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Ozy Variation 1 | Word-play

Pop Ozy


Michael Dickel

Variation one on Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I, who stand half and tell which the hand—
(oh my, look, nothing of the lone met)—
said: sunk, a wrinkling, yet on the name,
on, besides that, a traveler, two.
The shattered lip, its survival mocked.
Pedestal is my remains, a colossal level
from vast desert visage and sculptor-stamped.
These Ozymandias works, round wrecks, sand—
antique. And nearby, lies, sneering—well, of words,
those kings. You, the boundless stretch of land. Trunkless,
they, whose passions appear mighty, decay,
and, far, legs frown on, cold (read lifeless).
The hearts of kings bear away the command,
things that despair. On stone, sand fed.


The poem above uses the words of Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley, re-arranged and with some slight variations in form. Below is the original and some discussion of how I constructed the variation.


Ozymandias


Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command ,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


The table below shows how I divided the words. I then used the words down each column from left to right, in order to construct my “variation.” I mad slight changes, for example, in the first column, six rows from the bottom through the first row of the second column (marked in blue), the words go “And “My Look Nothing of The lone met.” The third line in my variation, which uses those words, reads: “(oh my, look, nothing of the lone met)—”

If you are so inclined, you could use this table to go through the words of the original Shelley poem and compare them to my poem to see how I built the variation.


I	met	a traveler	from an 	antique	land			
Who	said:	Two	vast	and	trunkless	legs	of	stone
Stand	in	the	desert.	Near	them,	on	the	sand,
Half	sunk, a	shattered	visage	lies,	whose	frown,		
And	wrinkled	lip,	and	sneer	of	cold	command	,
Tell	that	its	sculptor	well those	passions	read		
Which	yet	survive,	stamped	on	these	lifeless	things,	
The hand	that	mocked	them	and		the heart	that	fed;
And	on the	pedestal	these	words	appear:			
"My	name	is	Ozymandias,	king		of kings:
Look	on	my	works,	ye	Mighty,	and	despair!"	
Nothing	beside	remains.	Round	the	decay
Of	that	colossal	wreck,	boundless	and	bare
The lone	and	level	sands	stretch	far	away.

What do you think? Is my variation poetry? Can one construct a poem using matrices in this way and still be writing poetry? I have applied a similar matrix approach to the first of the three parts of my cubist poems in entangled form to arrive at one of the other parts. See an example here (and see if you can figure out the second transformation I use to arrive at the remaining part). What do you think?

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the blue is drifting | 3 poems from Kinga Fabó

I’m not a city


Kinga Fabó

I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.
I feel good. You didn’t
invite me though. How
did I get here?

You’d do anything for me; right?
Let’s do it! An attack.
A simple toy-
wife? I dress, dress, dress
myself.

The dressing remains.
I operate, because I’m operated.
All I can do is operate.
(I don’t mean anything to anyone.)
What is missing then?

Yet both are men separately.
Ongoing magic. Broad topsy-turviness.
Slow, merciless.
A new one is coming: almost perfect.
I swallow it.

I swallow him too.
He is too precious to
waste himself such ways.
I’d choose him: if he knew,
that I’d choose him.

But he doesn’t. My dearest is lunatic.
In vain he is full: He is useless
without the Moon, he can’t change,
he won’t change,
the way the steel bullets spin: drifting,

the blue is drifting.
He tolerates violence on himself, I was afraid
he’d pull himself together and
asks for violence.
I watched myself

born anew with indifference:
(if I melt him!)
stubborn, dense, yowls. They worked on him well.
Right now he is in transition.
He is a lake: looking for its shore.

 

“I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.”


Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics



False Thread


Kinga Fabó

Seasons jam up.
Drill through the spring.
Winter, summer start attacking.

The flood makes a run.
Surging again and again
stalls and then throngs ahead.

Under the sea, the land is shaking.
(The unhoped front comes with such commotion.
While the other is dragging a heatwave.)

