Off the Wall “Ceci n’est pas de la soupe de tomates” Magritte might have said with irony. But even off the wall straight from the can the same may be said! And language spills out with the contents. “Quelle horreur!” say the gourmets in French. But Warhol was as American as Magritte was Belgian. Irony on irony. Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
We're dressed to the nine inappropriate lives of our sex dancing to the sounds of T-Rex and striding out on the dance floor androgynous models camped up what for quick as a flash we're out of the door with our mutual respect for the outcast & poor while the others wonder what they came her for we know it's between irony and sarcasm caught between the encircling chasm out of our grasp and the ailing spasm down in the doldrums of the rising cavern. A Book Review of “Spaces” by Clive Gresswell reviewed by Spriha Kant Poetry Influenced by Bob Dylan & Tom Waits from Clive Gresswell Another poem by Clive Gresswell inspired by Leonard Cohen
Thinking of Lou Reed. and New York City
that was and is /now gone…gone….so
still …the fragile shards of some unreasonable flower from half empty pockets torn from old coats ….entwines and blooms so there still this vibrant pulse ….the fleeting skein of some dense architectonic memory….always leaving, yet inside the vein beneath my skin and at twilight you are still there too and leave a card beside the wall on a scattered table….the pulse, the pulse….that I think is….though also ….gone….
For Lou Reed (1978)
fragile unreasonable flower
old full-length black autumn coat with pockets
dogeared post card against a wall
drifts from a scattered table
books letters notebooks
bloom inside the entwined half-full
shards inside this midtown Manhattan
In the cold
In the cold vibrant twilight
In the cold vibrant
In the twilight
In cold twilight
Robert Frede Kenter is a 2020 pushcart nominee, poet, visual artist, editor and the publisher of Ice FloePress. Currently living in Toronto, work is published widely, incl. Floodlight Editions, Cypress, Burning House Press, Anthropocene, New Quarterly, Grain, Prairie Fire, Going Down Swinging, Fascist Panties, Cough, Fevers Of. The hybrid, Audacity of Form (2019), is available from Ice Floe Press. Check out Robert’s latest book “Eden” with Floodlight Editions.
Eden is a selection of hybrid pareidolia poetry which glides within abstract visions. Robert Frede Kenter’s mirrored shards dangle inside sensory gardens. Smoke encircles words communicating raw politics and myth through jazzy vibrations twinkling in the shadows. Kenter’s poetry contorts paint, collage, drawn figures, photos, and found text. This imaginative collection, along with his other works and collaborations spanning more than three decades, solidify his place in the experimental poetry scene.
— Margaret Viboolsittiseri
Girls of the Years
I was you,
a hippie friend said,
just like you, when I danced.
I didn’t believe it, until
she dressed me up in Edie clothes.
And I saw me, through Superstar eyes
We sparkled in the same way
We looked lost in the same way
We’d said Ciao to everything we’d ever known,
everything that had ensnared us,
but it still wasn’t enough, and so I
didn’t want to believe
(no such thing as reincarnation, I said)
but really because
I’ve dreamt of her through a million pasts,
seen her in a thousand mirror ghosts,
saw she knew me
Inside and out and very far
From the world’s stage
From the critics,
the ocean hid us away, where
we dreamt in unicorns
star-wished above the clouds
danced like kindred spirits under full moons
Barefoot and wild and free and holding
a million futures in our hands,
always and forever sisters, best friends, daisy chain girls full of love
for this imaginary world; for ourselves.
For only ourselves, next time.
More on Willow Croft: Willow’s speculative fiction/horror has been published in a number of anthologies and journals. Find out more on Willow’s website https://willowcroft.blog
Warhol in Fact
There was a cloud atop a mountain Raining colors upon the planet below From that soil grew in motion, the children The law did not speak to those above it Into and out of the city of silver and gold There were testimonials There were artifacts There was food for the aliens in their uniforms In circles they drew stares, formations, and lines This delicate air was a destination and home Where it was assembled, where it hung on the wall Some were there, some saw it all The kisses, the brushes, the fabric, the film That whispered and shouted "let love rule this world" To be touched with a finger what invitation To sleep on the floor of this house of creation Poem by Joe Kidd for “Before I Turn Into Gold Day” inspired by Leonard Cohen A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Joe Kidd