tisdag 15 mars 2016

Read, float and vote

  Flera webbplatser och bibliotek erbjuder sina läsare "poem of the week". Jag kommer att välja ut dikter och/eller författare från sex sådana sajter under tio tisdagar. Sajterna skiljer sig åt när det gäller målgrupp och status. Mitt syfte är att testa vilka av dessa källor som mina läsare gillar.

  Därför hoppas jag att ni vill delta i en veckobaserad omröstning som i slutändan ska kora den bästa webbplatsen. Vilka de sex sajterna är får ni besked om efter summeringen i vecka 20.

  Det första heatet innehåller dikter med en del humor. Det blir slam, insekter och svett.
  Inlägget avslutas med det enkla frågeformuläret.


Alluvium, by Don McKay
(from Strike/Slip. Ontario : McClelland & Stewart, 2006.)

You wake, it wants you,
your room is fleuve. No use
hiding underneath the covers,
no use clinging to the lamp. It bears away
your diary, your mystery, your dresser
bobs off lika a basket of reeds.
There goes the lamp you might have clung to,
trailing its muskrat tail,
there goes the laundry to its long last rinse.
The arms of your octopus, formerly
alarm clock, clutch, grabbing
like a teenage lover like a two-year-old it wants you
it won't wait for you to die
to lick the letters from your name.
Your old heart,
driven by its pell-mell bloodstream, spins,
legs on a runaway bike, you wake,
your room is fleuve, you're flotsam,
you're also-ran, you're all the riff-raff Noah
had no room for, uncountable
Canada geese and not-quite-standard moose,
you're everyone who ever
missed the playoffs, it wants you,
you have to go, already you can feel you're
somewhere else, deposited,
you're washed up in some other life as
insubstantial as a stone.


Billow, by Michelle Boisseau
(from the upcoming book Among the Gorgons, Tampa Review Press, April 2016.)

The goldenrod shivers under the attention

of hundreds and hundreds of bugs flooding

its powdery yellow towers. Some float in,

some zigzag. They bound, they crawl grip to grip,

they dive like owls into a meadow. Wasps, beetles,

bees, hornets, hoppers, butterflies, they waggle,

can-can fashion, their butts in the air, nuzzling

and combing packages of pollen. Bumbling thumb

and wisps of comma, we hook the hooks of September

which fetches and plumps its shadow: slowly hurry,

all of us alive together at once, speeding through

like comets we guide our own undoing.


The smell of sweat, by Carole Satyamurti
(from Striking distance. Oxford ; New York : Oxford University Press, 1994.)

Sweat is our signature on air:
grapefruit, onions, Glenmorangie.

It is the first date,
the first exam, all firsts;

climb on the cliff path, straining
to work off a terminal prognosis;

rugby hugger-mugger, job well done,
the body throwing out exuberant salts;

nightmare-time - debt, the law,
ex-husband at the door;

one of lust's slippery bouquet
of juices; must of the prison cell.

Its traces swirl around us;
we draw daily breath

from this promiscuous reserve
of extreme moments, not knowing whose.


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