lunes, julio 23, 2007

Six New Poems From Amanda Silbernagel

dichotomy of grief

in the mind of a train no one exists; no
'something lovely' in noise dystopia- thrummed
from a boy-and-girl's brain: we could live
like this--
and you'd heard cancer
from the southern coast, called it funny;

corroded voice corroding a system
of wires/ an acid bath-- (not yet)
ready to join the Atlantic in forever.
falling away-- eats a path to your ear,
delta-hospice waiting six states north
to catch the contaminated Nile

(you did not ask for this. you were not born
for this) kind of waiting: shiver and scotch/
white noise trapped beneath the thrum/ a train
denies this is really happening-- dichotomy
is strange; we are. (not yet convinced)
of the tressel's strength/ that its giving out

would be tragic. theoretically- we should.
feel ashamed to be both: mute and mouthing
beautiful-- (we are not.) convinced of this
theory; and tar can be chic for a moment
like cricket decor on sulfur-- gleaming
studded as if it knows allure. is fragile:

hang on for dear--
heartbreaking awareness:
this is not a life. but a now- famous bridge
unconventionally stunning as an end/ as a
slender trickle leaves Jackson: laced
in chemical and pooled in a phone's vibration
the train negates its existence (we do
not argue) you were not born a theorist.

Green Italy

in the curious city the moon has fallen
twice through the power lines/ staggered;
like tripping-- the second; slow
enough to feel
cool ivory skim your feet-
skimming the lethargic planet

[a stick pin for green Italy/ swirling Atlantic/
a fascination with painted globes]

younger. you measured the months with sleeps,
called unconscious 'night' or a thing
you'd never witness
: child methods. [reassemble
in strange time zones--]

-- a pigeon abandons the gutter at the precise moment
another abandons flight; a swapping of sorts; mission
for lack there-of--

wind veteran crumbles on the schizophrenic runway
of a power line, or nerve path spread thin

through cloud/ high-strung from
undecided tug of the each-other-- dialogue.

mimics the pigeon's wings: syllable's rhythmic
pulse turns static. from effort. word-bones
weakened against stubborn will like the wind's
lost appeal: dead air (miraculously) entices

[hence still wire. stop. claws grip the cord.]

a cable measures when circadian rhythms fail; universally
marks the ivory trail--again; the moon asleep,
without you-
without the each-other you long for/
warm milk; a cedar tree the size of god

to get lost in (until tired finds you) potent
branches to shroud the skin reassembling softness.

needles: resembling stick pins chart places
the each-other has not set foot/ pine:
unnoted on the globe

a week doubles in the city
as a plastic canister breaks- breeze scatters
pins through the breadcrumbed square/ tugs
the sagging runway [the pigeon positioned for take-off]

curious mix of metal
and crust-- a moon-- dreaming for you--

this is green Italy. you have so much

to learn

subjects whose names do not apply

the wild we had discussed: sequenced sand and my hair
grown out to compliment the wind and a cause we called
"asymmetry"-- we were rebels then. when days were
long and flat as wine; a drink that complimented
everything: flight notions/ two-man tent/ an inner arm
that could carry the world (asleep) through desert storms
unshaken. a planet gets heavy, i guess-- they say

it was dry fire, a dead Saguaro set off by the sun
(these natural disasters happen) i was the flower--
remember? how scary The Blossoming had been; i do not
blame you (for creating me)/ a magnifying glass
to applaud my loosened dimensions: exotic-- called
Cereus. (they say a child will become the name.
she is given; onomastics suggest we're all doomed, or

becoming-- a secret. document is kept by the fire;
nightly, when you sleep/ hard/ solving an impossible
the journal is nearly full: i've described
what we don't discuss: the places you've taken me.
(away from the garden)
i've recorded the heat's precise
degrees; exact dimensions of flame-- you'd be amazed.

at the colors a burn victim can name at an interview/
wild with dementia: first was periwinkle-- then
a deep magenta--
an index of shades (orders the names)
of suffering, i do not blame you-- for my obsessions:
list and number. violet and umber. wild despair.
for a cactus; it was natural, the disaster:
without matchbook or gas-- you named each flower...
before raising the glass

only as real

to find yourself in a vacant alley is to learn the great intruder
humanity is not. to come (uninterrupted) to the final brick/
each step a riveting conclusion to the question am i relevant:
is real. or a necessary point in the human experience like betrayal.
when i left him: a scarred field-- earth turned back like
kindling's bark from the fire/ felt the torch in my hands-

preceded an ethereal notion: what i carry is a common accessory
to weep in the final movement when a symphony succeeds/ exceeds
impossible; whittles senses to carve you: vulnerable, a bridge
crumbling into yourself and --all you finally feel--
is what shrinks call "breakthrough" or a crucial ability to come
unglued from etiquette-- begs a question: but why here?

