Last week’s Left Shoulder Lean Against the Police Man’s Off-Limits Barricade —
And now the new three, the true three, The Athena Slide, Sweet Indian Ocean Ride, By Whiskey Love We Abide Poets:
Poet the First
lost in the heat of august as it tumbles
down from unraveled pillowcases
and through the ashes as bonfires send elegies
of smoke and cinder up through the smog
tendril melodies plaited into songs
only gods could compose
Topographe is a poet of the quiet autumn, of the last light on the lake water, the last glass of wine at the end of the world, the flicker of spark tricking you that darkness approaches cold and cocky and at the last moment the spark flares and kindles the world in crimson fire and golden certainty. To say one encounters a meditative cool when reading Topographe is to voice in small measure the full effect of this poet’s art. For Topographe expands into photography and good vibes and everything has this cinematic feel to it. Her steady poems of orbed intensity make for quick reading and a long term effect. /lost in the heat of august as it tumbles/—a strong graceful opener, august as the last vestige of summer transitioning to autumn, itself a sporadic season, a mixture and interlude. /and through the ashes as bonfires send eulogies/— fire as a funeral song but of a Viking kind, a last hoorah among the great chill of the world. The poem circles around this great eternal potency and we see the primordial at work. A sweet set to groove the mind into and Topographe has many of these and to spare.
Poison is simple.
Flowers are simple.
Fire is simple.
Speed is simple.
Today was half of a simple day,
half of a silent yet content day.
I have decided to earn money in simple ways,
to fund the ideas in mind - that arent so simple.
I will live somewhere else
with someone else,
this is a simple thing to say,
To get the full effect of iamdovetailed’s work once needs to visit her tumble-kick. Each poem is prefaced by photo-art of the poet herself, a sweet postmodern slack and dash of full color, photo negative, and pastel graphics that give indication to the vibe of the poem following. iamdovetailed writes from direct emotion and a great grasp of clarity, a woman in full knowledge of herself who chooses the way of art over obstinacy. The experience is magnificent. The selection here expands further on her page into a poem of profound insight. It starts slowly and rises like a blue fire. /poison is simple—flowers are simple/—and the kindling builds into /today was half of a simple day/—and the poet begins to play, rejoicing in having hooked you into her lines. Now she starts showing you the alternating rhythms. Now she begins her masterwork of revelation. iamdovetailed has scores of this innovative style on her tumble-kick and it is enough to know someone in the world cares less for convention and reputation and more for what her vibe, her specific call is telling her to do.
Poet the Third
from a haunted place
oil chews our palms in
seas of dust wayward
tides spat by broken
crescents and the broken
things inside we think
we’re full of fire but our
bones are welded into
stone the waves are
keeping us from breathing
i can’t atone i can’t atone
One of the more prolific poets kicking verses on the tumble-wild, fluidly is a poet graced with both intellect and gentleness. Yes the poems have edge, have hardness, have darkness, but the overall style is that of a higher degree of class and respectability dealing with the hard themes of the world because they must be dealt with. And the way fluidly approaches the work is enough to discourage lesser poets into throwing up verses without digging within themselves first. /oil chews our palms/—this contrast, this contradiction—oil chews nothing. Oil covers in slick and sludge and yet here, because of the poet’s submission to the voice of art, oil chews and it is a given. You accept this line and think nothing of the impossibility and that is an indication of art in the house, of a wild thing being done with style. The poem concludes with a repetition and it feels like a woman murmuring against the butt of her last cigarette as the day descends into its own failure and yet, for all this negative flame, the soul is set free by this revelation. Art refuses nothing for its subject. Art refuses nothing for its elements. The great art, the lingering what-just-happened-here kind of art takes all those destructive themes and fashions them into a thing of revelation that sets the soul free, and fluidly is on and after that vibe like a relaxed hurricane.
We have the three. Read the three. Dig the three.