Michelle Greenblatt
Seven Poems from Ashes and Seeds
Michelle Greenblatt is the new co-poetry editor of AND PER SE AND, formerly known as "mprsnd". Her first book brain:storm, went to press this January. She has been published or will be published in these magazines: can we have our ball back?, eratio, Kulture Vulture, Dusie, Xerolage, Moria, Blackbox, Peek Review, Naked Sunfish, Fire, AUGHT, BlazeVOX, X-stream, Shampoo, Word for/ Word, Admit Two, The Argotist Online, Big Bridge, & The Anemone Sidecar. Her second book, Ashes and Seeds is forthcoming from BlazeVOX. Her sixth chapbook, a collaboration with Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, has just recently been released. Michelle can be reached at michelle.greenblatt@gmail.com
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Seven Poems from Ashes and Seeds
Water’s Desolate Edge
Water’s desolate edge where sun breaks into glints of light. Jagged bit of mirror between my teeth. Wingspan shrieks toward a better sound than the personified road we’ve traveled down. But I must find your face among the acqua alta while the tide-slosh nibbles at my gut with rows of sharp teeth. Slit shadow/ sky-green, your eyes bloody lemons.
Match stick, trial/error, Magyar cave to pave
3.15-22.2006
Ashes and Seeds
Living space and/or living spaces stretch out their limbs at [t]his morning’s announcements. A universe flares up in my belly, ashes and seeds are strewn about. I fall from an empty womb, an empty tomb; his underparts will forever publish me; in the forest, in the shower stalls, in the hollowed out part of my stomach, each sparking candle will alight a fire. He will neon himself like a star and play my dark cloud until I rain.
Buried din, scrim of coal, locked door on the 13th floor
3.20-4.2.2006
If You’d Like to Know
There is a north-east bludgeoning of road through the Everglades that leads to my home. Quickly, take me there; I can hear the wind giggle. I will go to my bed. I will lie there quietly. I won’t ask for food I won’t ask for water I won’t ask for a name. I will tell you why you should not go down the ladder if you’d like to know I will tell you about Lucky Jon and how he eats his girls I won’t complain of ruined memorabilia, or tell you what it feels like to pick up dusk each time I get lost in the middle of the forest, or bend shadows like the sun does.
Disaster memorizes disaster, ruin practices ruin, despair mimics despair
3.20-28.2006
Into and Around Better Sound
I stroll amid the blended sounds while I search for syllables to describe the moon arranged in awkward slices. Early spring and the north wind have me shivering. I set fire to my memory; I funnel color after color, shape after shape into the flames. Afterwards heat evaporates the night and the ashy wind seethes farewells into the darkness, walling themselves into and around better sound. I screen my images for a glimpse of you, but the visions are deformed and diminished. The worry splits my memories, once fixed as a steady heartbeat.
Water resounds, phantom sounds, revolutions of over and over again
3.21.-4.6.2006
His Hands Assail Infinity
His signature, his strength, his cold-feeling mouth. His hands assail infinity, vow to never again be moved by the pressure of protean protection, under the guise of a gilded palace. The magic of the danger is that, at any time, your bones can be found in the fixed eyes of dead women, armed with anonymity. Having finally paid the pied piper, the statuesque stares of the men became steel smiles. I get my facelessness from you, she says to him.
Demand, insight, detailed declension
3.21.-29.2006
Softly, Softly
The sureness of the moment bangs against her already-maimed existence. This breakneck bliss feathers the blossoming belladonnas into sunlight that presses between the branches—softly, softly. I am thunderstruck by your voice; I abandon myself to its sure current, its watery scansions and its intent on finding a face for me.
Sore with spores, make-shift matches, the terror again
3.21-31.2006
Downward toward Death
She curves the blade downward toward death; she fine-tunes the hours but the muteness of his minutes is fresh. She looks at me and says—Today is one of those days one would prophesy something explicit but awash in the wrong life. The one that she runs from told her she should dwell in dark places. Offshore he gains power. She breaks a glance free from his hypnotic poison and dives, aslant, away from what he says. At first she is overly cautious, but she knows whatever is dead does not always stay that way.
