Posted in Poetry

Places I Have Lived


St. Joe
Chicago
(never Ohio)
now in Orlando
(via some days in Kissimmee)
on the far reaching edges of insanity
and at times in mild hysteria
(where I’m known to grow purple wisteria)
but none can compare
to your eyes
(where I’ve also died)

© Jilly’s All Rights Reserved

Join us over at dVerse where we are writing Quadrilles.
*Kissimmee is the name of a real town just outside of Orlando. It is known for tacky strip malls and cheap hotels near Disney World.

Posted in Uncategorized

Ezrasure

Seems that reading Ezra Pound leads to contagious insanity in poetry writing. Take a look at qbit’s wild ride of a poem!

qbit

On Finding Ezra Pound, insane, locked outdoors in a cage in Italy after WWII
John Berryman, The Cage

This much is known: A bee winging it
at the resonance of quantum verse,
subatomic buzz weaponized
into stanzas, words in flight,
les mots juiced like wine –

can ride the fog of war from Idaho
to Pisa, then jackknife
out of the smoke into a cage
where he stings and swings
the cold bar blues.

Flying into rage, insults flying
like rain and sleet flying in the face
of reason, he’s St. Francis of the wasps
and hornets, nectar held tight between his knees,
praying in the sun to piss.

Unknown: how to equate
the velocity of scribbling, scrabbling
at the speed of unsound mind,
with reaching past sanity and breaking off combs
until detritus of poems run sticky in your hands.

For Jillys Where’s Ezra?

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Posted in Poetry

Down to the Boats (On Equal Footing)


And so you went down to the boats
great iron things on clouds they float,
your oars were but a journey from
unmoving Jack’s required coats

Scull and glide, you beat the drum
millennial taskers dressed for numb,
a royale spot awaits you now
so hoist the silk, the quest begun

Alas! Upon these rocks, your scow
digs up the jams you left behind;
you leap across six rocks – somehow
a mouse with ears your sacred cow!

And you, the mate, who followed fast
sans boots, beret, with verses clasp
into the Center of this World
armed with a blend, you set the mast

Into the glass the wine is swirled
and portraits of each boy and girl
pass hand to hand, and erudite
the tales and laughter are unfurled

So round this fire too cold to light
your kindled stories tell the fight
of love and loss and love regained
a rival of that great Twelfth Night

Lighthearted dawn will rise unchained
where all the lines are unconstrained
all boneyard thoughts are loudly heard
with tears and mirth are all sustained

Now shiver the timbers and the birds
spill out the wine, spill out the words
(but pie is seldom on the floor)
harassed and beaten, word for word

Too soon, too soon, there looms the door
while art demands a steep rapport
the upshot now – no going back
‘Repeat this passage!’ all implore.

© Jilly’s All Rights Reserved

A journey in the form of a Rubaiyat for dVerse’s month-long form challenge, hosted by Frank Hubeny. I have been reading Cantos by Ezra Pound, hence that opening line. A journey not meant to be understood, simply enjoyed for the sound and feel. 🙂