Tag Archives: Experimental Poetry

Weekend Showcase: Mina Polen (Writer and Poet)

22 Nov

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/poet/writer, letting 1 piece of their work speak for itself.

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Featuring

Mina Polen

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Approach

by Mina Polen

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Approach my ocean bravely.
Your sails: sink them.
Your compass: twist it.
Your charts: burn them.
Hold your breath:
only mermaids allowed.

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Approach my terra lightly.
Your geographical knowledge: ignore it.
Your guiding stars: rearrange them.
Release your breath,
get drunk with air.

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Approach my depths gleefully.
Your weight: buoy it up.
Your wings: unfold them.
Keep holding your breath:
we are almost at the bottom.

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Approach our skies rampantly.
Our solar system: untamed.
Our universes´ origins: unquestioned.
Our big bang: awaited.
No gravitational pull.

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Biography: 

Mina Polen writes experimental & (allegedly) translingual fiction, poetry and nonsense on Twitter as @minafiction.

She also has a blog http://aldebaranylosnarvales.blogspot.com

  

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Do get in touch via the Comment box or @ArtiPeep if you would like to be showcased. You’d be more than welcome!

 

ArtiPeeps’ Weekend Showcase: James Knight (Poet)

1 Feb

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself

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JAMES KNIGHT

When the Bird King Died

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When the Bird King died the world fell asleep. The clawed words he’d cawed from his craw scratched at our dreams.

When the Bird King died the trees shed their plumage amidst a sobbing storm.

When the Bird King died the shop window mannequins laughed and tore off their clothes.

When the Bird King died the kettles sang a tea-time dirge. The milk curdled in contempt.

When the Bird King died the sea and sky swapped places. A flock of fish shimmered over a coral cloud.

When the Bird King died the ants turned on the anteater, ate him from the inside out.

When the Bird King died the world fell under the yoke of Childhood. From whispering huddles, toddlers issued bloody decrees.

When the Bird King died leaves became flames. Forests were lakes of fire, from which scorched birds shrieked, falling upwards into clouds.

When the Bird King died fridges turned on their masters, guzzling the hand groping for butter, the fingers feeling for wine.

When the Bird King died the loners and the losers and lovers became pupae. Everyone else fretted over the imminent mass metamorphosis.

When the Bird King died people wrote poems about daisychains and a girl’s eyes and I love you and life is short. They’d learned nothing.

When the Bird King died the world continued to turn. Trains ran on time. People died in wars. Old ladies farted in floral armchairs.

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The Birth of the Bird King by James Knight. Used with Kind Permission

The Birth of the Bird King by James Knight. Used with Kind Permission

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I make bad dreams in the form of poems, stories and pictures.

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I am a member, with acclaimed author Jeff Noon, of experimental writing group @echovirus12

I am the bad, bad poet

Website: http://thebirdking.com/

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