The shipwrecks of the lips: pilling of syllables.
Slurs and stutters.
Breaks and floods the words with anger.

It hits. Or gets hit by a syllable
culminating above on it.
Gives no time to get resentful.

There is its double if it bales out.
None holds a grudge against none.
It hits. Or let others beat it.

The client is the same man.
Hiding in my shadow.
Matters not what I say or do.

There is no love: Spring’s been postponed.
It might be hiding in my shadow.
Snip. I’ll cut you up, you false thread.

(An iceberg broke of fin Greenland.
The woods are on fire around Moscow.
The air is poisonous above Moscow.)

 


Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics



 Old Bitch of a Summer


Kinga Fabó

(For her Sake:) furioso

Her revenge is a long wrench. Her
blood-drenched sword will not deter
her drummed up horde to pester me.
A stabbing tour: a feast to see!

She flaunts her lust to hurl me blind,
wanting to carry me beyond.
The old bitch pants away. Behind
the panting horde, with her up front.

She out-pants it. As she does me.
Plays pathetic spells ne’er to be.
The banner proudly swells on
preparing a vengeful affront,

for what? For her earsplitting squall?
No one for her lust to clutch?
Abundant is her bitter gall.
Bitches hate bitches this much.

The watch prods a conceited cusp.
If only for fair play – just once!
Hysterically howls the wind.
In her throat the dust.

The watch for revenge is tough.
It breaks up the goal-event; bluff!
The match is called off.

She hurls down. Enraged beast!
Matter is thin, swig is short.
Thirst for revenge is her gloat.

Her revenge has more to see.
She has had it to a tee.
Breaks down and lets it be.

Sharpening her caustic sting,
its poison spills on my skin.
Sap for revenge flows,

penetrates deeply, as summer into fall.
Illicitly lodges where no one should stall.

Hangs on my neck: not for her path.
Her tongue daggers itself to death.

Drags it in circles. Lassoes me
’round. – Drums up her clan.

Ticking away, the old bitch is.
Catch me she will, where’er I am.


Translated by Katarina Peters, finishing touches by Kinga Fabó



Kinga Fabó

Hungarian poet Kinga Fabó‘s latest book, a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry collection titled Racun/Poison was published in 2015 in Jakarta, Indonesia.

Fabó’s poetry has been published in various international literary journals and poetry magazines including Osiris, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Screech Owl, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, Numéro Cinq, Deep Water Literary Journal, Fixpoetry, lyrikline.org and elsewhere, as well as in anthologies like The Significant Anthology, Women in War, The Colours of Refuge, Poetry Against Racism, World Poetry Yearbook 2015, and others.

Two of her poems have been translated into English by George Szirtes and are forthcoming in Modern Poetry in Translation Spring Issue with an introduction by Szirtes.

Some of her individual poems have been translated into 17 languages altogether: Albanian, Arab, Bulgarian, English, Esperanto, French, Galego, German, Greek, Indonesian, Italian, Persian, Romanian, Serbian, Slovenian, Spanish, Tamil.

One of her poems (The Ears) has, among others, six different Indonesian translations by six different authors.

Earlier in her career Fabó was also a linguist dealing with theoretical issues, like logics or the philosophy of language, and an essayist, too, interested in issues from the periphery, from the verge. She has also written an essay on Sylvia Plath.

In everything she’s done, Fabó has always been between the verges, on the verge, in the extreme.

She lives in Budapest, Hungary.

Read more of Kinga Fabó’s poetry on Meta/Phor(e)/Play and in the April issue of The BeZine, Celebrating International Poetry Month

Poems ©2017 Kinga Fabó, digital art ©2017 Michael Dickel.


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falling innocently | Toni García Arias

The Last Summer


Toni García Arias

from the book Fallen Angels

I went for you, but you were nowhere
They told me that you
would not come back
till the following summer.
But I was fragile with arguments
and I did not understand my clumsiness and the cycle of things.
Every day I came back to your house
like a hopeful carrousel
that repeats its craziness.
It always awaited the same answer.
Fifteen years have passed since then
My memories of you
are chilling.



