2004 Kristi Swadley. Originally appeared in Ygdrasil, December 2004.)

Color Deaf (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2006-02-08T09:18:00.000-05:00

and now you’ve had your fun---
so where’s your conscious?
1-2-3-4, your isms are standing blue
in fish-dead rows,

your piss-riddled nostrums
are bastarding our
trace-of-your-face children.
who do you love?

this public service announcement
to your red/machine/western/war-moon---

what

is

black

wetness,

is lost beneath your

adam-apple

feet.

who do you love?

your stammer-mouth ghosts are host
to everything you bleed,
are june’s sitar curvature.

what’s in your war-fucking name?

our acoustic every-where’s
are lost to your discovery;
we are in pain over song-sung
wove-n-spun days---

we

are

azure

pain---

sinequanon our eyes become color deaf.

(Copyright (C) 2006 Michael Paul Ladanyi.)

Universe Portals

2006-02-06T20:03:00.000-05:00

GIRAFFES HAVE SHORTCOMINGS

toto, he is a chain in your dyslexia cloud in my teeth
everyday, no green photographers
im good politically with jabs of i have to go

force the race girl to chank this hassle spam
your fins hassle the beardless red zebra
i feed it rabbi sandals for good luck

your adverb was oceanography
your operas were torn
buy a fish in gods bathroom

fifty pageants dont matter
the toad sentences offended by the theme skies
babes belong to an overworked radish

whisper to my spore, whisper to chinese weather
beanbag hunk, blurred closet face polo

am i the chinese dog in your curlers?
blind in a car in the warfield
my thermometer trembles

the lighthouses roundest brunette
her measles witty helix snowing mumbling almonds
outsider giraffes have shortcomings as implants

dakota is shredding papa in your haircut beetle pushbutton

donna kuhn 2006

January's Needle (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2006-01-14T21:12:00.000-05:00

Ecstatic Chaos

2006-01-10T14:13:00.000-05:00

AMERICAN HELLO (Donna Kuhn)

each horse has its complaint
the dolphin is the moon of pain

perhaps the error upsets the sweepings
the goat is in his nothing refrigerator

ocean theater of the lemon, your complaint is movable
i cannot dream yes of length dancing his manicure

it is beyond stipulated, american hello
beautiful cage-free woods

my laundry of the shirt, the sweat cooled off
collector of the desert emptiness

remove dust in the window from the baby
how it is normal, how ribboned the proprieter

of the moon is unpleasant crime of lovebird
gopher within the sky in a statue of the analyst

comma, happy dress, satisfied,ho
fine necessary, reserved

yes i am in the moon with the moon
i have ocarina, baby of the filet

that needs birds, what thinks this
dreams manicure, young neurotics

crack the plate of dolphin?
one of our upsets

the collector of the goat theater
what wind of the grass, ssshhhhhh

perhaps perhaps he dreams unnecessary rat
theater of lemon complaint is the mobile staircases

i will make u this to hang or bingo-test
the owner of the moon, the day of the lovebird

the baby of the ocarina net needs birds

Clock Dancing (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2005-12-30T15:12:00.000-05:00

i don’t need a fucking mouth---
i have realized that speaking as animal spit
is like yellowed ropes around the neck,
sofa-spider basements.

shannon says that my back is brown vine splinters,
methadone eyes, a vacant urge to spin like clock-dancing---
long and raining warm.

he likes to hear the phone ring,
self-inflicted pain,
skirts and thighs,
men’s liquid arms quick like
bird stepping---

he was the first to show me
that my mouth was not a need.

in the pantry, cans of corn
and beans fill lower shelves,
they are blue copper-fruit---

they know that jesus is milk,
fuck-torn and crayoned.
shannon says that i am half of this.

i need a brush that writes
like living cardboard ladies
tasting hazel, bones capsized
in sun-china water---
because my mouth is no longer a fucking need.

(Copyright (C) 2005 Michael Paul Ladanyi)

Breaking Up Via Bukowski

2005-12-26T16:13:00.000-05:00

I woulda fucked Bukowski
yeah yeah you heard me
I woulda always been on top
though
don't ask me why I just
said that
could be that whole control
freak issue
whatever

I can't stand beer
and I have to be in the mood
for Mozart which I
never am
but the whores
now them
I woulda asked to join in

he woulda fucked the both of us
and then left us alone
while he took a good beershit
maybe he’d come back out
masturbate while we
went at it

but also
we woulda butted heads
sure
two poets?
what do you think?

we woulda brought out
the worst in each other
like you and I do now
only I don't
love
you

(Copyright (c) 2004 Kristi Swadley. First published by The Redbridge Review, August 2004.)

December's Mouth (Photography, Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2005-12-15T09:19:00.000-05:00

You Missed the Elephants

2005-12-14T13:47:00.000-05:00

TORN WINDOWS BALANCING HORSE SPEECH (Donna Kuhn, 2005)

throb in your airconditioned ozone
idiot cactus jelly for the bobcats

salty fire in your gecko tuna parade

russia is fire of gecko bread

china in cult light

salty disco edits japans chisel

raisin balcony needs water
walls are candy, airconditoned hopeless
shaving kermit church

torn windows balancing horse speech

egg rose raging

nazi kindergarten
airconditoned man at the throb parade, velvet

barbies meltdown was self-centered

need candy ozone in the torn throb parade

velevet water walls japan
rose in hopeless ice

popcorn loves china

china needs a tuna church

throb in your cactus fire
torn kermit light
phone candy disco
edit nazi, whatever, man

balcony bill at the leopard raisin kindergarten
absolved

Water Bellowing & Red Lines, Poetry (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2005-12-13T09:34:00.000-05:00

~Two poems for my brother,
Billy, (Joseph William Ladanyi lll)
whom we lost in 1997. Miss him like hell.~

Water Bellowing

Gutter-leaf rain is clack-smacking
a basement sidewalk somewhere.

