My song is simple / Because I am simple. / I need no complex language / To sing my truth / No adjectives or adverbs / No alliteration, / No similes or rhyme / I speak directly to your being / I use the voice God gave me / To sing His praise.
In this essay, I explore the Somali lullabies from a close reading of their texts. While singing their love to the babies, Somali women also express their sentiments towards social issues that reflect women’s traditional roles in the pastoral society.
Author’s Note: I originally composed the piece for Cosmos Café session on “The Spirit of AI,” where you can hear an early (weak) version of the poem, along with some of the discussion that informed later revisions. I then performed a more complete vers …
The danger of cynicism is getting what you believe in: Nothing.
Strange, the power of the past—how our spiritual ancestors become our future masters.
Never mind poetry or prose, good literature is the art of friction.
In the age of information overload, our guides are curators.
Anything freed from the marble is an angel. Never cease chiseling…
A working definition of Love: we started talking and never stopped…
Birds don’t use their wings only to fly but, also, for balance―just like us.
Art for art’s sake is a dead end; art for heart’s sake is the way out.
A collection of aphorisms by a contemporary adept of the form, these bite-size poems reflect on the nature of art, wisdom, love, technology, and spirituality through a modern and yet timeless lens.
Prediction—or personal pose: / In the Age of AI / Poetry will be the last refuge / Of human language.
Now that #ai is colonizing / #writing, my mind goes back / to studying theory in the ’90s:
There is no rest for the search engine. The unquiet dead play games with the subject/ object interface. It appears that our operating system is not a friend to Jesus. Logos flash through the sky of the Sinkiang Autonomous Region. Our wet dreams run through fiberoptic cables.
Fold up the linen and keep the receipts / Re-bury the boxes in earth. / Tight—shut the windows, hermetically seal / Let nobody see its birth! // Golden-brown bodies with Sun-kissed lips / Don silver-moon garments of old. / Hush— cool silence for raging and violence / Fire’s mouth must be closed to console. // To the cleft of the mountain we go!
“Think outside the box,” they say. What if your box is doing the thinking? Where does your thinking end and your box begin? How many boxes does it take to screw in a light bulb? The answer may surprise you.
Marco V Morelli reads Darío’s classic in original Spanish, with music by Doug Duff. There is a new English translation as well.
What does Space mean to you? Do you have enough of it? Too little, too much? How do you make space… for Space? This piece was composed for an evening of Poetic Alchemy held in Boulder, Colorado, in the spring of 2019.
“Jupiter crash landed into Saturn.” As above, so below. What follows is a short and bittersweet astrological allegory about the power struggles that ensue in the heavens.
Susan Evans’s poem “Lucy” appeared on Metapsychosis website in Autumn 2020. During the following winter, we exchanged emails in which Susan told me about her creative process, her sources of inspiration, and what her hopes for the coming year.
Going inward / I see my grey sleek wolf’s belly / moving forward on long legs striding / free, clear, unassuming / my natural strength carrying me / into the clear space ahead.
but i often underestimate my husband / for he pointed out that i actually said schizophrigid / i had a kitchen dresser which contained crockery i never used / over- solicitude is display mothering /
What happened, Miss Hooker asked–she meant my shock–so I said, Well, please turn around and take a look at Jesus there and tell me what you see.
The shrunken fighters, cheeks sunken and eyes Gibbous as praying mantis, like a god kept captive By some sick forest cult That provides sacrifice seasonally…
“Lucy the nun with the green socks / saw me hugging the oak tree / that summer I / hibernated in Spartanburg.”
“St Barbara, a poor white gloved icy ingénue, / Has long been a dusty piece of Black Forest wood // That grew out of the ashes of Sibylline books”
they call it soul retrieval | when your essence | core | beingness | the skeletal|hole|body|brain that lives in your gut|liver|kidney|body| self|shatters | breaks its own skull|heart|body in its crumpled raisin|brain as the result of small t | BIG T | sOmE TyPe of tRaUmA
“I’ve found a techno relationship cuts right into the core, the soul, brings out an almost more real version of yourself, makes you see yourself differently, your own potential to be better. It can achieve a level of emotional perfection. That’s also the problem…”
Following him into the darkest places taught me to never be afraid of the dark. / It’s full of unimaginable euphoric surprises…