 

You


Toni García Arias

from the book Fallen Angels

You came like the rain
with wet hair and your eyes
tangled in dreams.
On your wet face,
there was a lock of curled hair
falling innocently.
Those little imperceptible details
that you do not provoke
thrill the world. And that is the beauty.
The cadence of your walking
stopped for a moment
the rhythm of the things
and there was nothing happening
in my eyes
that it was not you.
In this brief space
where your eyes and my eyes met
we recovered the story of love
that we couldn’t in other time.
Then you walked towards me
and wrapped me with your arms in a hug
Since then without your lips
I get frozen.



 

Working Days


Toni García Arias

from the book Fallen Angels

Portraits of blurred cartoons
that try a shapeless smile
of a new day. Picked Bodies
along the corridors of incomplete lights
incomplete shadows, half lives,
sleepy eyes. There is a yawn
that enlarges the scenery.
I melt my life in this place
eight hours a day.
How many ways are there
of earning death?



 

Toni García Arias is a a Spanish writer. He publishes articles in the newspapers La Opinión de Murcia, Periodista Digital and Viceversa Magazine of New York. He has five books of poems in Spanish: Distancias, Sobre la Arena, Todos los Puertos, Diccionario de Derrotas, and Ángeles Caídos. His poems have been translated into Italian, Portuguese and English. In English, he has two books of poems: Dictionary of Defeats and Fallen Angels.

In 2010 he received the first Culture Prize of Concello de Cabanas, in Coruña. In 2016 he was a finalist of the award “Gabriel García Marquez“ of Ojos Verdes Editions.

Visit Toni García Arias’ website to read more of his work.  He is on Twitter and he is on Facebook.


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unpublished poems 2016 | Donatella D’Angelo

Per quella luce sospesa
tra le ciglia degli angeli
morirei infinite volte

e infinite volte tornerei
corona di spine.

For that light suspended
between angels’ eyelashes
I would die a thousand times

and a thousand times
come back crown of thorns.

*

Nel cavo della mano la verità
e le sofferenze colte appena
nell’indulgenza dei silenzi
di abiti dismessi:

Donatella D’Angelo

eppure

risorgeranno verticali i draghi.

In the hollow of the hand, the truth
and sufferings just picked
in the indulgence of silences
of clothing put off:

and yet

rise again vertically the dragons.

*

Spiegami il profumo del basilico
il passo invisibile della tigre.

Nell’antro salvifico della vita
separo la notte e i suoni scordati
il muto cadere dei corpi celesti.

Perché fa tanto freddo qui?

Explain to me the scent of basil
the unseen step of the tiger.

In the salvific den of life
I separate night and clashing sounds
the mute fall of celestial bodies.

Why is it so cold here?


Donatella D’Angelo (Milan, Italy 1966) has been working in the visual arts since the 1980’s. A curator of cultural events, she teaches photography in high school and university courses. She is one of the artists selected for the anthology about self-portrait in photography by Giorgio Bonomi Il corpo solitario, Rubbettino Editore (2017). Her photos have been exhibited in Europe and in the US and have appeared in various online and print publications. She received the first-place prize at the national contest LABirintiFOTOgrafia 2015. As a writer, some of her short stories and poems have been published in anthologies, magazines and various blogs. In 2016 she published her first poetry and photography book, Memento vivere, edizioni del Foglio Clandestino.

Poems © 2016 Donatella D’Angelo; English translations by Dennis Formento with the poet.

These poems also appear in the April issue of The BeZine, Celebrating interNational Poetry Month. The BeZine also publisher Three Poems (Italian and English) in 2015 and Michael Dickel’s poems accompany her photography in White Angel Feathers, also in The BeZine in 2015. You can see her photography on her website.


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Barricades and Beds | Aditi Angiras

Abandon


Aditi Angiras

1.
try to abandon everything everyday
barricades and beds
bar stools and bridges
break out of things
that are more prison
than places
2.
try to abandon everything everyday
promises and/in politics
pornographic power drinks
rip into pieces
things more disgusting
than dollar bills
3.
try to abandon everything everyday
mothers and memories
murder(o)us in black streets
pull bullets instead
in your own chest
your own skins
4.
try to abandon everything everyday
toxic shock tampons
trip trigger tessellate
chemicals crazy
crying over bodies
of born deads
5.
try to abandon everything everyday
religions like reading
red lights and rolling paper
turn on pages
with your fingers
and fuck poems
like rock stars
and then
abandon them
like everybody abandons
everything every time anyways


Geography


Aditi Angiras

Aditi Angiras

I always got
good grades
in geography
lessons, drawing
topographic maps
I would read
contour lines
study them well
but wonder
why do we need
to read them
when will I ever
need this
in real life
Years later,
lying here
next to you,
reading
contour lines,
neck to navel
I realise


Planchette


Aditi Angiras

it’s no coincidence
that a planchette
is shaped like a
heart or a shield
when you play
with my love
like it’s your Ouija board
where yes or no
hello or goodbye
sound like sounds
haunting all
the four chambers


Aditi Angiras is a poet and activist based in Delhi, India. Her writing deals with politics, desire, modern love and all things queer and feminist. Her poems have appeared in various anthologies and journals, including Dilli—An Anthology of Women Poets of Delhi, Muse India and Glitterwolf Magazine. She recently edited a collection of spoken word poetry by women from Asia for Big Bridge.

She is also the founder of Bring Back The Poets, a spoken word poetry initiative that deals with politics, sexuality and activism through poetry in public spaces. Her work here is informed by art activism with a focus on art education, community development and cultural exchange. She believes that art cuts across boundaries and disciplines, and so should ways of experiencing it.

This poem © 2017 Aditi Angiras. It also appears in the April 2017 issue of The BeZine, along with many other fine poems and poets from all over the world.


 

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Hiding Under Desks — Two Poems

Mike Stone and I regularly share our work with each other on social media. Often it seems, one of us will write a poem and the other will pull up a poem with a connection. As though we grew up in the same time period, similar context, with similar life events. Which I suspect is true. With pleasure, I share these two—Mike posted his recently, and I pulled mine out of my archives.


Hiding Under My Desk

Mike Stone
Raanana, September 20, 2016

I remember back in fifty-six
When we were kids in school
Being taught to hide underneath my desk
During civil defense drills
To protect us from nuclear attack
Although I wondered why they’d attack a school
But our teacher told us we had a depot in town
And that kind of made sense
Although I didn’t know what a depot was
But I had my desk and I was good at hiding
So I was all set.
We didn’t know we were preparing for Death
But what did we know of Death then
Til I saw a documentary on television
About a small mushroom cloud far away
And a few minutes later there was a huge wind
That blew down houses and the skin off people.
I heard about the Rapture from our housekeeper
Which sounded like a nuclear attack.
My uncle moved to Australia that year
Probably thought it was another planet
Safe from A-bombs
It’s a wonder I survived.


Carousel

Michael Dickel
from the series, Touching the Dead

i
When he was four years old
his brothers told him
about bomb drills
Climb under the desk and Kiss Your Ass goodbye
He nearly wet his pants.

At five years old
he rode his first carousel
Terrified
of falling off the wood steed he hung on
for dear life
with no place to hide.

By his sixth birthday
schools discontinued bomb drills—
not because
the big A would not drop.

No. Because the desk
would melt away
leaving
no place to run.

ii
Now
he walks down a hospital corridor
turned art gallery.
Paintings on the wall
reveal

frozen rabbits
stopped tigers
captive flowers
farm and snow scenes
lined up.

