Going through the shelves I found Horizons, a literature and art review journal edited by Cyril Connolly, who quipped, “Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”‘

One excerpt stood out from an issue of October 1947 by e.e. cummings (whose name he rendered in all caps). An image of that is below:

It starts

to start, to hesitate; to stop
(kneeling in doubt: while all
skies fall) and then to slowly trust
T upon H, and smile —

Fingers getting grey, going thru boxes in boxes, tucked in with vases were small albums of snapshots. Years slept undisturbed, imperturbable. Opening the plastic burgundy, I find we were children together, with joy that would make a pregnancy glow dim by comparison.

Baby fat still over forehead, how did we look so old to one another then? Film after film was a ping pong of each other’s image. Invisible veins could make radiators of us, enough that scent of cotton came off shoulders, chests and backs as if we were ironed by our own need.

Morning with a bleary weaaahh? was clamp-palm-over-mouth precious, adorably giggle-able. It’s a wonder we didn’t use film canisters to keep each bit of sleep in eyes, stash fallen eyelashes, and razor off archival slivers from banisters the loved one touched once.

The intimacy of watching the other sleep was biblical adoration by a lone Magi. It was just as if, for a few minutes, that person weren’t actually weren’t Jesus and Mama and the embodiment of Kama Sutra all wrapped up in one old soul’s juvenile body.

first photos
closed eyelid rapture
even saints sleep

other sleep poems at One Deep Breath and a Contemporary Haibun Online and RitaPita’s post on sleep

Cento is a form where you cut lines and reassemble to a new whole. Scribal Terror explains more.

Here I’ve taken nursery rhymes and cobbled them to a different plot. Only punctuation is shifted, every line is a direct lift, including the title.

Take your wings and fly away

When the boys came out to play
He began to compliment, and I began to grin
On a cold and frosty morning.
One o’clock, two o’clock, three and away…

“I am a don lock.” “I am a don key.”
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Under the haystack, fast “asleep”!
(And why may not I love Johnny?)

The Man in the Moon came tumbling down
And vowed he would serve them the same the next day.
And Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

The rats and the mice they made such a strife.
Some gave them plum-cake, and sent them out of town.
(How will he be married without e’er a wife?)
A raven cried croak! and they all tumbled down.

Higher than a house, higher than a tree.
Master I have, and I am his man.
Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still with thy daddy.
Dance to your daddy, my bonnie lamb.

I’m not sure if I prefer the ABAB or AABB pattern.

Take your wings and fly away

He began to compliment, and I began to grin
On a cold and frosty morning.
One o’clock, two o’clock, three and away,
And vowed he would serve them the same the next day.

The Man in the Moon came tumbling down
And Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Bonny and blithe, and good and gay
When the boys came out to play.

How will he be married Without e’er a wife?
The rats and the mice they made such a strife.
Some gave them plum-cake, and sent them out of town.
A raven cried croak! and they all tumbled down.

Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Under the haystack, fast “asleep”!
“I am a don lock.” “I am a don key.”
And why may not I love Johnny?

Higher than a house, higher than a tree.
Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still with thy daddy.
Master I have, and I am his man.
Dance to your daddy, my bonnie lamb.

A while back you may recall I responded to Silliman‘s style of asking questions in Chinese Notebook by providing my own answers. Luminita Suse has posted a response to Sunset Debris by Ron Silliman by asking questions of her own about the nature of poetry. Fascinating and fun read.

Continuing the questioning theme, issue 7 of Poetics.ca is now up, with with questions about lines of relating and categories of poetry by Jason Camlot and Todd Swift of the The Vehicule Poets and Second Generation Postmodernism, an essay by Ken Norris. It’s a good place to get a grounding or orientation for names, places, times as is the follow-up collective essay on it.

There’s also an interview with Rachel Zucker, a poet whose deliberately fragmentary-feeling work includes the ironically titled, The Last Clear Narrative. She’s asked about her development process, how life fed her poetry.

In other news, no question here: Lorna Dee Cervantes has won the Pushcart for her poem Shelling the Pecans.

the very next day

it took leave of me
waving it off merrily

beside myself, fatigued
at the overly long stay

But the funk came back
and it had kittens…

The Cat Came Back Film at the NFB