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"( )" by S.J. Saighead
I stand outside and the rain is coming,
the sky caressing the tops of trees
and the faints hints of sun, smothered and hazy.
and the world is alight, the children squeal
from locations unknown. So close the air
feels warm and heavy, hot to touch.
A sound erupts from deep within
as though God herself moans
and echoes across the city to me
where I stand small and observant,
like a mouse under shadows unknown.
As a child I was stilled with terror.
Now I am still with awe. ( )
And every worry I carry with me
is taken by the still air and exposed
by blinding light, ( )
expelled by monstrous sound, ( )
and carried across the dim, grey sky.
The birds sing once again.
The air rests uneasy
as the children wonder to bed,
weary parents rejoicing.
But we all wait
not trusting the sky
for one final
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"Make It New Again" by Vian Borchert
Make it new again mom...
MAKE IT NEW!
The DRESS it has been STAINED
I can’t wear it with such a STAIN
MAKE IT NEW!
Make it New please…
I’ll try my dear
I hope to make it new
for you to wear in the new year
I’ll wash away the stain
I’ll wash away the years
For you I’ll make it new
For you to wear in the new year
For perhaps it will bring you luck
and wash away the tears.
For that’s what mothers do
They make it new!
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“T.H. Cornell” by Robert Beveridge
(a poem in three dimensions)
[to be written on one long strip of paper, joined at the ends to form a circle with the poem inside, with the first six and last six words overlapping. The reader revolves in a circle to read the poem]
spiral upwards from the ground floor. In the temple of this king reside the powerful words, the words of wonder that spiral into the infinite. Into the dark inverted abyss that is the rock of Hong Kong, the magnetosphere, the object which you can only glance at and never, ever see. You think you catch something in that inverted abyss, yet you know it is only inhabited by words that spiral into infinity, spiral upwards from the ground floor.
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"Sunshine" by Arun Kapur
The sunshine is smiling at us, mother nature in all her glory.
We are connecting, we are becoming true, we are living our story
The birds in the sky, singing ever so free
This beautiful freedom, this bluest of sky we see
The feel of freedom and unity of love
We now become together
And soar like a dove.
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"Critical Portrait" by Brian Glaser
in his work on cosmology Michio Kaku states his conviction
that the fate of our universe
will be an ending of nearly absolute cold
as it expands—
the fate of heat death—
and that the only hope for life is to find a portal to another universe.
This is the message of science—
how can any scientist not be shaken by this?
As for the science of writing:
let’s focus on five paragraphs and pentameter lines
and the Oxford comma
for as long as we can,
and then, when we must, let’s face the question of why
we still know
we can write something meaningful
in the screen-light or firelight of Kaku’s sentence.
The victory of negation—
nothing lasts forever; there is no forever—
the reality of death is very sad but, in a way, ordinary,
I have seen it—
it is the idea of death,
of returning to utter nothingness, that is unsettling to me.
Fundamentalists have their beginning and their end—
can one be
a fundamentalist of science?
The science of writing:
what began with the idea to tally debt in clay,
with imaginatively seen cracks on a tortoise shell—
where does it end?
My teacher said with a guarded laugh
that there is no end to the path of a scholar—
funny I was taught to write just that at the limit of my stories,
not an end—
just the end.
Jedes Seiende ist ein Ereignis:
Every being is an event.
I learned this as a teacher from another teacher,
having been abandoned by God in Germany—
does it follow from modernism’s darkness,
the lesson of loving kindness?
Today on my walk
I saw the back of a handyman’s pickup truck,
filled with his tools—
no leaves in there,
I suppose he uses them all often—
or he is not from this part of the world,
where in late November the sycamores descend in daylight—
Writing is a science.
It’s just that some sciences are more difficult than others.
Mathematicians invented the zero.
It falls to writers to solve the problem of zero.
The indigenous people of California used fire
to clear the ground for the plants that would nourish their prey.
The fire of zero—
let us see if we can begin to rewrite this sentence.
Subject and a verb:
The indigenous people of California used fire.
Have used, had used,
there are only a handful of ways to write history.
The innocence of science—
like the innocence of Whittier in Snow-Bound,
his real work long done,
waiting hopefully to be recognized for what he has made.
How can writing help us
to find a way out of this universe to another,
Whittier begins with the memory of clearing a path as a child
to his barn
on the morning after a blizzard,
and America loved it,
an innocent memory from long before the Civil War:
it falls to poets to tell the history
that the science of history cannot save—
in the world of the ubiquitous camera-phone,
to try to solve the problem of the future
when the perpetual present will cease to be,
and the love that moves the sun and the other stars
becomes the shrieking of the mindless wind.
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Next exhibition theme: TEXTURE
Deadline: Midnight, January 24th
Submit at: firstname.lastname@example.org
More information under ‘Submissions’ tab