2019
Published poem in 'a fine line' — The magazine of the New Zealand Poetry Society
© New Zealand Poetry Society / Autumn 2019 / Editor: Ivy Alvarez / editor@poetrysociety.org.nz
© New Zealand Poetry Society / Autumn 2019 / Editor: Ivy Alvarez / editor@poetrysociety.org.nz
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TRANSITION
Five horizontal views of the Kaipara river compositions framed from my bed. [uplands] [mangroves] [shops] [trees] [harbour] I sip at them through squints and blinks between lashes tired with looking; photographs mounted in window-split scaffolds. Wedged, I am prone, enclosed by sheets bounded by heaven and madness drinking in views; medicine or poison? Shutter-close my eyes. There is no more view, just a dream. I am in it—I am the river slipping along as mirrored glass reflecting a house, a portal, a pale-faced portrait. Snap-open my mind. I cannot feel the cold water coursing from hills to harbour. Beyond the headland, breaking whitecaps and sandbars wait for passing souls to cross over. When my time comes to go beyond I will look back, just the once. [estuary] [farmland] [tributary] [village] [window] I will pass through these panes that separate: as lens from image and light as lamina from pestilence and peace. I will freely slip my mortal cage at the arc of the bay; transpose and diffuse bound for open sea. © Arwen Flowers |
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'Glosa' writing competition
Run by 'A Dark Feathered Art' blogwriter J. Preston. I was awarded a book prize for my entry with the comment:
'Arwen Flowers...her disturbingly sexy untitled poem (which so perfectly captured the mood of The artist knows--)'
The cabeza excerpt I chose, from 'The Artist Knows', by Helen Bascand.
.
Sky wraps itself in the wing-span of storm -
brilliance. And the cold whirr of myth turns her hot.
Smell of grass and mute desire, trap her under
rough wings, grasping for the soft down of his belly.
.
NOTE: The glosa is an early Renaissance form that was developed by poets of the Spanish court in the 14th and 15th centuries. In a glosa, tribute is paid to another poet. The opening quatrain, called a cabeza, is by another poet, and each of their four lines are imbedded elsewhere in the glosa. The opening quatrain is followed by four stanzas, each of which is generally ten lines long, that elaborate or "glosses" on the cabeza chosen. Each ending line (10th line) of the four following stanzas is taken from the cabeza.
The usual rhyme scheme of a glosa is final word rhyming of the 6th, 9th and the borrowed 10th lines.
BLACK SWAN
Kakīānau, your dark arms in flexion
performing a live shadow-dance
parting lithe linen sheets. Volitant!
Intent on opening her thighs, curved lines
inked quill, shining quiver.
Again, again, you besmirch and deform.
You, God-of-a-man, tattooed numen divine
coveting her nest, claimed from pitch
through brooding summer heat until morn.
Sky wraps itself in the wing-span of storm.
Interloper, cavorting, thunderous landing
her tender curved neck, soiled-spots, beaker
drops, red wine left drowsy and dreaming.
A gentle-handed puppet, she fears family tree
so, carefully captures a quick silent click--
stolen, one picture is shot.
Hidden wife; guardian archive
and the truth, a captured moment to prove
she’s been seeded this day in plot
brilliance. And the cold whirr of myth turns her hot.
Under Southern star cover, he winds her
a dreamcatcher, feathered and full
of hours of flesh steeped in sweet, fresh
Mānuka scent, plumate and ferny.
She, a delicate bloom plucked and offered
for his own jealous wonder--
her body made a perfumed bouquet
plundered from the marriage bed
and with moaning cries torn asunder.
Smell of grass and mute desire, trap her under.
She arches her carriage, breast-boned and salty
pinioned muscles up against her back, while
his mouth speaks promises, plants more kisses
fragile as eggshells and tender wishes.
God-of-a-man, your black tempest birthing
begot love, sorrows, such passionate shelling
—now a photograph and swollen aftermath!
Cygnus sumnerensis makes his blurring retreat
before her hands reach, desperate fingers indwelling
rough wings, grasping for the soft down of his belly.