In a hornbook corner,
spiders are holding rust-lid
jarred tomatoes hostage
on penumbra skinned petrified shelves,
as child-hid, glyph-deaf church tinsel.

William would take the gun out
of his mouth long enough
to hear these things,

but swollen vanilla sun has rested
in the gordian brain,
a moon-fisted,
bushy water bellowing.

Windows fingernail blue,
color of snow at 1am,
rain still tap-scratching;
I’d hold your hand, William, if pillows
were not your ocean washed birds.

(Copyright (C) Michael Paul Ladanyi)

Red Lines

There are swirling wraiths
in William’s closet, they trip
over skulls, beautiful war, cancer;
he understands their silver-crush rules---

that things must die and dream,
a mirror hanging like dead horses,
purple-doll crow painting.

The crooked hall is tangled and blind,
William does not need eyes,
thigh-taut faces,
white/melt/fish/suns.

He opens his feather-want city,
dogs gnawing baby teeth,
star-thumping, plastic thighs---
he is pelvis-cotton, pain that taste
like yellow sandpaper.

The street corner is boxed apples,
red lines that throw themselves
at blue jeans, fever-stones spinning
because mountains are hollow,
are all white clay,
river-swirled closets.

((Copyright (C) Michael Paul Ladanyi)

Mirror Self-Portrait (Photography, Kristi Swadley)

2005-12-11T00:07:00.000-05:00

Field In Fog (Photography, Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2005-12-05T14:53:00.000-05:00

Plaster Relief (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2005-12-04T17:46:00.000-05:00

~A Letter to Shannon in November~

Words are spider-prayer lullabies,
orange and cream tongues written
on the bed-sheet face of what we
have done to ourselves,
methadone rainbows eclipsing my spine,
bold aging thoughts that smell
like chocolate and pain,
pouring brown gravy, soup spooning.

Shannon, my stomach is hungry
stick figures, I am living in
despairing ghost-tap windows,
walking the green-brown hall
as a match-struck thing in plaster relief.

If I have ever heard laughter
like yours, it is now.

I’ll bathe eye-weight circles in shadow,
steal art to hang on my face,
phone you through a forgotten
stereo-tone number,
and listen to click-paper whispers
you call words, telling me
I can’t do this forever.

(Copyright (C) Michael Paul Ladanyi. First published in Laurahird.com, Feb. 2005. Later published in Laurahird.com Showcase, March 2005. The piece is also a part of my chapbook Suburban Fairy Tales of Brilliant Ash and Blue Sins, co-written with C. E. Laine, and published through Little Poem Press, March 2005.)

"Who Is To Blame?"

2005-12-03T12:48:00.000-05:00

SHAPELY COWBOYS

the western hemisphere is well-meaning
the earth has a good reputation

rainy or rainy to to roll the rubber wept
use my car, soft enough to hammer

weep cloud, the vault of him
a beetle sings well to live well

the meat is weightlifting
kindly intentions, wolf

skillfully good in spite of age
shapely cowboys, well-spoken
dish of melted cheese
went westward

derogatory enthusiasm
to go ones way in a wetsuit

donna kuhn 2005

Autumn Is Staying For Dinner & Apparently The Night At Winter’s (Kristi Swadley)

2005-12-01T19:03:00.000-05:00

in in in in in in
I am still bound by these inner walls
despite progress, knowing better, early days
scanning the landscape I know it is ever
there, waiting for crunches underfoot

seasons may be ending or beginning
I wouldn’t know, yet I do, I’m just waiting
twiddling thumbs & should be marking
passage of a different time, but does it ever
really change?

the jury is out on whether the glass is
half empty or half full, a verdict could
be reached if the foreman would just stop
urinating on the evidence, defecation
written all over his face, the others
drop their heads into hands

cooking shows make it look so easy, but
I’m not one gasping for gossip, I’ve got
my priorities straight, I never could keep
the ice cream from melting before the
ticker went off, startling me out of my canisters
tell me, are you surprised?

(Copyright (c) 2005 Kristi Swadley)

Across the Way (Photo Manipulation, Kristi Swadley)

2005-11-25T21:49:00.000-05:00

November: Prior to the Christmas Rush (Patricia Gomes)

2005-11-23T14:14:00.000-05:00

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)

2005-11-23T14:10:00.000-05:00

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)

2005-11-20T21:11:00.000-05:00

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"

2005-11-20T18:19:00.000-05:00

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)

2005-11-15T16:01:00.000-05:00

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)

2005-11-14T11:50:00.000-05:00

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)

2005-11-13T16:50:00.000-05:00

UNautumn (Photo Manipulation, Kristi Swadley)

2005-11-12T15:26:00.000-05:00

down beautiful way high (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

2005-11-10T10:48:00.000-05:00

~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)

2005-11-09T20:01:00.000-05:00

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

2005-11-09T19:53:00.000-05:00

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

2005-11-09T16:03:00.000-05:00

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

2005-11-09T15:57:00.000-05:00

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

2005-11-09T15:51:00.000-05:00

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

2005-11-09T15:28:00.000-05:00

Shine, visual art by Donna Kuhn

Fed With A Heart, visual art by Donna Kuhn

2005-11-09T15:24:00.000-05:00

Fed With A Heart, visual art by Donna Kuhn

A Supper of Ghosts, Michael Paul Ladanyi

2005-11-08T14:06:00.000-05:00

~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

2005-11-08T11:10:00.000-05:00

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.