Reid Welch
Reid is a poet who embraces wit, oddities and intelligence, not scared to push aside boundaries that might limit his imaginative styling, and who has a romantic streak that runs head-to-toe. his approach to poetry is both skilful and diverse - making for interesting reading!
No one knew the reason,
the what or the how or the when and why-not.
Children, women, men took for granted
the day would behave just like any other
until a drone, a low-flight bird
buzzed over the lazy, the young and the old
mothers suckling babes at their breasts
assaulted by ear from above Central Park
to due south where I dashed down subway stairs
with running ducks controlling a
computer-guided flying device
of disproportionate destructive power.
What it is, grimaced Grandmother Klein
is a terror worse than 7/11 run out of milk
and ice. And eggs froze fast in fallopian tubes
of women half semened by men laid as mimes
in the park climbing walls of glass which shattered
just as the payload
commanded the men
women, all sucklings dear
to bow to the extremely great knock-down power
of an extortionate, telly poem
hangared here to remind that if lofted aloud
all who hear it must die.
"a gay guy in tumble for a genuine Jyl"
If I were Jack I'd climb her hill,
I'd carry all her water.
Just because I wanted to and
not because I oughter.
As I fall down and break my crown
I do not die or cry for that.
I pick it up and fix it up
and crown my Jyl atop the hill.
I crown her as I ought to.
Jyl, the golden girl men love,
has me as her subject now.
But all I have to give to her
are words—as thin as water.
Were I a different sort of man,
the kind that serves her nature's plan,
I'd toss all other Jacks aside.
I'd woo her to become my bride.
Jyl, dear sovereign, queen of love,
I can't do more in offer
than ask by liquid wish if you'll
drink from this welling proffered.
=Burnham's Flatiron Follies=
The Flatiron Building uprightly presses
recalls of past windblown dresses.
1902 youths whistle, lie
in wait to sight some naked lisle
stockings not seen often while
long skirtings are sad iron affairs.
Up to roughly, '23, the copper
flushed the males "Skidoo!"
To be sure, by then, that Irishman
had modernized his oath to "Scram!"
Loitering's a pastime wholy
mastered by old New York's men in
grunts and gusts against crinoline
at, and with, Burnham's erection.
The Mobius Strip adapted for Romance
Take a ribbon, any color.
Join its ends, a simple band.
Write your life upon your side.
I'll do the same with mine.
Cut apart, make one full twist.
Rejoin the ribbon in its loop:
we're insulars—still separate.
Reach me please by ribbon-phoric
dancing in odd twists, by turns,
I'll meet you at your day-ends now,
I'll be your evenings forever.
Rewrapping a Rilke Quote
Perhaps every one is frightened
in their deepest being
hidden and too helpless
to ask to be opened.
“Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being
something helpless that wants help from us.”
---Rainer Marie Rilke
Fagan's original Coon Song with a new Contrapunctal
My gal is a highborn lady
Barney Fagan, pop song writer
She's black but not too shady
Rides in a surrey with a lighter
Feathered like a peacock, just as gay
Lady as he pimps for dimes
She is not colored, she was born that way
In that runaway hit of 1899
I'm proud of my black Venus
Rising, in song they're singing
No coon can come between us
Fagan, girl and their black trap bringing
Along the line they can't outshine
Dark trade of this present day
This highborn gal of mine
Is dressed no better way
=for "kaleidazcope"=
she makes both poetry and kaleidoscopes in the UK
Put me in your object case
With bits of chain to chafe and make
my fractured image de-cognate
in poly-gone ephemerations
ICU and U se e me
and what's to this
view of we three
(including the kaleidoscope)?
Well-tumble weid inside locked case
and jumble-step his si!!y hastes;
re fract on ward in gen u flect:
net polly woggy wagish elf.
Shake me hard
now near your shoulder
Hold me near now to your eye
Bolder bumbling bowdling bounder!
in your object case and tube
from where from which
I do
I do
I do CU
at least so clear as split ting
i m a ged eyes allow
Now put kaleid temp airy way?
Oh, scope me in another day?
Please, play my colours,
warm, at night, I
prefer h'our glees
by
can-
dulled
light
"How do you know I am unhappy?"
crow
caws
you are a poet
you are not happy free
flying cannot for man be nor
worms those french call vers of which
i eat and crop up regu
larly
caws
only man can wing a bird
but not by sight but
only shot
so i have heard
have not felt that
yet myself
and so flies crow
and swift
and why
for just
caws
and for plain caws
this crow eschews
all punc
tuations except
worms
piked on its beak
Epicurus' philosophy in Dali-esque dreamstate
A butterfly may flap, and does—
or doesn't insect butter fly?
We've never seen real butter fly
yet all have seen a butter stick
unstick a cast iron frying pan.
A flying, buttered, cast iron pan
slipped through the window Flap
and flip, it fluttered round
whilst the man, Carpe Diem,
dreamed of hot pancakes and ham—
—for children starved in India
a flying, buttered, cast iron pan
slipped through their window Flap
and flip, it fluttered round
until, alas, Carpe Diem
awoke and fed nothing to them.
Parfum, the Poem
netskyIam
=Parfum, the Poem= =Fixative for Perfumes=
some poems are indigestible squid beaks
like perfumes sharp irritants
may be kinks in the bowels of sperm whales
few may like ambergris: the whale's natural
aside from authors lubricant laxative
is your poem a parfum of waxy crap to pass squid beaks
is this poem a parfum about ambergris
this poem is so entitled fixative for perfumes
it is worth major money
Parfum, the Poem a key ingredient of Chanel N°5
a lampoon of poets and poetry and perfumery in parallel counterpoint
males
are butts
with penises
b\u/t
females make all babies
b/u\t
half of them
are friggin' males
and so repeats the minstrels' cycle
with blame enough to go around
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