Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Is Cool: A League of Stories

badly translated by Christine Fojas

So it seem to us cloudy cool. The temperature endures. For ill-gained pages got kin across the canyon. When essences meet we revive, pluck odes that rhyme and get us to stop classic time. Architects take action: we tricycled cash and codes for socialists who like us by dint of procrastinated love for magic, for soul. And you, cara, metastase suns. It's good to be at the front of the line, to push. I see through you but to see kin for miles is to carry it around. I have here a new game: kick good. How? Like taking ten cars here? No. See love in the salty tears of the kneeling; take her to see cathedrals. Act steady. Does giants muse at the same time for the same meat? Thus parody. The vocalist is a transparent mechanism. No daughter surrenders art in such ridiculous beats. Escape reason and pseudo eugenics. Detox your stances but color is nice and this is a dense dream and not really there. Not you dude. Be a cool nobody.

ok. this is a completely senseless and surreal poem. the prompt: a homophonic translation of a foreign poem. the original is a tad surreal, too, but so so so much better: called "FROM THE CASE OF BONES" by Lithuanian poet Eugenijus AliĊĦanka.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

some animal poems


the cat melts through
the room,
one ear twitching,
rolls over on soft ground,
waits for hands
to come close enough.
(claws at ready)

the cat skims up the table
surveying its kingdom
full of prey.


amble up amble down
into a box
of good smells
but the box trembles
and the bear peers
over the edge:
the forest has vanished;
turned into too-tall
too-hard not-trees.
too many eyes watching.

one shotful of sleep
and the bear tumbles down.
maybe it was all a dream.


at the zoo
people ooh
and aah
as it shows off
its shell,
before shyness
has it go
into hiding.

the turtle's life
is great, except
when rats sneak food
from its plate.

prompt: poems for children

Monday, April 21, 2014


(Edger's POV)
a fan poem from Lee and Miller's Liaden Universe

There's no constant beat to the song
woven by the clans of men.
Not unless you listen close;

It's chaos layered over chaos
but among the random notes
you can see a thread walked

by a man or a woman.
Their dance is part of the music:
dance of death, dance of love.

Their talk is part of the music:
truths and lies, boasts and rages,
and what else is music?

Even the planets ring
like distant cymbals
in men's hands--

bodies in motion, forces
of gravity, forces of honor,
faith and hate.

Some men are better composers
than others. Would that the universe
sing forever to the master's tune.

Note: Edger is a Clutch turtle, a long-lived species; he in particular loves music.

Sunday, April 20, 2014


by Christine Fojas

I am climbing a wall
grasping grass and rock
that comes apart in my hands;
I've been here before,

and thudding in my ear
like another heart
is this fear of falling.
I used to be full of words.

Now all I have in my hands
are precarious levers
and rusty nails that hold
me together. Do not ask me how I am--

I am a broken device.
No answer will suffice.

an attempt at a sonnet and an attempt at getting into the mind of someone I love.

Saturday, April 19, 2014


by Christine Fojas

sometimes I mourn the skies
above the city
sparse of birdsong
and canopies
of trees free
to grow their full handspans,
above and below

time turns grass over
land parceled out
now put to use
as if the rural air
was becoming obsolete--
my neighbors used to keep
pigs and doves, squeals and coos
were my lullabies. now,
there is only one last kind
of bird, landing on thin
and narrow trees by my barred
window, singing lonely songs.

the city is city through
and through, hard at the core
posts at every corner
carrying wire that bisects
my skies
and tangles tree branches.

the trees are clipped
and boxed. the birds die out.

and we--who are clipped
and boxed ourselves--we
have already scorned the world
outside our barred windows
for the worlds we have made

a world of restarts,
and without entropy, a virtual
canopy that shields us
from the sun's piercing truths.

even grief fades away
like another dream
in the chain-of-dreams
that screens my waking day.

I have been writing poems about this for a long time. Inspired by napowrimo prompt of sea shell names called "sparse dove."

Friday, April 18, 2014

Deep Blue

arranged by Christine Fojas, source texts Acquainted with the Night by Christopher Dewdney and poems from The Iowa Anthology of New American Poetries, edited by Reginald Shepherd.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Black Black

Christine Fojas

on the meter
the line dips down
the bed inviting
you deeper

bones that run on heat
now cold and colder
the earth calling

black holes
in a black sky

pupils to pinpricks
flesh to soup

what if my soul
is just a stone