Sunday, October 29, 2017

Aristotle . Tipton Poetry Journal . Archive


I didn't originate in dust nor did my mother nor my father nor my sister Judy who, like our parents, was shoveled into that fiery furnace from which there is no return, in which the undertaker smelts our souls, and as an bonus, our corpses. There is, however, logic in the demise of literary journals signifying a from-dust to-dust scenario. Paper burns and there is little mystery as to its source, crafted as it is, by hand or factory, in sight of any who wish to watch.

Journals go out of print. Bookcase shelves sag. Small apartments do not expand. I am, therefore and now and then, taking a photo of poems from out-of-print journals and posting them here.

"Aristotle" was published Tipton Poetry Journal ten years ago. He knows from hubris.


Tuesday, October 24, 2017

#poems "2." "By Any" "Six Aunts Wobbling" "Science and Change" "And the Ships Set Off"


In Vending Machine Press this week, my #poems: "2." "By Any" "Six Aunts Wobbling" "Science and Change" "And the Ships Set Off" PLUS a really awful photo of me I CHOSE. In an authentic New York City apartment building lobby, a six-floor walk-up. No photo available of Vending Machine Press editor, Michael Lafontaine who is Australian. Who I thank for this journal and for selecting my work. 

Congratulations to my fellow poets. Again, please visit and comment on the poems. Thanks for supporting me. I do appreciate it.


Sunday, October 1, 2017

"An Interrogatory" - In Which Isaiah Sees Seraphim as Did Sarah Sarai #poem


An Interrogatory 

     Nothing but smooth sailing.
     —The Isley Brothers

Those aren’t birds are they are they, 
are they?, or are they insects of an ilk

glowing and hovering hummingbird- 
like though not hummingbird, not bird,

no, I see it, that which I wasn’t seeing, 
a lingering phosphorescence, no

luminescence, oh!, it is incandescence 
and those are seraphim I see, I am

seeing seraphim, six-winged seraphim, 
seraphim having six wings or so said

Isaiah, a seraphim seer, two wings, 
fans over a mighty face, two enfolding feet

and two neon wings to lift them aloft, 
smoothly sail above prophesies for our

tangled times, two wings golden as honey 
is gold, as amber is gold, as transparency

is gold, carry us to a feared eternal now, 
tolerable, almost, when we sing along. 
____
Sarah Sarai. From Geographies of Soul and Taffeta, published by Indolent Books, 2016.