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33. Featuring: Clara Hsu

Casa Lena

 

Remember when you were a tree?

I do…arms, heaviness, blear peace. Jack Kerouac

 

 

B  e  a  u  t  i  f  u  l

                 f

                   o

                 periwinkle  r

                m

                 s

the concept of a house.     h about

                      s

Apollo’s sons          a  

               d      

in the breeze

their owl heads spin

from dawn to dust.

 

Serene is the Virgin

                     her splendid robe

                       hung

                       on a

                       wall

rivers of emotion

c

 a

   s

     c

       a

        d

          i

           n

             g

 

                            Morning incense

                         fair hills in a distance

                              steeples and bells.

                     

                                                                     Dull noon washes

                                  Rain       in a sink of sunflowers.

         ¿ No                     in

   estoy yo aqui,                     the       Fluttering wings

que soy tu Madre?              middle       take the evening down          

                                                 of              lampara de estrellas          

                                                 the              a new universe.

                                    night.

 

Clara Hsu

The Average Skilled Worker

 

My hands are never still.

They shape, design, build, touch.

Put yourself in my hands,

you’ll be surprised. Only three

MPs didn’t think they were worth

more than me. My hands rise

in the dark, form a cradle

to grip my aching head.

 

All night long, I hear them:

voices that sneer into phones,

talk down hospitals and schools,

libraries and lives. Hands

that open only to take.

 

I grasp the darkness and wait

to begin work. They’ll be surprised.

 

Joel Lane

JUGGLER

 

Three knives slice air  

in a bubble of spotlight,  

the audience moored in  

a window of anticipation.

 

Female assistant justifies  

a gesture of skimpy outfit  

with overflowing curves  

feed accustomed patterns.  

Increase to four, then five,  

his concentration proportional.

 

She cuts silence with a sixth,  

bends a little too far,  

reveals a little too much.

 

The audience applauds  

six dropped knives.

 

Gordon Scapens

Last night

 

Last night my mother cycled through my dream

she wore a ponytail and her blue striped skirt,

the wind in her back, on her way to the sea.

Up and down the dunes ran the winding path

the silence was broken by the whirr of the wheels

as she cycled last night through my dream.

And the scream of the vixen, the cry of the owl

and the shiver of the wind in the pines

as it nudged her on her way to the sea.

And the air was so heavy with her scent

and the path shone like a mirror, the path

on which she cycled through my dream.

I tried to call her but I had no voice

I tried to touch her but I had no hands

as she travelled with the wind to the sea.

I woke in a room full of moonlight

and the salty smell of the sea, after

my mother cycled through my dream last night

in her blue striped skirt, with the wind in her back.

 

Karin van Heerden

 

The Night of a Rising Sun

 

The sun is wheeling up slowly,

as the weather sharpness

and contrast fine-tunes  

to the colour of all things.

 

A hawk streams the air road,

paraphrases ghost on lily

with the ill notion to frighten prey

that moves in company.

Nimble talons stalls

to act the part of Atropos

as fowls sift the soil for food

in a harvest of leg dance.

At mid air a dimpled

spider seizes a fly

caught in web designed

deep in secrecy.

 

There is always a cyclic turn;

the eternal design of things go on.

Every one repeats the things they love.

 

Oritsegbemi E. Jakpa