Razorpaint, midnight warning, five o’clock folly—pure and holy were those days
3.27-4.3.2006
Water’s desolate edge where sun breaks into glints of light. Jagged bit of mirror between my teeth. Wingspan shrieks toward a better sound than the personified road we’ve traveled down. But I must find your face among the acqua alta while the tide-slosh nibbles at my gut with rows of sharp teeth. Slit shadow/ sky-green, your eyes bloody lemons.
Match stick, trial/error, Magyar cave to pave
3.15-22.2006
Ashes and Seeds
Living space and/or living spaces stretch out their limbs at [t]his morning’s announcements. A universe flares up in my belly, ashes and seeds are strewn about. I fall from an empty womb, an empty tomb; his underparts will forever publish me; in the forest, in the shower stalls, in the hollowed out part of my stomach, each sparking candle will alight a fire. He will neon himself like a star and play my dark cloud until I rain.
Buried din, scrim of coal, locked door on the 13th floor
3.20-4.2.2006
If You’d Like to Know
There is a north-east bludgeoning of road through the Everglades that leads to my home. Quickly, take me there; I can hear the wind giggle. I will go to my bed. I will lie there quietly. I won’t ask for food I won’t ask for water I won’t ask for a name. I will tell you why you should not go down the ladder if you’d like to know I will tell you about Lucky Jon and how he eats his girls I won’t complain of ruined memorabilia, or tell you what it feels like to pick up dusk each time I get lost in the middle of the forest, or bend shadows like the sun does.
Disaster memorizes disaster, ruin practices ruin, despair mimics despair
3.20-28.2006
Into and Around Better Sound
I stroll amid the blended sounds while I search for syllables to describe the moon arranged in awkward slices. Early spring and the north wind have me shivering. I set fire to my memory; I funnel color after color, shape after shape into the flames. Afterwards heat evaporates the night and the ashy wind seethes farewells into the darkness, walling themselves into and around better sound. I screen my images for a glimpse of you, but the visions are deformed and diminished. The worry splits my memories, once fixed as a steady heartbeat.
Water resounds, phantom sounds, revolutions of over and over again
3.21.-4.6.2006
His Hands Assail Infinity
His signature, his strength, his cold-feeling mouth. His hands assail infinity, vow to never again be moved by the pressure of protean protection, under the guise of a gilded palace. The magic of the danger is that, at any time, your bones can be found in the fixed eyes of dead women, armed with anonymity. Having finally paid the pied piper, the statuesque stares of the men became steel smiles. I get my facelessness from you, she says to him.
Demand, insight, detailed declension
3.21.-29.2006
Softly, Softly
The sureness of the moment bangs against her already-maimed existence. This breakneck bliss feathers the blossoming belladonnas into sunlight that presses between the branches—softly, softly. I am thunderstruck by your voice; I abandon myself to its sure current, its watery scansions and its intent on finding a face for me.
Sore with spores, make-shift matches, the terror again
3.21-31.2006
Downward toward Death
She curves the blade downward toward death; she fine-tunes the hours but the muteness of his minutes is fresh. She looks at me and says—Today is one of those days one would prophesy something explicit but awash in the wrong life. The one that she runs from told her she should dwell in dark places. Offshore he gains power. She breaks a glance free from his hypnotic poison and dives, aslant, away from what he says. At first she is overly cautious, but she knows whatever is dead does not always stay that way.
Razorpaint, midnight warning, five o’clock folly—pure and holy were those days
3.27-4.3.2006
Michelle Greenblatt is the new co-poetry editor of AND PER SE AND, formerly known as "mprsnd". Her first book brain:storm, went to press this January. She has been published or will be published in these magazines: can we have our ball back?, eratio, Kulture Vulture, Dusie, Xerolage, Moria, Blackbox, Peek Review, Naked Sunfish, Fire, AUGHT, BlazeVOX, X-stream, Shampoo, Word for/ Word, Admit Two, The Argotist Online, Big Bridge, & The Anemone Sidecar. Her second book, Ashes and Seeds is forthcoming from BlazeVOX. Her sixth chapbook, a collaboration with Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, has just recently been released. Michelle can be reached at michelle.greenblatt@gmail.com
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