Saturday, July 31, 2010

Poet Paul Squires remembered

From the poetry blogosphere comes the news that the Australian poet, Paul Squires, "has died on the 28 July 2010 of a tragic accident – a fall – at the young age of 46."

This is a shock to me. Going into a funk in July 2009, I had stopped doing poetry, and in a comment on my blog Paul wrote then “I miss your poetry, you must be busy, Phil.” He was incredibly supportive and inspirational. What talent he had. Now, after a poetical hiatus, I have started writing and reading poems again, rebooting my blog, and only returned today to Paul’s blog, to get in touch again, to catch up, and was shocked to find out what happened. What more he could have achieved will be missed.

News update: (Aug 3, 2010)

Friday, July 30, 2010

A Supermarket in Pittsburg, California

          I saw you, Brad Pitt, alone, pushcart-ing your own way, as I was looking over the cans of pitted apricots — had you and Angelina split? You look much better without your beard, I'd say.

          We passed by the Ocean's Spray shelves, between aisles Eleven and Twelve. Your youth is still intact, as though you as were immortal, Joe Black.

          Should I tactfully Interview you, Brad, or just sideways glance as I keep tabs on the diet you shop to feed your abs? Or will I just Babel something stupid like I like your movies, dude? (Did I blush as you fumbled over the Kalifornia cucumbers?)

posted to Big Tent Poetry, in response to the challenge of writing a poem that imagines a pop-culture icon in a mundane setting. (This poem is also an obvious allusion to A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg.)

Thursday, July 29, 2010


a poem for the birds

I fly alone, then, flock to flock, rejoin
To chirp — pretend — as though my theme was heard.
Harsh caws — should I respond? sweet tweets, purloin?
To be the leader of a flock: this bird?

In consonance they verge to left or right,
Attack the plumaged cock or hen unfair.
While some seek for a perch, but some, a fight,
A race to first ensnare Tip' Hedren's hair.

Our lonesome cries entwine with fractured rhyme;
Our hasty pecks retort the latest song —
Becomes the status of our fast-paced time
And virtual space to which my songs belong.

Below they hear the croaking of a frog.
Swoop down, they go, to land in murky blog.

placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry #2 and in the imaginary garden with real toads