(she was immovable. a stiffened reed at her father's funeral.
a blade cutting currents.) begs an accusation: but you didn't
weep in the alley--
and when you knew you were a factor
in the weight of a planet did you starve yourself a little?
with the gift-curse of influence comes compulsion to fall

to your knees on the staggered scale/ grovel at the equator
for mercy; a reaction to the reaction you casually caused
in a Universe's delicate alignment: a planet is knocked out
of orbit-- a river, sliced through the chest-- rise up,
daughter-- you are only as real as this moment--

assumed as connection

as if happening upon a budding flower (that knew their names)
they chained themselves interminably to the universe.

voodoo daughter rises
with dark-flicker; fire insists upon motion-
a black furnace masked in flame
fuels (is fueled by) her
feet circles, goatskin arms whipping night

caravans (we cannot see)
stir the dead and dead soil up for air--
an earthworm stretch-slinks desert and hill
as prophet: home is where they will have me,
hear my vision--
dust robed segments; wagon to wagon
dishevels a forest with story and wheel,
slips back under ground-cover we cannot see--

the wasted brain stem erupt silver.
as hunger artist claws brick and bone/ dissolves
(lighter) into light.
(beneath ribs: a black furnace)
a famished neuron ignites as ash, reawakened

ash sleeps with her (body);
a leather whip laid limp by cindered logs
voodoo daughter- tangled in dreams
of budding flowers. at their center, a black furnace-
speaking. to feet circles/ a famished frame/
the caravans chained to her voice

let's discuss:

and what i wonder to the blue-locked moon
is what passes him most quickly:
the cloud seductress slinking black gowned
across his face; the train racing her (flighty)
motions, consistent over tired tracks
in a town half asleep; or your breath
-quickened- at the quivering curb where
we wait for silence

in a desolate field; knee-deep in wheat
one discovers two opposing forces:

[a young boy's voice]
what are you thinking about?

overgrown grass grazes his chin; a cancerous
seed-- cumbersome amidst pin stripe rows
sewn tight/even to fertile cloth
tied off stitches the young scientist
can't see, one awry-- infected

[mute energy] of a seamstress, hidden
in till and yarn. earth stained fingers
weave the ancient pattern/ ignore his question
-the tumor shares his breath- two beings:
mutually aware of the other's presence
presents a problem for the asker: put on hold,
cells multiplying within reach

to know a theory (to have it explained) is
a (prevalent) legitimate desire in one
seeking connection to another. call this nature.
call this lonely. the scientist is relieved
to receive word:
"results show that the brain responds as machine
to sensory data- translation precedes sensation--"

a technical being understands magenta
before the retina assembles a sunset and accepts
drowning for what it is before stark realization:
this is how suffocating feels--
knowledge provides a platform for responses
evolving endless. call these echoes.
of a single voice given/received as such:
the being is not alone--

train and seductress slip from sight
(from retinas now responding)
the moon ignores my question/ i,
your quickened breath

Amanda Silbernagel was raised in Fargo, North Dakota and currently studies English, with an emphasis in writing, at Minnesota State University Moorhead. She is taking a year off school to promote her book Centrifuge on a year-long North American tour with Minnesota visual artist el_perdido. The Lovers For Fun tour will consist of readings of Silbernagel's poetry alongside el_perdido's art shows. Tour dates are available at Silbernagel's poetry has appeared in Red Weather, Love Child, 27 rue de fleures, and Hamilton Stone Review.

martes, julio 17, 2007

Dmitri Prigov

5 Nov 1940 - 16 July 2007

Three Poems From Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

The Galloping Man


placing, a look
a gull

or, recreation, rewards or to a mind
a perfect tool

or, law. At last
if it had been the turning of a water wheel


A rope, or green
standing in, closer

to hand, is lost, in arms
on seeing, early on, a hold, or, in hand

a title, a given space

as upon question, or, appellation, a spur
or, so to convey


in alternating causes, in states and professions
a line on end

in cloth, in measure, in anonymity and in parodies
to vary

familiar. Passing fast, in jolly tapers and leagues

and in the interest of descriptions, turning back
to rote places, to notes

and floss
a certain sun, and moon and stars


and out of house, a useless emulation
getting to, or, not to use

a looking outward, in secret, deciding
it is latent, and pause

and lasting into song. how does
a body know, here is a hand, and here, is a sentence

what’s riding on hearts

Catching Up

and would you could express it
with stone and bitumen

a hedge of hide and chatter
for the anonymous flip, of a coin.

and fawn,
to sing, of time and of distinctions

of cause and of case
and not to measure, the merits

in very idiosyncrasy
asserted, in room of learning and sufficiency.

