She’s alone in the world.
She loves getting letters, but when she looks in the mailbox it’s always empty.
She decided to write to herself. She put the letter in an envelope and wrote her address on it twice, once as the recipient and once as the sender.
She went out for a walk down the empty streets and dropped the letter in a random city mailbox.
She’s alone in the world.
Barren, sun-baked and glistening
from rough weather, rocky crags with deep
gnawn-away gorges and warped landings
hanging plant growth
and rubble as the base of cliffs
descend as far as the sea.
The sea! An eagle
at odds with blackbirds and finches,
a debauchery of countenances
and murmurs fading beneath the arch of the sky,
a mass of indigo gleaming
in the filtered sunlight,
murrai is pondering a profound study on
ignorance but does not want to devote himself to writing it
until he acquires greater general unknowledge
yes yes the paper towels for
(From Stories of Rock-and-Roll, 1985)
Antón R Reixa (born 1957) is one of the most radical innovators in Galician poetry. Since the 1980s he has been experimenting with multimedia poetry and artists books.Read more →
The mirror of elegance before my eyes
and my eyelids sleep a sinewy sleep
in liquid lines of the expressions etched
on a face of cruelty close to mine.
I become fear the murderer
and while an angel passes un ange passe
all would like to see after the orgy
if what I have kept back is a thought
threaded through needles of irony.
Railroad Train, 1908
No sooner is the caboose
out of sight than they’ve
already forgotten you.
It’s like losing clout or taking
a load off their minds. That’s just
how they, who are out
to lunch or do nothing
with their lives, wash their hands
of you. Got it? Yet the trains you catch
are determined, air-conditioned, carnivorous,
in fine fettle.
the weather conditions prevailing in an area in general or over a long period
the weather conditions
the whale congregations
the wisdom constructions
the wish consultants
the whiskied conscience
the worry controls
the worship controllers
the weather conditions
David Hermann is completing his Masters in Comparative Literature at
UCL. He writes a lot. Read him at hermannist.com
Its chief contribution to the UK
must be as a unit of measurement,
as night after night
a news desk declares
‘An area of Rainforest,
the size of Wales disappears every year’.
0r, ‘The amount of water
London loses through its creaking Victorian pipes
would fill a swimming pool
the size of Wales’.
Every part of the world has a similar unit of measurement:
in the United States it’s an area the size of New Jersey;
on mainland Europe the reference more often than not
is Slovenia – which appropriately happens to be
98.4 percent the size of Wales.
a fighter on the docks,
killed a man while they were unloading
I mean the man he killed
clubbed him first
with an anchor chain
(something about a woman)
and we all circled around
did him in
under a hard-on sun,
finally strangling him to death
throwing him into the
Merryman leaped to the dock
away, nobody tried to stop
him.Read more →
Start the beamer,
thrash the beamer,
smash it into the housing estate.
Wave to the helicopter,
I ain’t sick and I don’t need a head doctor,
it ain’t stealing when I take your car,
it’s just another form of drug with which
you’re not used to dealing.
My drug has more than highs and lows,
it’s got 4-wheel drive accelerator feeling,
I thrive on its buzz,
at last I’m alive, I need its rush
and you must know it’s never this
exciting on the paving.Read more →
the pleasures of the damned
are limited to brief moments
like the eyes in the look of a dog,
like a square of wax,
like a fire taking the city hall,
like fire taking the hair
of maidens and monsters;
and hawks buzzing in peach trees,
the sea running between their claws,
drunk and damp,
everything fine.Read more →
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
brown paper bags filled with trash are
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it’s relief and food-stamps and
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow.Read more →
laughing at nothing—
let me tell you
I have drunk in skid row rooms with
whose cause was better
whose eyes still held some light
whose voices retained some sensibility,
and when the morning came
we were sick but not ill,
poor but not deluded,
and we stretched in our beds and rose
in the late afternoons
like millionaires.Read more →
They had grown used to him. But when the
Tilley lamp was brought and threw
fitful beams into the darkening room, the stranger
grew unknowable. They washed his neck
and, as they knew nothing of his circumstances,
they wove a history for him from lies,
diligently washing. A cough forced one to pause,
to rest her loaded vinegar sponge
on the face.Read more →
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine:
Let well-tun’d words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey Love,
While youthful Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights,
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
Not so much the rivers that have dried up
As myself, dried up with acts and failure to act,
Alexis is yours, mine is named differently
But beauty lay there too, my eyes joined my will
To love for a while when the trees you speak of
Stood tall and sang lyrics with the breeze,
That was a long time ago, but yet a snatch of time
When measured by mountains and laughing nature.
Evening falls on the smoky walls,
And the railings drip with rain,
And I will cross the old river
To see my girl again.
The great and solemn-gliding tram,
Love’s still-mysterious car,
Has many a light of gold and white,
And a single dark red star.
I know a garden in a street
Which no one ever knew;
I know a rose beyond the Thames,
Where flowers are pale and few.
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
At Borders on Oxford Street
Poetry is at the end of Fiction
Next to Crime
London stands united
What a blast
We share the rain
Not the umbrella
David Hermann has written for film, television, print and online publications, is in the middle of a Masters degree in Comparative Literature and working on a collection of poems.Read more →
onto the sunset
juts its bones in
over the West End’s
knowing armour – it’s
all about structure,
darling, the single
crane dangling its
ruby earring: blood
pendent amidst blue,
last drop on the map
wrapped and worn
as a dress; the full
moon is artless, a silver
given, a fluorescent
glitter spores of desire
over the shards, ascendant
crystals healing only
sceptics: the hard city
softened by chiffons of
fog as it tries to rise,
a ten-inch heel spiking
the stars into the sky.
Lovely for the long ago
child in the night
to hear the huge rain
beating on iron.
No fibre-glass muffle –
only that raw rough
We’ve eaten the 12
jars of plums
I stewed and froze
Now it’s the season
for early apples
and olives.Read more →