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BQJ Launch

The Bywords Quarterly Journal launched an issue today, July 19 at the newly renovated Swizzles. John Gillies provided musical entertainment and readers included Stephanie Farrington, Kerri Powers, Shawn MacMillan and Mark Sokolowski. One poet dedicated his poem to his girlfriend who then waved a happy hand and identified herself. After his love poem she met him in the aisle and kissed him coming back. See? Who says poetry can’t be rewarding?

Kerri Power
Kerri Power is seen above reading from the summer issue at the ever cheerful Dusty Owl. Her poems are always vivid, concise and tight. I have to remember to keep watching for her work.

Poetic Asides had a rhymed ghazal challenge so since I didn’t want to, I thought it best to try. It’s not the shifting phrase ending tho so it’s less than it could be. Certainly less than Heather McHugh‘s triolet ghazal. (I’ve pointed to her anagrams and this visual peel of her before, haven’t I?)

Anyhew, a draft of the evening…

No Enlightenment Yet Light

Stonefaced, startled, at 10, I got laughs. (It’s something, to laugh with.)
On saying “Back when I was a kid…” didn’t “get” but embraced my own wit.

Silly us geese, we’ve got no gullet to grind what passes our beaks.
Pebbles are cast deep, lessons the sadist gut keeps. (The wit.)

Outside the cement city, the dome of destruction: Light pollution.
And still no corrective Zeus with thundbolt whips.

To each day its dieu. 30 km/sec this rock continues sun-spins to __?
Each hour, each sedimentary heart takes a new crack at making sacred writ.

An “I Love You Angie!” is thrown at the rock cut. Wonder,
has the youth told everyone except her? Such plain, paintbomb wist.

What words we ask earth bones to hold. They can’t lose them.
They were never kept, any more than wind or sun. We’re twits.

Margins break. Dark cloud carousels disrepair into blue.
A crumple of knee. “Just shoot me” said as usual, a bull wish.

Surely nothing could makes you feel smaller than sky, or a fall.
I’m made of a comma’s dusty spit. And marrow’s whisky whet.

I’m far enough away to see the glow of youth. Too old, yet too soon
I’m approaching the dawn of Metamucil and whist.

The grit that becomes Pearl must be cut from its mortal flesh
yet perhaps that final knife, some clams learn to outwit?

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