Gathered at one end,
distorted and angry
carousel horses throw
their heads up
on white rag
paper.

iii
The last horse shrieks,
pulls reins
from unsteady hands—
desperately gallops from its stall
away
from the merry-go-round

away
from the orange fire glow
away
from the quiet moments
away
from so much death and illness

that come right after—


 

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Three poems | memory | gary lundy


gary lundy

you press the rewind button

watch the same scene over until loss regulates a breach into which we all might run. an accord found between two close friends. or the movement of others whose bodies sway in the moving waves of sound and traffic. ignore for a few minutes those things beyond loss. how to now return to those boxes assumed forever lost to landfill. or a closet or drawer of a stranger. bookcase or wall. all lost although finally not. when they remember to call and we aren’t home. particles upon particles. of the one now fallen to dust. our floor covered. fragments crack underfoot. the accumulation of wasted details. we might still find room to love they say. all the while you nod fighting off sleep.

 


Sunset memories


gary lundy

when i close my eyes i fall into disquieted memory

flood within frames of imagined past events no more real than the color blue. regard a quiet as if contemplation an everyday recurring event. where a newly discovered photograph compels analogy. you sketch out your days forgetful wander under unexamined happiness. when food runs low and wine sours. when they unexpectedly slap us our glasses fall break. the residual trace of others. cigarette butts tossed onto the ground. crumpled coffee and soda cups. plastics and cardboards surround and grow in clumps. so that one wearing miniskirt and handlebar mustache attracts our attention. out of a rising boredom in the everyday. looks prevail whenever ears focus on conversation or song. when there’s nothing to say napping comes too easily. they wonder why you ignore them. or if rather they take up all your attention and thus compel you to shut them out. not even at night when quiet attaches to the rooms are they able to amend the pain that constantly compromises any even slight activity. whenever it just doesn’t work.

 


Meron Area - 22


gary lundy

are there locators for those days when indispensable vacates.

when hours fly north with the geese. hard to notice you’ve been voiceless for two months three days. not that dates count for much other than broken promises. where contracts constrict our movement and leave us in state of compromise nonplussed. or rather while the water boils check up on their movement across rugged terrain. when they startle and spill coffee or sprouts stick to the cover over skin pleasure. those usual moments when everything doesn’t hold together. they wander alongside others delusional. wrap the morning plans in warm weather protection. otherwise they garner praise and smile wrapped in red. slow it to a tune on the radio. resolve not to subject themselves to errancy when in pursuit of unwanted attention.

 


cranes2difference


 

gary lundy and I have known each other forever almost, or at least decades, which is almost forever. We met at a philosophy and poetry conference in Canada and have been inseparable since, mostly online. Through those decades, we have continued to converse  poetically and philosophically through the personal.

His first book, When Voices Detach Themselves (Is a Rose Press), delves deep into personal space and comes out with cultural revelations. His most recent book, Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving (Is a Rose Press), dives even further, if possible, into the heart of matters, uncovering the space for forgiveness and a desire for continued connection—even from deep within introspection. We feel the power of pausing in order to understand how the outer world shapes us, especially through the ideas of relation/ship and loss.

gary headshotThe three poems above play on memory, nostalgia, and longing—the delusions of what we take as granted and the cracks and splatters of a glass of wine shattering on the ground of that false sense of knowing. Looking at it from my own contexts of distortion, gary’s work seems to play in a liminal space, on the boundary of what we understand but can’t articulate clearly in our limited, culturally-shaped language, with imagery that we understand without language, in that boundary where delusions fracture to reveal glimpses of our human longing for connection, and tones of desire form the pallette of his word paintings.

 


Shop Indie Bookstores
gary lundy’s poetry books can be found at Independent book sellers through Indiebound.


Digital art and photo of trees ©2016 Michael Dickel
Photo of gary lundy from his book Heartbreak Elopes into a Kind of Forgiving @2016

 

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