| January 2008 |
All work
copyright the
owner. No
reproduction
without
consent.
copyright the
owner. No
reproduction
without
consent.
POEMS
Poems by Maryland's Alan Britt.
August Night
The August
firefly
carries
a full lantern.
Lovers
smell
of each other.
Cicadas
are vertebrae
lined up
along
the spine
of a dream.
Rivers, Lamps, Insects
Rivers,
lamps,
insects control
darkness
with their
white voices.
Their whistles
resemble
widely scattered
shards
of childhood
overflowing
the brain
this August evening.
Night
rubs
its blue shoulder
against a white fence.
My soul
is an egg;
crickets
tap
its enamel
consciousness
while air-conditioners,
exhausted,
asthmatic,
slough
the skin
of dead thoughts.
The insect
mantra
forms
a silver eye
fit
for drowning
or exchanging
bones
in the
panic
to breathe
one expansive
breath
of genuine solitude;
steam
rises
from a river
of mercury
flowing
beneath my spine.
Crickets & Machetes
Crickets,
tambourines
strapped to
black ankles,
tambourines
of pure nickel.
Night’s
placenta
embedded
with stars
like spurs,
tiny scorpions,
sparks
of lust.
Crickets
swing machetes
of lamplight
along
their infinite
trails
of romance.
Thoughts
A man
sits alone.
One thought
becomes a
torch
juggled
with others.
John Donne’s
torches
rotated
like brass gears
on a mantle clock
gilded
with angels
blowing
long horns
of exquisite love.
Thoughts
became mantis
inside
night’s
broad hips.
Thoughts
exhausted
on the nude shoulder
of a
split-rail fence.
Schooled by witches,
thoughts
are gypsy insects
who celebrate
villages
sunk in
clover.
Tiny sopranos
of magnesium.
Thoughts
are hinges
that behave
like bees
intoxicated
by the wrinkled orange
of squash trumpets.
One thought
is a gear
that slips
forward
on the tractor-trailer
navigating our
drowsy neighborhood
this evening.
Thoughts
are cobra eyes
rising along
a toad’s
thick neck.
Passengers
drift like thoughts
behind
the flickering windows
of a distant
train.
At night
the train’s
wheels
leave
deep scars.
Quiet Weeping
Ashes,
like barn swallows,
rise above a rusty barrel
behind a vacant apartment building
in the Bronx .
Flames leap
from the
red knuckles
of discarded men.
Remember these ashes
as you tap
your new millennium
French wine flute
against the moon’s
silver torso.
If you look closely
you’ll see
delicate etchings
left by the swallows
on the smooth waist
of your glass,
just below
the unfocused eyes
of quiet weeping.
Thoughts Turn to Love
As Autumn Leaves
Begin to Fall
Love is not yearning
for the other
person to suffer.
Isn’t that funny?
My face is in love
with the moon;
a black pearl streetlight
with the sun;
a tomato
your gentle hand.
The other person
is going to suffer
enough
as it is,
no encouragement necessary.
So, go ahead, build a comfortable nest
inside your soul,
one that affords the luxury
of love.
But just make sure
your residence is large enough
to include
the clouded leopard.
Thoughts Turn to Death
As Autumn Leaves
Begin to Fall
Death
has forced
me inward,
made me
embrace solitude.
The bluejay
drops a
grey & blue
feather
dipped in white gesso.
I want
to live
inside the entire feather,
not just
its infinite
blind tip.
Listening to a Train
Is a train
a reptile?
Submerged
to their black waists
in humidity,
crickets
dance flamenco
beneath a maple
bordered
by dying tomato
vines.
Tonight
my brain
wants
to absorb
every neutron
of blue electricity
flashing
between
the crickets’
sable hips.
Autumn Dream
If I could wear
fog as
a pair of pants,
sure,
I’d consider it
lounge wear.
Burn marks
from cigarettes
left on wooden bars
resemble
the walnut stripes
of dragonfly wings.
Large, bronze
helicopter dragonflies,
traveling swarms
through canal grasses
of South Florida ,
late July.
But here, tonight,
in Reisterstown , Maryland,
nearby teenagers
smoke pot
behind a dark-screened porch
& absorb the cicadas’
tiny castanets
of insomnia.
The Balcony
Shasta & I listen
to crickets.
In his black waistcoat,
a streetlamp
conducts
the crickets’ violin solos.
Chilly owls
in the balcony
rub their wings
against velvet merlot ropes.
More poetry in this issue:
Birth of Soil
Caribe Casanova
For Sale
I'll Miss You Strawberry Sun
Skies Stained in Arctic Blue
Back to main page
Poems by Maryland's Alan Britt.
August Night
The August
firefly
carries
a full lantern.
Lovers
smell
of each other.