the swift and stubborn and medley appointment.
the predilection, quietly, transparency

must be pronounced transparency
must be pronounced insistence

and handed on.
or did not think in terms of Sinai.

a detail of anatomy, say.
a knot in a rope.

and to be shamefully naked.
this comes in the form of an emergency.

this comes in the form of a middle voice.
this comes in the form of a pretty bride.

and this is the poetry
of having known the light of common day.

deeply. and necessarily.
readily. and necessarily.


to wish to pause
and planning, planning to return

are of the page, to reflect
is to reflect, of our own say

and welcome, are key, are enough

are unexpected, are at hand
or sudden

and is, perhaps, again, the very room
to be in company

in company, to see
the page, or turn to see

of any sudden, or, guessing, or play
are enough

be it large or small or van or boon

in turn
at different rates of tour

no inherited fit or repertoire
in mid-career

fit or altered, or pathe or incidental
and there is, immersed

in how, of, say, pretense, or lectern
another note or bar or margin

and of the eye
replaced, by sound

the ear can see
a margin or purpose

and of these, to see
not only feeling but is an episode

the chance arrival of pacts
proper to, or, gives way to new

is apt, or, to be permitted

done so,
the square of a face

serious and hurry it

each counts, is really stands alone
or are comic, and exact

and curves, into furniture
in a turn, in a tumble

a shrub or suburb
the sudden leads to fit in hand

in no sense of the page
to capture, or ledger, or region

not to say, so unlikely
from time to time, in any landscape

a series of rushes
an arrow off a thread

fiery, and even fidgety
before whom, to quite suddenly

a madman,
which marks those who work when they need not

a great house
but because, and, so unlike it, it fits

that these are all, or, so

so to reflect
reflecting is enough, and always, to surprises

Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino was born in Greenwich Village, New York, and was raised in both the city and in the country across the Hudson River in New Jersey. He was educated at home, eventually to enter Fordham University where he received a degree in philosophy. His poetry and prose have appeared in Barrow Street, The Germ, jubilat, Washington Review, Xcp: Cross-Cultural Poetics, Onedit, Cordite Poetry Review, Nthposition and Xcp: Streetnotes. His interview with the English writer Colin Wilson appears in The Argotist Online. He lives in Brooklyn Heights, New York, where he works as a private docent.

sábado, julio 14, 2007

Un Poema Nuevo de Andrés José Dotson

Noches de Finca

Mi amor, ¿Recuerdas de las noches de luna
cuando nos disfrutábamos con platos de fruta?
Toqué a mi guitarra con dulcedumbre de tu voz
Los caballos descansaban en seguridad del corral
Andábamos por la finca con tientas unidas
Cantos profundos vinieron de los sapos
Reflexión de la charca–la sangre negra
Nos acostamos en cama de seda.

Andrés José Dotson, nació en Rota, España, en la Costa del Sol, se hubo movido a los Estados Unidos a la edad de tres años. Un niño de una madre Española y un padre Norteamericano, él experienció mucha tensión en la escuela por practicar sus inclinaciones nativas en conversar y cantar Castellano. Dotson, que tiene 18 años y recientemente ha graduado de la preparatoria, actualmente está viviendo en el paraíso de Arizona.

jueves, julio 12, 2007

¡Feliz Cumpleaños!

In June, Zone celebrated its first birthday. It's been a riotous twelve months.

Writers from twenty countries brought us their poetry, translations and stories in seven languages.

is, and has always been, about collaboration. It is an attempt to provide a de-centralized, ubiquitous home to writers and readers of the global plurality.

Their multifarious origins resulted in a common output. In the course of today's violent and contemptuous politics of empire and hegemony, Israel's war with Hezbollah, racism, poverty, loss, heartbreak and drudgery, all of Zone's contributors have responded with the urge to beauty that has transcended borders and idioms for nearly five thousand years.

Without Peter Golub, Andrew Haley, Mariana Calandra, Roger McDonough, Meghan Bolden and all the folks at Crack-Up Books in Palermo, our December premier of The Debut Generation of New Russian Poetry would have been impossible. It was a product of five nationalities and three languages.

Writing is useless without readers. Without our loyal following of readers from every continent, Zone and its sister projects would have no reason to exist.

All of us, despite our backgrounds or professions, come to writing as readers. Without our writers, we readers would be purposeless. So I extend my sincerest thanks to Zone's writers who have come to us from Canada, Guatemala, Italy, Costa Rica, Catalunya, the US, Dominican Republic, Russia, China, Wales, Sweden, France, Kazakhstan, Australia, Chile, India, Malaysia, Israel, Spain, New Zealand and, our mother, Argentina.


-Henri Beauregard