Erratic Equinox

Wallace Stevens argues that poetry begins in the illogical and the irrational—originating from the unconscious, untethered rather than from plans or outlines. We agree: poetry emerges from the depths of the human mind, shifting with us as the seasons change.

This equinox, we embrace the strangeness of poetry—its erratic, unexpected, and introspective nature. Dag T. Straumväg, Malachi Black, Emily Dickinson, Kary Wayson, and Anthony Farrington guide us through the human spirit, where poetic energy surges, leading us into the unexpected.

Dag T. Straumväg

by Cartoon Trick

A man walks upside-down through town. Eyes, nostrils, suspenders.

Everything is upside-down. It’s completely different from a man walking on

his hands. Today has been hell, he says, which means today has been

heaven. His head is level with our toes, and it’s difficult to keep up a decent

conversations. Back pains, collisions with lampposts, photographers, TV-

preachers. “This will put our town on the map,” the mayor thinks. “Maps

are good,” his wife says.

Translated from the Norwegian by Rovert Hedin and Dag. T. Sraumväg

PI Issue 27/28, pg 195

Lines from the Throne of Old Ideas

by Malachi Black

Self: What is the substance of a mind?

Soul: Fireflies in a pickle jar.

Self: Is time a circle or a line?

Soul: Moth wings tapping on a drum.

Self: Am I the water or the fire?

Soul: Steam uprising from the soil.

Self: What, then, of the afterlife?

Soul: A coil of air, a curl.

PI Issue #22-23, pg. 136

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340)

by Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading – treading – till it seemed

That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum –

Kept beating – beating – till I thought

My mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box

And creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again,

Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear,

And I, and Silence, some strange Race,

Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down –

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing – then –

Echolocution

by Kary Wayson

I am at home. I am

interviewing the telephone. She says hello

when I say hello: Hello.

The front doorknob fits against a gauge in the wall.

I cough and stop and scratch and stop and listen –

when I listen for long enough I’m lost.

Voices of men recite the radio news. Time

is a travel advertisement.

I hang on to the telephone like a handle.

Fastened to the wood wall of a boat.

She says what I say while I say it.

When I listen for long enough I’m lost.

The light’s got rice in it, like after a wedding:

me in my ambulance, you in yours.

PI Issue #17

Integument

By Anthony Farrington

I’ve a friend who thinks of insects 

as simple pockets of moisture. Exoskeleton 

overcoat. Not quite so wet

as raindrops, but of more substance, he says,

than fog. Keep in mind (in winged insects)

the mesothorax and usually metathorax 

bear wings. That is,

            some droplets lift themselves:

                                                     little water balloons. 

(minus the latex). Origami butterfly

            (minus the paper). Thought bubbles.

            (of flightless birds) unmoored. Consider

the abdomen of bees on our own tongues. Consider

the surface tension of a small lake

             (that also raises its wings)

an inverted hillock really

that lowers itself here and oddly      here.

This spare landscape. Waterdrop

cranium; fluttering minds. Touch us; we fly.

Poetry International 15/16 Special Double Issue (2010). Page 78.