PoetryRepairShop 03.07:076

03.07:076

The poet seeks 'harmonic' words whose transrational meaning is both logical and/or illogical and words that are, also, both language and novelty - JH

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I have work upcoming in Bogg and Jawbone. Previous publication credits include such disparate journals as Bogg, Impetus, Allegheny Review, and New York Quarterly.

ROBERT P. BEVERIDGE

Yearn


The limp touch of the comatose
and the inability to wake.
The sky is clear but for one bird,
who settles on a branch, looks for food.
Sleep a necessity borne of indigestion.
How can we walk through streets
ankle-deep in the filth
of a broken sewer main? The world
does not contain the coat
large enough to gird your steps.
The limp kiss of the comatose
and the inability to wake.

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03.07:076

A poem has its own laws, existence, truth uncovered and controlled by the poet - JH

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Carl Edward Sagan (1934-1996), American astronomer and pioneer exobiologist, centered his research on discovering evidence of life in outer space. Along with geneticist Joshua Lederberg, Sagan was a leader in establishing the field of exobiology, the search for extraterrestrial life. Earlier he advanced the understanding of how life developed in Earth's primal atmosphere, showing how adenosine triphosphate, a fundamental molecule that stores energy in all organisms, could have been created by ultraviolet radiation. Sagan co-produced and hosted the award winning television series "Cosmos," and published several books during his career, among them "Dragons of Eden" for which he won the 1978 Pulitzer, and the novel, "Contact," later made into a popular film. -wk

WARD KELLEY

Confronts a Different Space


from histories of souls



The comets of your soul -
cylindrical whips like carnival rides -
slingshot your spirit across the chasm of the divine;
yet on both borders of that black canyon
there is nothing . . . although the rims
are not actually devoid of wisps of hopes
or conspiracies of pinprick aspirations.

The universe is too small for these doubts . . .
for if God is to be evident, there is nowhere for him
to hide, and eventually you will touch his shadow.
It doesn't matter.  It matters greatly.

There are no telescopes strong enough
to print your soul way out here;
it's lost to your home planet like some radiowave
telegraphed outward from a cinder block radio station 
back in the fifties.  You're already past the stricture 
of the solar system, and there's no way to bounce 
the evidence back to your particular old blue marble
concerning what you never knew.

There's no way back, save through the poets,
and they are frustrating and unreliable . . .
except for translating one or two odd
preternatural comprehensions into hints.
Maybe it doesn't matter, but you have eons
to reason out another way back.

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