LIQUORthe I and the UflickeringShawn Bowmanfrom Lilliput Review, #169
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace
I'd like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.
Richard Brautigan
I didn't know the names
of the flowers—now
my garden is gone.
two wings per pigeon
and this is where they gather
on a wire
in the city
Ah, what do I know
Shawn Bowman
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
I shall
untwine her time
unravel her travel
undo her mood
unfasten her battens
unmesh her dress
unbutton her bubbles
unleash her fresh.
And then I shall
unwind her behind
uncouple her trouble
unearth her worth
unstaple her paper
unzip her yip
unbuckle her tickle
untuck her lush.Mary Meriam
stealing nothing from death
---for Shuku
---let the world say 'his most wise
---music stole nothing from death'
----------------E. E. CummingsThere will be a time
my soul smells bad enough
to kill
the canaries.
Live well &
die fast ------------that
is all that I ask. ----For there
will come an instance
when knowledge is dead -&
all that is is all
that is
remembered. ---------There
will be a moment
when the sky is black
& the play of children
is just -------------too
elusive.
a room
where the music
is just
too much
to bare.normal
After I get home from driving my taxi
for twelve or fourteen hours
I lay down on my bed but it all
keeps spinning back from me:
every face in the mirror,
every street under construction,
every near missed accident,
every stranger's horror story,
every time there were sobs in the back seat,
every time I laughed
to make someone feel better
about being a prick,
every time I got to the pick up
and found no one there,
every time I took a stupid route
or got stuck in traffic
where the silences are long,
every time I looked at poor Miss Ross
as I drove her to her cancer treatment,
white and tiny as an angel
with candy cigarette bones.Mather Schneider
Noodles in the BackyardWhat I remember
of my stray, jet black
part-poodle
is how he'd pause
at a flower,
place his snoot
between the petals
and drink it all in:
The tulip, the grass,
the afternoon.
Ten billion lifetimes
culminating in one
perfect scent.Robert L. Penick
her scars precede
the wounds
that cause themDon Winter
Today is the 200th anniversary of the birth of Alfred,
Lord Tennyson, who served as England’s Poet Laureate
for 42 years. We observe such things, and it’s good for
poetry.
Albert Huffstickler was not the Poet Laureate of the
United States, although he was recognized as the Poet
Laureate of Austin’s Hyde Park neighborhood. He had
won the Austin Book Award for his collection, Walking
Wounded (1989), but he was not even the Poet Laureate
of Texas. He never won a Nobel Prize, or even a Pulitzer.
He wrote poetry every day all his life, and he was published
almost as frequently. Although he won his share of honors,
I feel closer to the Huffstickler who didn't get rich on poetry.
I share that with him and with all the other poets who are
friends of mine. Huff lived for poetry every day until his
death on Feb. 25, 2002. We who have remembered him
annually in memorial readings also live for poetry, and with
him, we know that beautiful language is for the sake of
people who are ready to benefit from it.
A year or more ago, the Austin Poetry Society Board of
Directors began working toward planting a tree in a public
park to be called the Poetree. Then recently, an opportunity
arose for something better. The city has a very small park
area and wants a name for it. It’s a triangular piece of land
with about eight large oaks, many of them with double-trunks.
It already has a supply of limestone benches in the shade of
the trees. The place is directly across from City Hall in the
middle of the intersection of Cesar Chavez and South First
Street, just north of Ladybird Lake.
The Board of Directors asked me to nominate Huff’s name
for the park. I have therefore submitted this name: Albert
Huffstickler Poetrees Grove. The place to submit names is
online:
http://www.cityofaustin.org/parks/namingform.htm.
If you knew Huff (or if you love poetry), perhaps you would
like to join me in this nomination by asking the Parks
Department to name the park for Huff. If we were successful,
this little jewel of a park could become a focal point for all the
Austin poetry organizations, all the people who come for
special events like Austin International Poetry Festival, and
perhaps most importantly, for individual poets who just
want to sit down and think.
Mike Dillon
another friend has slipped
into the long and crowded
history of us–
the fish market's
thousands of open eyesGeorge Swede
Natalia L. Rudychev
Rented RoomsThere was a city in her moans
and I resided
in every room
on every block.Jonathan Treadway
looking down upon the ocean and the seashore
from my room at the daytona beach hotel,
i felt for the first time like an aging
naturalist writer or painter,
like dr. johnson sick-a-bed by the strand,
separated from both nature's solitude and
the madding of the vacationing crowd,
the subjects of one's art, so near and yet
no more to be embraced.Gerald Locklin
Shawn Bowman
my dead mother--
every time I see the ocean
every time...Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
Star HolesI may be doing a blog only haiku challenge in the future, with print publication of the winner in a future issue of Lilliput Review and also a neat prize for the winner. More on that in a future post but, for now, I will say that all of this is Basho-related.I sit here
on the perfect end
of a star,
watching light
pour itself into
me.
The light pours
itself through
a small hole
in the sky.
I'm not very happy,
but I can see
how things are
faraway.Richard Brautigan
Skylark on moor -
sweet song
of non-attachment.
Come see real
flowers
of this painful world.
Man's end -
a bamboo shoot,
or less.
Summer grasses,
all that remains
of soldiers' dreams.
John Martone
#213
Only a wisp
Of cloud above,
But like a
Sacred Song
It pointed the way.Yosano Akiko
translated by Dennis Maloney
Alan Catlin
No appetite
I have no appetite for verse,
but for the velvet vesture
of lamb's ear savored.
between my lips, tonight,
your lobes and limbs
wooly sward and bole,
succulent mullein, growing
virgate among your leaves.Jeanne Lesinski
Shawn Bowman
washing-------------------------------------------------------------------
dishes first
then shavingJohn Martone
Posts
All Comments
lilliputreview at gmail dot com
.jpg)
