неділя, 12 березня 2017 р.

Devon Balwit - 1 / 1-2-3-4-5 / 1-2-3

Devon Balwit is a poet/educator working in Portland, OR. She uses the height of her dog's leaps to augur her fortunes for the day.


I have asked you and I have asked you

what is the story you are trying to
tell me what is the story you are

lacking a thread to lead me through
the maze of you I have lost my

bearings in the fog cannot make
out the next herm the blazed trunk

you folded that way curled round
gastropod foot tight to where I

could enter you flicker from a
distance that exceeds my fuel

my desire to cross lightyears you
at the galaxy’s edge ever receding

your story flaring behind a comet
dwindling until I can no longer


2. Silence in the Plaza Hotel: Theme & Variation (Las Vegas, New Mexico)

A public space
with no muzak

demands tribute,

thoughts not forced

into brightness,
mouth not fed words
overly simple.

The high-ceilinged room
opens to a park,
room and park
both empty,
allowing the mind
to shake off
stretching sinews
of syllables
until it finds
full extension,
a holding,
then a letting go.

The silence awaits thought,
thought aquiver like a mouse,
mouse awaiting the moment,

the moment of the zigzag dash,
the dash to the ripe round seed,
seed rich to bursting,

bursting through teeth,
teeth feeding the hunger,
a hunger ever unsated.

Window light doubles each object, color and shadow,
plant, table, lamp, chair meeting my gaze in silence,
leaving me to decide if I am welcome or resented,
the room impatient to return to mute colloquy.

The silence intrudes
like an ocular migraine,

a strobing
spilling from eye to eye,

until the visual field

retina a plaything
of a brain

refusing to recognize
the known,

in its perfect storm.

The table offers its back
to the open book, the scratching pen,
accepting the full weight
of devotion.


3. The Personal is Parabolic Y=x2+1 for domain d= {-4≤x≤4}


Such a cackling from the chicken with each egg as if the world should cheer

celebrating the cloacal, awestruck

by the smooth blankness.

of me?
Am I not also
a wonder at my desk, broody, laying,
each poem pecking its tiny egg tooth, desperate to be released?

She swore the whip-its were for an art project.  Many a parent has
believed such an outlandish claim.  Why not?
Much easier than
the truth,
what is
truth, anyway?  I
got up to hijinks and survived.  Hip mom,
I cross my fingers and say, Just don’t do art-projects and drive, OK?

Aren’t you as sick of political rants as I am?  Admit it.
There’s only so much an artist can take.
And yet, to put our
heads in
now means
a country like Wu Wei’s,
happy to inspire us behind barbed wire,
a cell’s blank walls perfect for screening artists’ dangerous corruption.

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