Cicadas
are vertebrae
lined up
along
the spine
of a dream.
Rivers, Lamps, Insects
Rivers,
lamps,
insects control
darkness
with their
white voices.
Their whistles
resemble
widely scattered
shards
of childhood
overflowing
the brain
this August evening.
Night
rubs
its blue shoulder
against a white fence.
My soul
is an egg;
crickets
tap
its enamel
consciousness
while air-conditioners,
exhausted,
asthmatic,
slough
the skin
of dead thoughts.
The insect
mantra
forms
a silver eye
fit
for drowning
or exchanging
bones
in the
panic
to breathe
one expansive
breath
of genuine solitude;
steam
rises
from a river
of mercury
flowing
beneath my spine.
Crickets & Machetes
Crickets,
tambourines
strapped to
black ankles,
tambourines
of pure nickel.
Night’s
placenta
embedded
with stars
like spurs,
tiny scorpions,
sparks
of lust.
Crickets
swing machetes
of lamplight
along
their infinite
trails
of romance.
Thoughts
A man
sits alone.
One thought
becomes a
torch
juggled
with others.
John Donne’s
torches
rotated
like brass gears
on a mantle clock
gilded
with angels
blowing
long horns
of exquisite love.
Thoughts
became mantis
inside
night’s
broad hips.
Thoughts
exhausted
on the nude shoulder
of a
split-rail fence.
Schooled by witches,
thoughts
are gypsy insects
who celebrate
villages
sunk in
clover.
Tiny sopranos
of magnesium.
Thoughts
are hinges
that behave
like bees
intoxicated
by the wrinkled orange
of squash trumpets.
One thought
is a gear
that slips
forward
on the tractor-trailer
navigating our
drowsy neighborhood
this evening.
Thoughts
are cobra eyes
rising along
a toad’s
thick neck.
Passengers
drift like thoughts
behind
the flickering windows
of a distant
train.
At night
the train’s
wheels
leave
deep scars.
Quiet Weeping
Ashes,
like barn swallows,
rise above a rusty barrel
behind a vacant apartment building
in the Bronx .
Flames leap
from the
red knuckles
of discarded men.
Remember these ashes
as you tap
your new millennium
French wine flute
against the moon’s
silver torso.
If you look closely
you’ll see
delicate etchings
left by the swallows
on the smooth waist
of your glass,
just below
the unfocused eyes
of quiet weeping.
Thoughts Turn to Love
As Autumn Leaves
Begin to Fall
Love is not yearning
for the other
person to suffer.
Isn’t that funny?
My face is in love
with the moon;
a black pearl streetlight
with the sun;
a tomato
your gentle hand.
The other person
is going to suffer
enough
as it is,
no encouragement necessary.
So, go ahead, build a comfortable nest
inside your soul,
one that affords the luxury
of love.
But just make sure
your residence is large enough
to include
the clouded leopard.
Thoughts Turn to Death
As Autumn Leaves
Begin to Fall
Death
has forced
me inward,
made me
embrace solitude.
The bluejay
drops a
grey & blue
feather
dipped in white gesso.
I want
to live
inside the entire feather,
not just
its infinite
blind tip.
Listening to a Train
Is a train
a reptile?
Submerged
to their black waists
in humidity,
crickets
dance flamenco
beneath a maple
bordered
by dying tomato
vines.
Tonight
my brain
wants
to absorb
every neutron
of blue electricity
flashing
between
the crickets’
sable hips.
Autumn Dream
If I could wear
fog as
a pair of pants,
sure,
I’d consider it
lounge wear.
Burn marks
from cigarettes
left on wooden bars
resemble
the walnut stripes
of dragonfly wings.
Large, bronze
helicopter dragonflies,
traveling swarms
through canal grasses
of South Florida ,
late July.
But here, tonight,
in Reisterstown , Maryland,
nearby teenagers
smoke pot
behind a dark-screened porch
& absorb the cicadas’
tiny castanets
of insomnia.
The Balcony
Shasta & I listen
to crickets.
In his black waistcoat,
a streetlamp
conducts
the crickets’ violin solos.
Chilly owls
in the balcony
rub their wings
against velvet merlot ropes.
More poetry in this issue:
Birth of Soil
Caribe Casanova
For Sale
I'll Miss You Strawberry Sun
Skies Stained in Arctic Blue
Back to main page
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our ultimate goal of paying all the artists
who contribute to the magazine, as well
as to improve the website and build the
infrastructure necessary to further unite
art and activism in the Calgary
community. If you like the magazine
and the values it stands for, please feel
welcome to contribute.
Equally important is to get the word out.
Advertising is expensive, and the best
advertising is by word of mouth. If you
like the magazine, or any content in
particular, please take a few moments
to share the link with your friends.
Feel free to join our Mailing list or our
Facebook group.