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Thursday, August 22, 2013


Artus Scheiner


It is sweetest right next to the sky.
Just before you cross the line.

The air is limpid.
The sea has forgotten
About waves for a few hours.

Words have tracks
As we talk.  They look
Like tiny wrens, full of
Close shadings, a bright beak
Flashes; hard to see when
We’re in the woods.

Nothing has a surface.
We are inside of everything.

I was hoping you wouldn’t
Get this far with this poem.
I was hoping the images would
Continue on their own and make
A story for you, elicit a sensation
That would capture you,
Provide some transportation.

Instead, here I am alone
With you, amazed at the color
Of the sky, the way the breeze tricks
It’s way through Summer,
The kind of quiet, working
Like this precipitates.

Before you go, one Summer when
I was about eight years old,
My father stopped the car as dark 
Was coming.  While the children and
my mother watched, he walked into a
Small woods near Lake Ontario
To catch fireflies for us to see up close.
The woods were a great flashing field
Filled with millions of lights, millions.
I have never seen anything like that
Evening ever since then, until now.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


It is nice to see that 12 people follow this site.  Hello friends.


The jungle was already torn when we arrived.
One could see into the gash for an extremely
Long way.  It looked like an ancient ritual
Might look where the celebrant reached into
The chest of the victim and pulled the heart,
Still beating, from the body and held it high
For all to see.

The birds were the first to exit the cover.
Their cries were a voluble explosions,
Chatter and freakish noises that permeated
The air and then the skin, flooding the heart
With the anguish of its sounds.

The rainbows of feathers had no apparent
Order.  There was only a cacophony of color.
No flocks here.  Only terribly frightened birds
Swirling from the deepest parts of the jungle.

We retreated to our vehicles when the insects
Flowed from the great forest.  It was too much 
To absorb; the sounds, the metallic voices, 
The unmistakable hum of millions upon millions 
Of insects pouring through the opening and making
Tsunami as they coursed across the land.  We were unable
To even see anything from our cars, so covered they were
With the seething bodies of endless tiny creatures.
The washed over us and rejoined the jungle behind us.

The greater animals followed not concerned at all
That we were there.  The sullen coughs and roars,
The screams and calling of all species filing past,
Not intending harm, just moving, moving to leave
This sorry intrusion into another world, not theirs,
Not ours.

We were to follow them.  As they passed we started
Our engines and formed a close pack, growling and
Sliding on the boggy ground.  They hadn’t seen 
The last of us.  We were witness to what they did.
We would return, all of us.  All of us. The planet still
Whirling as if directed by some mad force intent
On telling each of us how to behave, what to do.

Monday, August 19, 2013

THE PORCH IN MIDSUMMER (world and idea)

(world & idea )

A jar full of red flowers.
It was the way light
Moved across them but 
Oh, the time was dead
And oh, the seeing was dead
And oh, there was no way
Left to focus and Oh, what
Was there to say coming
Home?  “I could not see
The red flowers and now
This camera too is broken
And I wonder if we can see
Anything, anymore.”  All that
Was left took years to pull
Itself together, slightly out
Of focus, slightly overburdened
With the marks paint uses
To describe light, it sits there,
A beautiful thing, arcing
This way and that, between
What was and is, between words
And image, between world and ideas.