SMILE You often seem to smile even when asleep, light wrinkles on your forehead, a barely audible hiss from your nose. Your smile, by night as by day, emanates not just from your lips and gaze, but also from your chin, cheeks and temples, from how your whole body lies on the bed or moves around. It goes beyond corporeity, is smoothly metaphysical, and metamental. Your smile, and your letting me draw so heavily and freely from it, as…
Spinozablue welcomes in the month of October with new poetry from Alessio Zanelli, Kyle Hemmings and Joshua Bocher. * * * * * Hilary Sideris, one of our contributors, has a new book of poems out. It’s called Sweet Flag, and you can purchase it through Finishing Line Press. Congratulations, Hilary!
White Mulberries One Indian file resists the advance of pylons and smokestacks, right at the bottom of the hollow between the main embankments. Forsaken sentries captive at home, ashy relics of earth, air, water and fire. This land has forgotten that once it teemed with countless arrays. They know and strive to last till worms return to claim what’s theirs. Of Leaps And Old Booksellers Did you notice the limper? It could leap, but hardly walk. And the beached…
We have some new poetry on tap from Sheema Kalbasi, Alessio Zanelli and Tony Jones. Sheema also tipped me off to a very good short film and hopes our readers will view the movie here. The filmmaker in question, Hossein Martin Fazeli, is also a poet. One I hope to publish here soon. __________ If I had another life to live, I think I would be a filmmaker. The ability to make art that way, to combine prose,…
The Shriek On the edge of her lip, like a car balanced on the brink of a precipice, the shriek has halted, swaying. Just one spasm, and all of her anger would gush down noisily, sweeping sighs and placid thoughts away. We could try to rescue those inside the shaky car before it plunges to the bottom of the crag, but nothing curable is in that mouthful of vibrations. And the force of a thousand hurricanes locked in a chest…
We have a new interview on tap below. This time with Alessio Zanelli, an Italian poet who has graced our pages before. It’s often interesting to get a sense of the working methods and inspiraton behind contemporary artists, and interviews are a good way of doing that. I also think it’s important to support them. So many of us choose to read great works of writers long gone, and fail to see the art right in front of our noses….
Alan Corkish interviews Alessio Zanelli . . . You can visit the Erbacce Poetry Journal here. Alan: Hy Alessio and welcome to erbacce … I just typed into google the words ‘Alessio Zanelli poet’ and got swamped with hits, I gave up counting how many hits after I reached the 200 mark. Most of what I got is detail about your work, where you live in Italy, how English is your adopted literary tongue etc., but what erbacce…
Some new works to peruse: Rick Diguette’s amusing display of evolutionary erudition, plus new Poetry from Tony Jones and Alessio Zanelli. Will be gearing up shortly for Bloom’s Day on the 16th, taking our readers as close as we can to Dublin, Ireland, without actually blogging from Dublin. James Joyce being one of the patron saints of this journal, whether he knows that or not . . . . As always, please feel free to comment on any or…
I Am Not The Earth It is no use your chiding me for my being an elusive stuff slipping still out of your hand. In vain you keep on grumbling I had better be more concrete, steadfast, tangible, consistent. My true nature shuns your senses every time you think you hold her after long pursuing my semblance. Whatever you try at my essence, she vanishes like a sunset shadow stretching out and out before dying. You are looking for your…
On Listening To A Piece By Bach The Triple Concerto does not lie. Beauty is truth. Flute, violin, harpsichord, strings and continuo I had heard before, but genius was not there— truth and lie I could not tell apart. His was the faultless time– Bach’s, not mine. I now comprehend, I now discern when the music is a liar. Adagio ma non tanto e dolce. And sweet is to suddenly realize whatever truth at it, to know my own…