Log in

No account? Create an account
spring 2012



featuring the art of Bill Rogers

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
john poem bill poem
spring 2012
different grind show: green boy

this is the kind of void which beholds everything it can conceive

your sutures are itching at me
like crispy sanskrit koans

more ancient than sanskrit
they are recombinant threads
sewn with the quick fingers of mothers and mad scientists
in railroad-tie fashion


opening them up
leads to a wild vastness where

green rabbits
sing silent praise


stare abstractly in a way that

enlarges softens canonizes

our young mens' supple limbs
which doubled about,
carefully straining
and relaxed
are equally absent
saturating our eyes with languid immanence

stretch out your feet, toes, heels
press them on each side of my face

sing wildly like the saints you have erected
sing into this abyss
it is open
the stitches follow a random wind
as they fly
from your fingers
still icily green

now i pause

having discovered to myself

your dark cool inner void

black eyes in pairs

haunt my dreams
haunt me in idle moments i swear

these are mirrors
painted with a flat black cloth
2 inches deep

everything swims here
and everything flies here
everything finds honor here
the whole universe has died in here

this is the kind of void which beholds everything it can conceive

John Vaughan

yellow deer

under the toe

He was mad running and falling out
There was no way to contain
The radiant armies would not stop marching
Under his smooth yet trembling chest
Under the toe of a deer that hung upon it
And the still stream pushing
Up in him,
In between him,
That cavity pushed out by growing rusty bars
That giant ontological steel pole
A Snakebird sitting in the sun
A dead tire scraped down Buffalo
This history could never be written
There were too many branching roads
But the man looked at his chest
And could see the shaking pads of dirt
The mosses, the hoof-scraped roots
The bark violated, in an appropriate manner
There were no trees here, only a forest, there was no silicon here, only a forest
There was no interaction here, only sadness, there was no despair here only joy
There was a system of eighteen hundred steel poles pushing
Pushing on his tiny litte ribcage and gently, purposely breaking him

Bill Rogers

  • 1
I didn't know that you wrote poetry in addition to being a painter. I really like the painting used for the 'john poem bill poem'.

I like the second poem too but don't have a complete on it's meaning. I believe it's about the land being pained by the steel poles being driven into it [chest]. I could easily see it as farms with any woods at all being sold to developers who bulldoze the trees and scrape the earth bare. The earth is violated. Shopping centers are built, etc.

I've been saving some old poetry too. I may be brave enough to post one here and there now that you have done so.

Also updated your email info as requested.

There is no certain meaning to the second poem, the one I wrote. It is more like a feeling and the images just attacked me one night while I was out eating, and lines started forming so quickly. I ran home and wrote it down. It took a good hour or so to arrange the lines and to complete it as a poem. There is a quirky kind of order to it, but I could only convey it by reading, which I would only do in person, since I am not a performing type. Thanks for spending some time with it.

It sounds like the way I write poetry. I write this line and that line and then I need to place them in some sort of order to make some kind of sense as the lines don't necessarily come to me in sequence.

I cannot just sit down and write a poem about nature or any other topic. Lines come into my mind on rare ocassion; it's nothing I have the given talent to do or have control over. At best what I write is prose in a primitive or crude fashion.

All the same, I enjoyed your poetry.

The way you described it is much like the way I composed mine.

I read them. They puzzle me. Especially the ontological steel pole.

Well, thanks for reading. I don't fully understand them either. Hey, I'm going to respond to your letter soon. I love your handwriting by the way.

It's nice to hear that my handwriting is pleasant to read. For a lefty, who was admonished in childhood for his poor penmanship and his awkward hand-position when writing, there's a certain vindication in hearing that.

My Mom is also a leftie, and she has quite lovely handwriting.

Awkward hand position. Oh no. Hey, I'm down with lefties.

  • 1