Monday, March 30, 2009

April 2009

Distant Rays by Randy Thurman

Randy Thurman is an artist,composer & writer
living and working in Spring City,Tennessee.

This month features the poetry of Duane Locke.

(After George Gordon, Lord Byron)

Sometimes, her spontaneousness
Seems fastened to an autopsy.
Her gestures were articles,
Conjunctions, prepositions,
Function words with nothing
Before or after. It was as if
Her life was “an,” “and,” and
“of.” She was like a koan
Without a content. The nearest
Thing to traditional, ordinary
Clarity was a dangling modifier.

She walked as if squeezing
Space. Never the direct,
Only insinuations, insinuations
Bumping on crutches,
A hobble without a
Pink-fringed rose garter
On the lifted leg
Of a can can dancer.
When it was thought
Evidence was glimpsed
It became spectral.

Her face, you know,
I don’t know it.
Sometimes it looks
Like thunder, not
The thunder of a Zeus,
But the thunder of Inanna.
The fire-red power
Of spread-out arms,
The lapis lazuli sparkle
Of an overthrowing eye,
The carnelian glint
Of a bare shoulder.

Other times a burrow,
An opening to a darkness
With the vague view
Of turning wheels,
Or talking beds,
Or tendrils curled
Around a tear,
Pink doors disrobed
To become mirrors
Marshland, madhouses.

Once, snapdragons

It is her covertnesss that I must
Leave concealed,
And protect the concealment.
I will not falsify
By applying as understanding
Existing notions of interpretations.

(After Edmund Spenser)

She felt as she said “I do,”
Something amiss,
A lack, this legality
Was not preceded by
A love that had
An oxymoronic twist.

The whole tiered
Sugar and flour,
Topped by dolls,
Was structured
By carnival barkers
Turned entrepreneurs
At shopping malls.

It was pavement,
Not a coral reef.
Our courtship
Was based on
Two documents
We never read:
"The Declaration
Of Independence"
And "The Constitution".
Thus hearsay snapped
The synapses in our
Neural anatomies.

There was the influence
Of calendar art on his part
That lead to future
Christian Science reading rooms,
It was my baptism
That lead to the loss
Of definite articles,
A life without “the’s, an’s.”

Our love was rayon,
Nostalgic for mulberry trees
And silk worms.


I sit, enjoying the self-ownness
Of a private experience:
A memory of movements,
Jerky, sedate:
A praying mantis’
Motion on a vine of blooms
With pale green centers
And bright green leaves
As thin as strings,
Remembering fireworks,
Rocket spread flares,
Colored pale green.

I am at an al fresco boulevard simulated
Italian ristorante drinking Chianti,

I sit by a black iron rail curled to abstractly
Represent a black iron bee hovering
Over black iron flower petals.
A designer followed the fashion
Of following nature, but failed,
Produced trite geometry.

I felt another joy, the joy of feeling that I know
I cannot be
Interpreted as having the differentiated character
Of some definite way of existing.
I am undifferentiated.

I sip Chianti, Antonori Riserva, remember
Another privileged moment:
A walking stick, the insect
Gazing at me from oak bark,
Pale green eyes
In a darker green face.

Duane Locke lives by an ancient oak, an underground stream, and as an osprey’s home in rural Lakeland, Florida. Future: A 400 page book of his poems, YANG CHU’s POEMS, to be published in April, 2009 by the Canadian publisher, Crossing Chaos. Present: Featured poet and Interviewed (23pp.) in “Eviscerator Heaven, #4” Past: 6,198 poems published in print magazines and e zines. The entire issue, Vol. 10, No, 1 of “The Bitter Oleander” contains his poems And 92pp. Interview.

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