Ruby Street

Day thinks in false modernities rain nights on the other Hand strong before cold steel and walls in a way, I'm distant, of course moved into extreme churches all absentee nonsense wind shakes strong to satisfy devices I relax with hinges, cars, expenses organize every moment ring and repair old inclinations my nostalgia located in extremity screws of lightning flicked at roofs of iron O, make work vertical, private a game of television in pretty calm hosted at noon, O minor mincemeat of breathing celebrities into a paper bag, the joke given form How much also was lost ventilating change?

rain, we of resistance make slip and whisper heat green metal separates a hidden heavyweight windows fluctuate exterior cloud valence

I have just heard tonight that our poet friend, Árni Ibsen, is faring much better though he is not out of the woods yet. He still has pnuemonia, and needs a ventilator to help his breathing, and is very tired. But he has opened his eyes and gives all signs of knowing what is going on. This is such good news. I'm very happy but I know that, still, the support thoughts must go up to the north of the world.

a river sings to shipments of music through white assemblies morning remains calm decodings write days with license and breathe this skin of mine to extinction the dry is unturned, taxed interchange automobiles shimmer in moderation hope clothes hang in night’s sustenance as if the sun effects are small

wings, or something close to hand word centre because nothing closes the hand on the fragile mountain appreciate shallows if taken water, or wind moves words motivating the throat torsion of trees, or space covered freely in secret with cold, shining and sufficient resistance is form always said more without the care of changes, or where this memory sings rifting works easy not to solve the light based here that writes

I wrote a poem beginning: 'syllables fall on the green rust they’re cold and have breathed through the grey cumulus in time ...' It was partly influenced by seeing a small rusty-breasted bird up very close from my kitchen window. I got out the bird book and still couldn't identify it. I wrote later in the original: 'and there are no new sentences today they all are new but not explaining where the temperature went or why some days small birds arrive with rusty breasts and that story of movement ...' I thought at the time the bird with the 'rusty breast' (most likely rufous throat), as opposed to the words in a poem, could possibly be a Leaden Flycatcher, a Welcome Swallow or, at a pinch, a Flame Robin. My glimpse had been a blink and nothing more, as a swallow (or not) would be bleeding obvious if I could see the tail at the right angle. It took till some time later while on a stroll down to the river and past the golf course to come across a whole flock of ...

You may have noticed the words in Icelandic a few posts down, provided by Icelandic poet, Árni Ibsen . He has been an integral part of the discussion on the poetryetc email list for the last few years. We have just received some sad news from Iceland that Árni has suffered a brain haemorrhage and that he is in a coma. The prognosis ranges from 'he'll recover' to 'it's the worst'. I have never met Árni face-to-face. I had hoped to when I went overseas earlier this year but it was not to be. But I know Árni, I talk to him daily through the wire, and this news is most upsetting to me, to us. The list manager of poetryetc, Alison Croggon, has suggested we light a candle for Árni, and this what I've done all this day and will do so until we know. Now is the time for actions at all levels and this is one of caring and respecting a good man and a good poet. Get well Árni Ibsen, and let's talk again!

Res Publica: 'The Poets Lie' words, the words older than I clumsiest of poets the rain's small pellets small fountains that live on the face of the waters dilations of the heart they say too much the heart the heart of the republic skips a beat where they touch it from George Oppen, Two Romance Poems

The intriguing interview site, Here Comes Everybody, is currently featuring Australian poet John Tranter . Find out fascinating things such as: John uses an old silver fountain pen (I notice these things as I have a number of fountain pens, including a great old Parker 51 with a gold cap) and he's half-Scots (so, I'm a quarter Scots thanks my Edinburgh-born granny). But, no, I didn't grow up on a farm though John did and he talks about how that was important to him. There are other Australian poets in the 'future' line-up for Here Comes Everybody . Not yours truly but others nearly as fascinating (joke, Joyce).