Category Archives: Poetry

Spleen

Posted on February 9, 2013 by ubu507

When the world turns into a dark dungeon And hope like a bat batters the walls with timid wings Butting its head against the rotten ceiling   When the rain descends like prison bars And a silent horde of horrid … Continue reading →

Posted in Archie, Health and wellness, Poetry | 1 Comment

Hieros Gamos

Posted on November 13, 2012 by ubu507

In Amen Court The dark arches The water gate The tomb of Eleanor of Castille All Hallows shadowing A wet day lying On the Thames embankment I ain’t asking shit of The fixed standard The plain of high heaven Or … Continue reading →

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Tributary

Posted on September 10, 2012 by ubu507

The wrinkles Across your shirt Tributaries To your body

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Carla

Posted on September 8, 2012 by ubu507

In the corner, the black spider She spins her drama and sleeps The sleep of a mane of hair. And the room eats her dreams. — Jean-Pierre Duprey

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Station 2

Posted on July 20, 2012 by ubu507

In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, How to make poems. You dance Inside my chest Where No one sees you. But sometimes I do And that sight Becomes this art. — Rumi (translated by Coleman … Continue reading →

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Bowl

Posted on June 13, 2012 by ubu507

Know that the world is like Mount Sinai, and we like Moses are seekers; every moment an epiphany arrives and cleaves the mountain asunder.  — RUMI

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While Pensive I thought on my Love

Posted on June 9, 2012 by ubu507

illustration to an unidentified publication. Block cut by George Dalziel After Frederick Richard Pickersgill 1835-1861 The British Museum WHILE pensive I thought on my love, The moon on the mountains was bright, And Philomel down in the grove, Broke sweetly … Continue reading →

Posted in art, Books, Books and Art, Crime Beat, Death, Health and wellness, Love, Poetry, Poetry and Art, Woman | Leave a comment

The Stream Beyond

Posted on June 5, 2012 by ubu507

Somewhere we exist Past this wall To the stream beyond In the icy shadows A distant movement We exist

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Her?

Posted on May 22, 2012 by ubu507

She is not event free I’ve been on the elevator With her and I’m sure Her convex maturity Her crepuscular allure Reflecting American materialism For her own glory Attractive at least notionally The Lady of a Hundred Hands In a … Continue reading →

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from The Last Avant-Garde: The Making of the New York School of Poets

Posted on January 13, 2012 by ubu507

It is no secret that our own times are inimical to the imagination. Technology has put art to the rout. The concept of fame has been degraded, replaced by the notion of celebrity, and poetry is recognized as an expedient … Continue reading →

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