Issue 4:1 I Poetry I Betzi Richardson
pariah: Virginia Woolf wrote and I believe her: it’s very, very dangerous to live
even one day
parietal bones, parietal lobe: the funky, affordable 19th: work-a-day Parisians, smoking,
smoking; African ladies in full tribal regalia, carrying their babies wrapped sarong
style; Lebanese businessmen, a Hasidic fellow cruises by on a bicycle;
the usual full assortment of street folk: bums, winos, skinny kids
doing drugs; and economy class American tourists;
it’s a mix
paripinnate: O gentle zephyr! May at its balmiest, and then the rain
Paris: a band called Sainte Chapelle and the Catacombs
parish: Notre Dame: Big Mama and the Gargoyles
parity: O, o, oh, the poor dollar...
Parkinson’s: a cigarette slung out between two lips; the sexiness of the image,
Serge Gainsbourg et. al., and we’re caught in the perennial Mirror Stage,
caught and caught and caught
parliament: Barack Obama can call me “sweetie” any time he wants
parlous: benignly beautiful, unflooding water; an aqua-tinted Seine and the surprisingly wide and lovely Canal St. Martin
Parmenides: way of truth or way of opinion; if what we focus on we get:
Matisse, Matisse, and more Matisse
Parnassus: La Cimitiere Montparnasse:
Sartre, de Beauvoir, Baudelaire, Beckett. We read the first three pages
of Godot (I took the part of Estragon) then, with persistence
we found Vallejo (the map was wrong) and placed
a good-by stone upon his grave
parody: Tristan Tzara: babe, it’s you and us against the vulgar herd--
paronomasia: the labyrinth is easy, threaded by color and number:
as usual, you just need to know who you are,
where you’ve been,
and where you need to go
paroxysm: Sichuan and Myanmar via the BBC, Mrs. Dalloway proven
very, very correct–and yet-because, the party
must be planned and spawned
Below me an ocean feels to my eye
like a huge sheet of gold leaf turned blue.
Piercing, winter cold
shaded with poundings of wind on water
smelted, poured, polished,
stretched to a thinness of breath
by winds from the North,
hammers on thousand mile waves
no, swellings toward waves.
Dark cerulean anvil expansive
burnished by a mid-morning January sun.
Reflection burnt final, golden haze
painful bright focus inside the ellipsis
of glory and light spilling
shattered and spent, tempered with sadness
about nothing but movement,
anonymous grief, a time of containment.
A sky that has banished its clouds.
City behind, to my left, immobile.
Rarely seen islands emerge in the distance.
Capricious horizon to offer things one day
and obscure them the next,
but it's through the periphery
possible mysteries appear.
I stand on the outlook,
warmly clothed, hardy,
balanced in cold and exertion.
Only illness defeated can know
this luxurious strength. Apart from
yet with, the others - I'd've
never made it this far on my own.
A pleasure green,
the gift of unexpected rains,
has flung itself over these hillsides.
Like the water now flowing from underground streams
I am free amidst this extraordinary peace.
Strange calmness of soul
in its moment