Lá Bloomfound poetry from James Joyce’s Ulysses

YOUR MOTHER, HER SECRETSElise Liu

BLAKE’S WINGS OF EXCESS / THE RUINS OF ALL SPACEBrian Larsen

MENACE AND ECHO:A SEACHANGE

Joel W. Nelson

HER FULL LIPS, DRINKING, SMILED

C.P. Harrison

GOD’S LITTLE JOKEEd Bremson

BROKEN HEARTS BURIED HERE

Trish Hopkinson

AEOLUSWm. Todd King

TASTING EVERY MORSEL IN THE LARDER OF VITALITY

Winston Plowes

NINEFOLDBruno Neiva

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SYMPLEGADESSonja Johanson

THE BRIGHT STARS FADEKaren Massey

HIS FIRST SIX DRINKSjames w. moore

MR. BLOOM WITH HISSTICK GENTLY VEXED

Jessica Van de Kemp

CONTRAPUNTALKaren George

THE CONFESSIONALPatrick Kindig

WATCHMANBekah Connell

THE OUT OF TUNE BALLADMatthew Walsh

THE SMOOTHEST PLACE IS RIGHT HERE

Jennifer Liston

ELISE LIU

In other lives, Elise has been a farmer, economist, organizer, journalist, and power broker in a power suit. Her poetry, essays, and fiction can be found in various places on the internet and at www.eliseliu.com. She is at work on her first novel.

A birdcage hung in the sunny windowof her house. