Magnapoets Free Verse and Form

To every poet, his Unicorn Tom Berman

O Unicorn among the cedars

To whom no magic charm can lead us W.H.Auden

Somewhere yet,

the Unicorn

awaits

in the darkling

of a tapestry glade

ultimate

of all desires

I too have sought

the Unicorn

since time was young

yearning

to sigh meaning

into words

wantonly sown

on a paper field

O creature

most mysterious,

ephemeral, innocent

patient and wise

speak softly,

blessed above beasts,

those magic words

the last true poem

this enchanted world

will ever know

---------------------------

From: Shards, a Handful of Verse by Tom Berman

Image: The Unicorn Tapestries

Submersion by Aurora Antonovic

Si nous étions tous sur un bateau
puis tombé par dessus bord,
et vous pourriez seulement sauver un de nous deux
vous choisisser qui, lui ou moi? Il me demande...

Quelle sottise

Apparemment il ne réalise pas
que je me noyerais à sa place?

********************************************

If we were all on a boat
and fell overboard,
and you could only save one
would it be him or me?
he asks

Silly man

Does he not realize
I would drown myself instead?

first published in Megaera

image taken and copyrighted by vk4hka

Your Myths Where You Find Them
by David Matthews

You take your myths where you find them,
Or they find you,
Abduct you, seduce you,
Take you where they will.

Your myths are yours, and mine are mine.
How might I know yours as I know the ones
That are as much who I am as blood, bone, eye,
The pleasant soreness in my legs after a good run,
The way a certain slant of light
Winter afternoons,
A mystery of cloud and shadow,
The air bright as mercury,
Trace shadows of melodious utterance
On the pages of this life
In the fate that takes us over,
Whoever we are
Or suspect we may be?

You have your great American road,
Hitchhiking and cheap wine on a hillside
Where the flowers burst into riotous bloom,
All that prairie and purple sky,
Snow-cone mountains
And the salt taste of sea air,
And a good saloon in every single town,
Tight jeans and scuffed cowboy boots,
Willie Nelson on the jukebox,
Homage to cigarette smoke, cold beer,
And hormones on the rampage.

That glorious myth of freedom and hope...
Where a saxophone might caress a rainbow
And the milk of stars find its way
Into reveries of a spring evening
On a bridge over the Seine
With a tourist boat passing below
Filled with Asian girls
Sensuous in black, heads bowed,
All intently studying the same map of the city.

And on down the way at Notre-Dame,
You fish all the funny-shaped coins from your pocket
And leave them for a mime
Because he makes you think of Batiste
When he tries to tell Garance of his love,
When she explains that this kind of love
Exists only in dream, not in reality,
And he says, dream, reality —
It's all the same,
Or what's the use in living?

My myth is coffee in a Parisian café
On a street with a statue of Danton,
Visions of Picasso
And les poètes maudits
Who chase a scrap of beauty
Through the alleys and bordellos of their time.
A man and woman
The morning after
The night before
Drink coffee and nibble croissants
At a table where they sit without speaking.
A university student ponders Hegel
And contemplates absurdity
And wonders if he might be
The Camus of his generation,
Until he is distracted
When a girl with abstract expressionist hair
Slings her book bag over her shoulder
And flounces out the door
Like there ought to be a law against her
And maybe there is
But not in Paris.
I tell you, those myths they will take you
By the scruff of your scrawny neck.
It has happened to me,
An afternoon with Chloé
In a film by Rohmer,
A brightly colored kite
Dancing in the blue of the air
On the side of a hill
Above the ruins of a theater 1800 years old...

Young Camille Desmoulins
Embraces Lucile in his thoughts
While the big blade gleams
Brightly above his bare neck
On the fifth day of April in 1794,
And Danton himself,
Comes his turn,
Instructs Sanson the executioner,
"Don't forget to show my head to the people.
It is well worth the trouble."

...those myths where they find us,
Abduct us, seduce us,
Take us where they will.

Comments (4)

Carobs by Elisha Porat

Do you remember, in Juara, at the end
of my platoon leaders course, in that rainy
December? I took
the wet military blanket
on my shoulders, and you were covered
with the sleeveless cape that I drew
for you from my belt? Do you remember
the gleaming chalky rocks?
The whistle of the wind passing
through the trees? And how we roamed
all night, looking for a piece
of dry ground? Do you remember
how we were happy
anyway, on awakening, with first
light, when embracing we stumbled on
a broken stair, in front of your door,
and we stood suddenly flooded with the thick
flowing aroma of the flowering carobs?

translated by Cindy Eisner

Like Blood From A Prayer Wheel

Birds perched on telephone lines,
like winos on the street corner,
witness the arrival
of a nervous daybreak.

Clouds, windborn prophets
in the cathedral of the sky,
tickle the upper edges
of my vision
while the taste of green tea
tickles my tongue.
I stare past the panoramic
glare on my window,
seeing the waves of the Pacific
on the far horizon,
and I watch traffic flow,
watch the light of the sun
glint from off the metal
of a hundred automobiles
as they rumble towards
the grey steel metropolis
across the snaking,
mammoth dragon's spine
of the bridge across the bay,
and I am
wishing,
dreaming,
wondering,
feeling
a sense of musing
incompleteness
as a silent prayer,
a psalm from the Id,
seizes my lips,
unbidden.

I am drawn towards a tomorrow
I cannot hope to anticipate.

While the sun still shines,
the first cold drops of rain,
spray from a severed artery,
begin their sacrificial
freefall
onto the window's glass.

Above the road and sea,
the prophets of the cathedral
have begun their weeping...
***********************************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "DreamsPack" by Melgama, dreamstime_1138017.jpg

Wistful Days by Aurora Antonovic

Late afternoon, dark skies are growing,
And my wistfulness is showing,
Thinking dark thoughts pensively,
Moodily.

No book can long hold my attention,
Preoccupation too sharp to mention,
Thinking of you yearningly,
Longingly.

Searching for some fixed distractions,
To steer me from your strong attractions,
A lump of sadness with my tea,
Despondency.

Whiling away the hours and days,
To lure my thoughts from my malaise,
Wiping away one escaped tear,
Wish you were here

first published in The Carnellian

image taken and copyrighted by mazaquilt

Comments (7)

Guardian Angel by Aristi Trendel

When he claimed to be

my angel guardian winged

I thought I heard a rustle

of paper and silk

A flutter of fins

angel, man or fish?

a thousand bubbles

before it all fizzled out

Angel sweet, defiled, finned

spread your wings

though we could never

fly with

No Daedalus flights in sight

or Icarus dives

only runes of black ink

on your paper wings

Angel sweet bereaved

read my elegies

on the parchment

of your flimsy fins

Guardian Angel

Offering by Elisha Porat

My poems, the products of my emotions,
the products of my thoughts, the products
of my inspiration, the products of my brain
and of my heart – they are my offering,
my individual contribution,
my unique and peculiar contribution,
my generous contribution –
to this old and ancient profession,
this ancient profession of poetry,
this ancient profession of poesy:
the ancient profession of trading in words.

translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

Comments (2)

Woman With A Jagged Scar: Photo Through A Broken Window (J. Armstead)

It is an image,
a dream of Grace
caught in Time,
imprisoned
by the blink
of a camera's
aperture,
trapped by the lens
of a mechanical
eye.

Naked, her lithe,
sinuous body,
more muscular than
the average Jane Doe,
is bathed in glowing
silvery light,
the shadows
of the dark room
in which she poses
running like ink
over the contours
of her nudity,

... exposed and yet invulnerable...,

while the cold,
patrician beauty
of her face,
framed by a tumbling
lion's mane
of dark hair,
is stamped with
the cruelty
of a jagged scar,
a lightning bolt
of old pain,
that reveals
the humanity
her Art denies.

She is not
anonymous.

She has survived
the caress
of Life's talons.

The cracks in the glass
of the dirty window's pane
are the bitter smile
of an urban predator.
**************************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Bruise On a Female Back", by Linnik (Olga Zanchurina), dreamstime_3411577.jpg

Snow Can Wait # 6 | Walter Ruhlmann

I counted the tears of a thousand men
and clasped in my arms
they almost suffocated.

My god I feel dizzy
and the ground is giving way
under the weight of the nights
spent with them

I felt weak
today when I think of it
I was rather brave
to have dared to spend
so many nights in the caves full
of violence and absence,
of bodies going into trance.

Butterfly by Aurora Antonovic

Her father used to call her
Leptir
which is Serbian for
Butterfly
because she used to chase after the Monarchs
flapping her little girl arms
in an effort to fly just like them.
Now, her thin hands flutter like
butterflies
working quickly
over her project
while there is still
light of day.

first published in BMP

Comments (12)

The Songs of Unease # 17 | Walter Ruhlmann

In the desert
lost
grains of sand
sing in the wind
the whistling
refrains
of the ravaged childhoods
and broken loves.

The Muse Split
by David Matthews

The muse split, man
Like, she was with me
Pale and fair as a damsel out of Keats
So hip she could step into a Lou Reed lyric and not miss a beat

I blinked
And she vaporized
Or something
Not a sign remained
Not even her beret
Or those black tights
That really kind of do it for me
When she murmurs
Sweet pentameters
In a chanteuse voice
That pours light through a wind
Blown off the dark Mediterranean
From five centuries ago

What happened
I let the wage slavery beat me down
She would not put up with that
It was steady income
And gainful employment
That drove her underground

Left to my own dubious devices,
I ventured out
Through the boulevards
And alleyways of verse
High on Surrealism
I gave myself over
To chance encounters
With sewing machines and umbrellas
Subway trains and illuminated manuscripts
Miss America, Mary Shelley, and the ghost of Gregory Corso...

In cramped quarters of rented rooms,
I trafficked in trope
Handcuffed to the bare page
As if the fierceness of my gaze
Alone might transport me
To whatever paradise
We mujahedeen of poetry
Are apt to know
The paradise we make or accept
Through each act of love
That brings vision
Into this life the life of each of us

Comments (4)

Havana Night Life by Margarita Engle

The old troubadour sings
to his own heart

imploring himself
to keep faith
in love

while all the rest
floats away

even the lively audience
of foreigners, who imagine
that all tropical music
must be happy.

Comments (2)

I Weep For You by Danny C. Sillada

whoever weeps tonight
my soul weeps for you

if you are broken
my heart breaks for you

if you are desolate
my spirit goes with you

for tonight,
no one weeps deeper

than this broken,
orphaned soul!

© Danny C. Sillada

My Poems Are Wrapped In Darkness(Elisha Porat)

Like a migrant Thai worker I pedal
my bicycle on the village path. Hunched over, dark,
my face covered against the dust. The dogs bark at me,
the bees slam into my forehead, and the scent
of a distant homeland assaults my nostrils.
And like his letters home, silverplating
the sweat of his brow, my poems too are wrapped
with the darkness that covers the land of my longing.

Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

Tangerine by Aurora Antonovic

Like a slice of life
a wedge out of time
I suddenly recall
catching the plane
as I ran in my tailored Chanel suit
holding onto my hat
with my hands encased in tiny white gloves

I recollect the sound my pumps made on the pavement
and the relief I felt when I boarded
the taste of fresh fruit for breakfast
endless sunshine
the ocean’s pull
and how I thought I could never leave
tropical delight
lemon, papaya, and pineapple days
mango nights, and
stars that seemed scented with citrus

All of this,
evoked by one bar of
tangerine soap
that holds the warmest of memories
in its tangy lather
and makes the shower’s spray
sound just like the ocean’s roar.

first published in BMP
photo taken and copyrighted by Maurizio Malangone

The Isolation of the Albino Peacock in Spring (J. Armstead)

She doesn't recall
how she came to this place,
but it had something to do
with the unfettered nervousness
of uncontrolled flight

...and the cascade of many tears

fears? nerves quivering
like birdcalls
across a sizzling
livewire
pain? fresh heartbreak
expressed in a very loud
ear-shattering cry

...mating song for the unbeautiful

...flitter, quiver, tremble, quake,
fearful and aswim, cutting through air
like fractured ice
crossing a mountain lake...

Stunted, her wings are unblack
like reflected chrome,
haunted by the sheen of polar blue.

Anxiety and Anonymity
on parade,
these mirror-faced hens,
hybridized in captivity,
she can't remember,
it's all flash-cut imagery --

It is a Wardance of the Forgotten Flock.

Her markings are all
optical interference,
silvered nothingness,
broken nanostructures
in the barbules
of dying feathers

She sits in silence,
knees drawn to chest,
in the tiny room,
enforced seclusion,
listening to the metronome
of her heart's beat,
she is gray and plain,
her extravagant plumage
robbed
of its
iridescence

The wings of this Nightbird
eclipse all tomorrows'
rainbows
*************************************************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Peacock" by OxygenWorks, (Helen Koshkina), dreamstime_240822.jpg

Sensible Garbage Cans by Steve Crooks

They wait silently, that quiet pair by the door
one for the recycle path, one for the rest
A or B, and their secret cousin down the hall
everything in its place, on its way at day's end.

Just the place for mixed refusals
of the day. No shame in leaving them
there, unknown, unheard from -
just take them away, thanks.

As a child, the dump was most fascinating,
a huge pit; back up the car close to the edge,
toss in the bags, the boxes - the odd fridge -
for imaginary roaming creatures.

Now, of course, it's more real
with knowledge of those who live there,
making their way through piles
searching for life from a can.

Comments (4)

How to prune a poet

I’m not a prolific writer.

To get more lines from me

you’d have to prune me first—

grab your hand shears,

cut my creaking, errant excess out.

But do it right, at the right times,

never in winter,

during my hibernation.

Trim me with a cultivator’s touch,

after languishing me with water,

nourishing me, tending my petals

as if you were in love.

Don’t hack, how brutal.

You could leave wounds

that would never heal.

I could become infected;

then I’d lower my limbs

in a defeated poet’s stupor.

And at the most, I’d write of throbs,

an egregious injury

the likes of which you,

grimy gloved, would never feel.

Janet Lynn Davis
pub'd in Megaera, Spring 2006.

Comments (7)

Faith (L. Ward Abel)

Ice trees
merge with the sky behind,
they become
whatever color. Ice
on the statuary that bows
with the weight of sleeping.
There is no sanctuary
in this scene, no cave
to fire these bones,
bones that dream of
greening come spring,
so far from here.
Now so cold.
There is no perfect storm.
Someone always
survives.

Comments (9)

The Faith of the Poet
by David Matthews

This night is a darkness, a ruin,
A boneyard of projects and possibility
Come to nothing, a wreck of years
That claws at my impoverished spirit.
The dawn is but a rumor,
And I have little inclination to go on.

I have taken refuge in beauty
And found solace there —
In a coffee joint or a tavern
Where the air is thick with
A poetry of hope,
Rich with the dregs of despair
And the ashes of love betrayed,
Witness to desire

Fierce enough to haunt the dream
Of the lovely María Carlotta
Who with a bottle of decent red wine,
A thin blue shawl,
And a cigarette to warm her
Inhabits a café table
In the hip district of Reykjavík
Through days of winter night,

While I wait for the sun
To shine in my head again.
I have known beauty,
And while I know too little of beauty now
At this particular moment of things,
I trust in the memory of what has been
And the rhetoric of what may yet come to pass,
This carousel of verses flung
Across the tender night
Punctuated by cups of espresso
Dark and bitter
As the women who find
Their way into my heart.

The snow falls with a flavor of tears
That sweep across the boulevards and avenues
That lead to museums
Whose cellos and violins haunt us in our despair
While our own tears sink into the black earth
Outside the window where I sit
With my pen and my paper
And of course my drink
In a glory of wasted time and goofing off
Truly at the heart of a poet’s occupation,
Awaiting the lovely María Carlotta
Who will reward this foolish abundance of hope
I cherish in my heart,
The lovely María Carlotta,
Who when she brings me a book
Of poems by Pablo Neruda,
Offers without reservation
An eroticism of grace
Born in the deeps of her eyes
And softness of her breasts.

KISS FOREVER [David Herrle]

Faces so close she was a beautiful blob
our breath became one.

To Love and to Lose a Woman by Danny Sillada

i wake up
this morning

my woman
is no longer there

my stubborn heart
is weeping

for not loving her
that much

© Danny C. Sillada

Comments (7)

Snapdragon (Joseph Armstead)

Growing wild in
purple and white,
or Primrose Yellow...

These colors
in the gray depths
of my shadow
across the garden.

They see me and invite me to play.
Childhood dances with me still.

Clustered comfortably
amidst the grass and the weeds,
living next to cool, grainy stone,
monophyletic,
earthbound spawn of sunlight,
woven of delicate and silken skin
they promise a world without end,
a cosmos of wonder and simple joy,
their bilateral symmetry
charming and colorful,
electrified by the joy
of simply Being,
while their scent
is an echo of emotion
expressed on the wind,
these little miracles,
Antirrhinum majus,
these everyday promises
of Heaven's existence.
Lifespan measured
by the beat
of a bumblebee's
wings.

Blossoming
in Montego Orange,
or Apricot Sunburst...

They see me and invite me to play.

There, at my feet,
under the cloak of my shadow,
after the frost.
*******************

Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "First Frost" by Thylacine, dreamstime_309693.jpg

Pink Roses Against Your Cheek by Aurora Antonovic

Accolades were tossed today
like meteor showers
touching earth
but all I can think of
is you are alive and breathing
and maybe waiting, hoping
for some pink sweetheart roses to arrive
with a brush of baby’s breath against their cheeks
and while you are still breathing
living
laughing
I have been asked to write your eulogy
and I feel like such a traitor
as I start scribbling about you
in the past tense
while you are very much alive
and losing yourself
in the first wisteria's
fleeting scent

photo taken and copyrighted by Reg Wyatt

Comments (9)

Watermelons by Elisha Porat

At times it is a sweet treasure, dewy, green
opening at night in the fields of Kakun;
at times it is a bloody treasure seen
sprouting from the reddening earth;
or the humps of a camel team
swinging to and fro, moving up and down.
There, these many days I dream:
diving in my slumber as my ears fill
with the sound of bells ringing in the long-necked beasts.

Bloody land moves under me, shifts,
clinging to me like an unwanted gift:
I hear the yellow-toothed mouth emit a grunt,
I see hands hastily cleaned of the hunt,
swelling in the night, dribbling in the heat
transparent bubble-like objects that grow green and sweet.
Perhaps my fears these many days will be expunged,
the ones that reemerge from forgetfulness, not fazed
even after so many many days.

Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner