Wednesday, November 23, 2011

New Poetry by Phillip Ellis

What Truly Never Ends (for Clare)

I keep wanting to begin these sonnets
with "Time is like..." and so forth. Suddenly
it seems less amusing than wearisome
to me, as if I cannot think about
anything other than this theme, this one
never-ending refrain of story. This
is what it is like for me, echoing
so softly, like cat purrs in hollow rooms.

But what truly never ends for my mind
are the echoes of your name in my room--
the word 'fern' reminds me of your country
for one thing, and ferns are etched in my mind--
and I can't stumble around in my head
without these joyous reminders of you.

- Phillip Ellis 2011

Waitomo (for Clare)

In a certain land, in a certain cave,
glow-worms breathe blue light into the darkness
over the water, and having seen them
suspend their filaments, and set their lures
for whatsoever may fly nearby, also
having seen their constellations, I know
that this certain cave, in this certain land,
is nothing short of beautiful, like you.

I have not dreamt of comparing you
to these glow-worms: you do not emit their light
in the darkness, rather, when it is night,
you are as a constant pole-star in skies
that this mariner reads as he travels,
marking his charts with sonnets, villanelles.

- Phillip Ellis 2011

A Villanelle for Clare

For I would write a villanelle
for you, O Clare, alone and sweet,
for you, as sweet as any bell

that ever rang, and I'd write well
with rhythm fair, and tripping feet,
for I would write a villanelle

that would delight to make you swell
with happiness, that is complete
for you, as sweet as any bell

I've ever heard, from birds in dell
or church in Armidale, for, Sweet,
for I would write a villanelle

for you alone, as well as tell
the world your songs are fair and fleet,
for you, as sweet as any bell,

I would but write, not terzanelle
nor rondelet nor ode complete,
for I would write a villanelle
for you, as sweet as any bell.

- Phillip A. Ellis 2011

The Flayed Man:
Symptoms Positive and Negative:
A Harvest: Poetry: coming soon

The Cruellest Month:

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

New words and pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson


My drink, a spoon. I do not know why it was there. I wave it, which didn’t seem right. A prop, the play somebody forgot to stage.
The glass tapped. Shimmering circles, limpid greens, Degas, giving up a secret.
Regardless the force applied, it always starts at the edge.
Varied rhythms. Salome, her veils, backed by a Bop quartet.
No good without your dance.
Falling, the sound of tin, the spoon kisses table.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2011

Orange Action Bag (watercolor) by Wayne H. W Wolfson

To Leave

It was my last night here. She had gotten me all kinds of things I could not take with me, to do so would have been a pain in the ass. I think she knew this and wanted to test me.
A bunch of bottles which would surely break en route and flowers. I don’t know what she expected me to do with those, carry them cradled in one arm as if I had just won a pageant?
There was something about them which rubbed me the wrong way, despite their bright colors. This too she knew and every time she ran out to get some last minute ingredient for dinner she would return with more.
On the table a green glass vase of Jasmine. The exoticism of its perfume gave me nightmares, dying under an alien sun. Slow waves of heat rolling off of everything, having indulged in every sensualist impulse.
She kept waking me up in the middle of the night, making me roll over onto her. In the morning I was tired, which would make my trip seem quicker for being done in a half daze.
At the last minute she manages to get me angry, pulse quickening, I am now awake.
I kiss her good bye and do not say anything to ruin the moment.
One train, all the way into another country, where I will catch a plane out of Heathrow, cutting an ugly gash in the sky as I head home.
A client had been unable to pay and had settled the bill by giving me their expensive tape machine.
I liked it but soon I too would have to hawk it. After all, I needed to eat and there was always new records coming out to add to my collection. I noticed one tiny pink splotch of nail polish on the machine’s underside.
Back home I listen to the tapes we had made, sometimes sitting at a table in the zocalo. Hearing them now, after the fact I get new shades of meaning from some of the things we both had said.
Re-listening, our words and the intent behind them, how sprite like they had danced around over the course of several rounds of drinks.
Far away and removed from all that, there is the odd sensation of listening to two actors reciting lines and lies which I had written on commission.
The lies I tell myself, always stopping before the final act, leaving only one lone voice to solo.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2011

Fortnight in the Country (Watercolor) by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Calling all Poets

Spring has come to my mountain and I am in the mood for poetry. Bluepepper is fairly ecumenical in its tastes, but even we need rules, so make sure you check the submissions guidelines in the sidebar before submitting.