Truck :: n.

a self-propelled vehicle for carrying goods

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Two "New Apparition Poems" by Adam Fieled
#1136 Pull me towards you— woven color patterns create waves beneath us, tears buoy bodies to a state beyond “one” into meshed silk webs— not every pull is gravitational— as two spiders float upwards, I say to you (as we multiply beyond ourselves) “those two are a bit much, their sixteen legs making love”

SEVEN CORNERS
<<< 7C | 7C | 7C | 7C | 7C | 7C | 7C >>>

eatured 10 December 2006

Featured Poet: Adam Fieled
Poet: Ada10 December 2006

Pigs and Planes

I don’t believe in poetry. It’s a slant that wavers around different patches of sky, or mud chucked on slats of a sty. Or it could be the pig, or the plane, farmer or pilot, pork-chop industrialist, airtraffic controller. The one thing it isn’t is itself. To say poetry is poetry is a rank offence, postmisdemeanor, sub-felony, the sort of sin credulous people pray against. Pigs you can believe in, & sties. Planes you can believe in, & skies. I don’t believe in poetry.

ADAM FIELED

from Apparition Poems #220 Poetry from a pure place is an impossibility: as you write, even the slants you tell fall within the purview of the filthy. So did Emily, alone in a drafty house in snow-capped Amherst, as a dream presented itself to her of Gods in America. As those Gods became common, hovering in or past receptive heads, the filth was in not just her words but her life. Solitary filth— that’s all of us, but the visionary deadness and the beautiful scum make pretty pictures against grains, strains.

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