All posts filed under: Maps

“Disarticulation” and other poems by Clare McCotter

Selfie With Thelma after Thelma and Louise   In the Southwest desert shedding turquoise on an old man’s palm she trades time for a beat up Stetson hat. Only a day or two since she posed with rose red lips black sun glasses and Audrey Hepburn headscarf marking the start of their journey with the big Polaroid held at arm’s length.   A snapshot of two smiling faces left lying on the backseat of a convertible loaded down with all the stuff they thought they needed pencilling in borders shoring up boundaries soon smudged with ochre earth lost in the dust from a stampede of stars.   Everything looks different now doused with dirt they are part of place gunning the engine before flooring it for the canyon cliff. Out here at Dead Horse Point there are no shallow graves wooden markers or name plates only a thunderbird still whipping up storms suspended in a high solitary leap of faith.   Disarticulation in memory of E M   For them the grave gave no rest. …

“Colour” and Other Poems by Paul Casey

Colour for T.S.Eliot and after fourteen poets The purple stole away from the skins of plums Everywhere we turned became a maze of colour I protect you with an indigo coloured whisper You curve the ends of my black and white day Coffee brown, is mole, dying leaves, dry earth But smell led me here, the smell of yellow The blue, white and red stripes of exotic confusion Moving over the green gravel of a formal grave I wet my lips and a blackbird flies out of my mouth Faces in the front row, silvered in screenlight, focus I thought everyone knew what was meant by sugar-paper blue Tyrian dyes and flax and peacock plumes Gold and yellow where the clouds crack and break away Anemone-blue mountains outlined against the pearl-grey morning Colour was first published in Live Encounters Fishapod out of Watercolour The Spring sea arrives in flailing sage, clutches lime-white soles with the early hunger of sand. Seeping, air-bound, caught on the cusp of an inner eclipse I turn to olive water. Nothing …

“Wending” and other Poems by Allis Hamilton

Mrs. Piper after Pied Piper of Hamelin   He came home with that wooden whistle one blustery winter’s day.   Said he found it on the snow at the crossroads of Hamelin and Coppenbrügge.   It was just lying there he said. He learned to play it fast enough,   one could well say he was a natural. But I got rather fed up with his playing here in the cave.   It bounced off the stonewalls and I could get no work done, so I sent him out.   The first time my husband returned after a day out with that whistle, it was flies that followed him.   All a-buzz in swarms like swallows on a summer’s eve. Next it was the worms slithering along behind him   like one enormous python. He used them to catch us plenty of fish.   When he brought home the rats, that was quite something.   I smoked the meat from most of them; we had a winter’s worth of food.   And I tanned their …

“Cuween Chambered Cairn” and other poems by Tim Miller

Cuween Chambered Cairn   I should go on my hands and knees to you, you farmers from five thousand years ago. Even though your skulls are no longer here or the small skulls of your two dozen dogs, in retrospect I realize how wise I was, dipping in and out of your dark —the familiar main chamber and three rooms— to never pause in all my picture-taking to never stop and extinguish the light to have found you at the end of the day, so that we were tired and a bit rushed. Something like the terror at what went on here would have overwhelmed me in the moment, the seriousness of generations which I only became aware of later: like an ancient fireplace still smudged with smoke, our shoulders were soiled from the gloom on your hands.   Horses on Orkney   Horses curled in the flaming spiral of sleep, the huge immensity of their bodies   belied by the blankets they wear, or the tight scroll they twist themselves into on the ground, …

“Eve Labouring for 37 Hours; the yes poem” at Levure Littéraire 12

ring Eve labouring for 37 hours; the yes poem   Great Monumental Eve in pain.   Will bring Forth a Cain / Abel Cannibal.   Exhausted stretch rather/rather/rather rather/rather/rather dilate/ than die/ yes.   So just. Sous justice. En vertu de la justice, pour :   (‘In sorrow you shall bring forth children’)   Face. Yes. Present. Yes. Hands. Yes. His image, Who conjured it?   Mouth of dry twigs The/sticks/stones Bones/buttons   a knee-piece/skulls.   There are piles of skulls pushing through my grimacing cunt,   All the pretty things, stones/bones/buttons a knee-piece/ skulls   Sous justice.   Merci !   The Burning Tree   Mineral planes impinge surface embed glares red,   deep red. A scarlet arrow burns out on my white tile, and cools.   The Burning- Years’ round brings Rothko light – Tree.   Glass stained is a bloody transparency.   Sun brings up the silica right to its surfaces, where they may glitter their red sparks.   Willow   Willow’s wooded music is hollow, dead, or veiled. She awaits yellow …