By Arwen Flowers.
Run by 'A Dark Feathered Art' blogwriter J. Preston. I was awarded a book prize for my entry with the comment:
'Arwen Flowers...her disturbingly sexy untitled poem (which so perfectly captured the mood of The artist knows--)'
The cabeza excerpt I chose, from 'The Artist Knows', by Helen Bascand.
.
Sky wraps itself in the wing-span of storm -
brilliance. And the cold whirr of myth turns her hot.
Smell of grass and mute desire, trap her under
rough wings, grasping for the soft down of his belly.
.
NOTE: The glosa is an early Renaissance form that was developed by poets of the Spanish court in the 14th and 15th centuries. In a glosa, tribute is paid to another poet. The opening quatrain, called a cabeza, is by another poet, and each of their four lines are imbedded elsewhere in the glosa. The opening quatrain is followed by four stanzas, each of which is generally ten lines long, that elaborate or "glosses" on the cabeza chosen. Each ending line (10th line) of the four following stanzas is taken from the cabeza.
The usual rhyme scheme of a glosa is final word rhyming of the 6th, 9th and the borrowed 10th lines.
BLACK SWAN
Kakīānau, your dark arms in flexion
performing a live shadow-dance
parting lithe linen sheets. Volitant!
Intent on opening her thighs, curved lines
inked quill, shining quiver.
Again, again, you besmirch and deform.
You, God-of-a-man, tattooed numen divine
coveting her nest, claimed from pitch
through brooding summer heat until morn.
Sky wraps itself in the wing-span of storm.
Interloper, cavorting, thunderous landing
her tender curved neck, soiled-spots, beaker
drops, red wine left drowsy and dreaming.
A gentle-handed puppet, she fears family tree
so, carefully captures a quick silent click--
stolen, one picture is shot.
Hidden wife; guardian archive
and the truth, a captured moment to prove
she’s been seeded this day in plot
brilliance. And the cold whirr of myth turns her hot.
Under Southern star cover, he winds her
a dreamcatcher, feathered and full
of hours of flesh steeped in sweet, fresh
Mānuka scent, plumate and ferny.
She, a delicate bloom plucked and offered
for his own jealous wonder--
her body made a perfumed bouquet
plundered from the marriage bed
and with moaning cries torn asunder.
Smell of grass and mute desire, trap her under.
She arches her carriage, breast-boned and salty
pinioned muscles up against her back, while
his mouth speaks promises, plants more kisses
fragile as eggshells and tender wishes.
God-of-a-man, your black tempest birthing
begot love, sorrows, such passionate shelling
—now a photograph and swollen aftermath!
Cygnus sumnerensis makes his blurring retreat
before her hands reach, desperate fingers indwelling
rough wings, grasping for the soft down of his belly.
By Arwen Flowers.
2018
Given Poems for National Poetry Day
Five words were taken from the Spanish poet Antonio Machado’s poem The Hospice (decrepit, snow, nest, window and cast). A record 122 poems were received and a selection from those were published, including my poem 'Single-use downfall'.
Judge Charles Olsen said of the poem '...In stark contrast is the dense language conjuring up so many images in Single-use downfall, which rewards reading aloud.'
SINGLE-USE DOWNFALL
Brittle nest, a jittery, nervy shape
Unbound and taken up as a soulless billow
With poetic arcs, all loose-skinned, untethered
Single-use plastic, cast off and abhorred
Now drifting, fake snow, a fragile deserter, then
Window-bound, fence-caught or web-stuck
Decrepit, abandoned, pitiful, empty
Scattered, a remnant, a lost escapee
Blown-out, piece of cold-slip, a contaminant
Directionless, dirty, a mislead pioneer
Now tussock-torn, tumbleweed, sand-skate
Till salty as foam flotsam, a jellyfish cheat
Cheap bait, imposter, fraudulent food
All swollen, silent, tangled and twisted
A dark trap, strangling snag, tight net descent
Making tangled-up breath a lingering expiration.
© Arwen Flowers
Five words were taken from the Spanish poet Antonio Machado’s poem The Hospice (decrepit, snow, nest, window and cast). A record 122 poems were received and a selection from those were published, including my poem 'Single-use downfall'.
Judge Charles Olsen said of the poem '...In stark contrast is the dense language conjuring up so many images in Single-use downfall, which rewards reading aloud.'
SINGLE-USE DOWNFALL
Brittle nest, a jittery, nervy shape
Unbound and taken up as a soulless billow
With poetic arcs, all loose-skinned, untethered
Single-use plastic, cast off and abhorred
Now drifting, fake snow, a fragile deserter, then
Window-bound, fence-caught or web-stuck
Decrepit, abandoned, pitiful, empty
Scattered, a remnant, a lost escapee
Blown-out, piece of cold-slip, a contaminant
Directionless, dirty, a mislead pioneer
Now tussock-torn, tumbleweed, sand-skate
Till salty as foam flotsam, a jellyfish cheat
Cheap bait, imposter, fraudulent food
All swollen, silent, tangled and twisted
A dark trap, strangling snag, tight net descent
Making tangled-up breath a lingering expiration.
© Arwen Flowers
24-Hour poem Competition
Ten words were supplied for this competition (architecture, blinds, bundle, fluent, grain, insurrection, sleeve, stopper, unfamiliarity and voltage). The winner was chosen by Judge Joanna Preston. Joanna also chose ten poems from the submissions, including my entry, for the rest of the entrants to vote from as an "Entrants Choice' category (won by Semira Davis).
THE OLD WAYS
On her mantelpiece sits a small, three-masted ship
glued in a bottle, trapped behind a cork stopper.
How would it be to unfurl in a strong southerly wind
one that blows open blinds, bottles, closed eyes?
She pushes a grain of sand from her finger.
No longer fluent, it’s a wound
the unfamiliarity of her native tongue
she has lost her sense of self
her heart is a wadded flag
a bundle of insurrection
marked with latitudes and longitudes
her heart is a bunched-up need
she is the boat going nowhere
Let your sleeve down — look
it is embroidered with coconut fronds and little shells
they are a map of the oceanic swell.
You can navigate this current — feel
the voltage created by movement
the prevailing ocean surface waves
the static on the water.
She gives birth to hope (little fish and little birds)
she observes the architecture of the sky
and charts distances across the sea
with strong arms, her hands take up the lines
she will find a home now, in the old ways.
© Arwen Flowers
Ten words were supplied for this competition (architecture, blinds, bundle, fluent, grain, insurrection, sleeve, stopper, unfamiliarity and voltage). The winner was chosen by Judge Joanna Preston. Joanna also chose ten poems from the submissions, including my entry, for the rest of the entrants to vote from as an "Entrants Choice' category (won by Semira Davis).
THE OLD WAYS
On her mantelpiece sits a small, three-masted ship
glued in a bottle, trapped behind a cork stopper.
How would it be to unfurl in a strong southerly wind
one that blows open blinds, bottles, closed eyes?
She pushes a grain of sand from her finger.
No longer fluent, it’s a wound
the unfamiliarity of her native tongue
she has lost her sense of self
her heart is a wadded flag
a bundle of insurrection
marked with latitudes and longitudes
her heart is a bunched-up need
she is the boat going nowhere
Let your sleeve down — look
it is embroidered with coconut fronds and little shells
they are a map of the oceanic swell.
You can navigate this current — feel
the voltage created by movement
the prevailing ocean surface waves
the static on the water.
She gives birth to hope (little fish and little birds)
she observes the architecture of the sky
and charts distances across the sea
with strong arms, her hands take up the lines
she will find a home now, in the old ways.
© Arwen Flowers
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The Great New Zealand Prose Deletion
A large number of entries were received from NZ as well as overseas for this competition run by Volume Bookstore in Nelson. My poem-by-deletion called 'Introduction' was one of ten chosen to be displayed in an online gallery selection by the organisers. Online Gallery selection 'Introduction' from City of Volcanoes by E.J. Searle © Arwen Flowers |
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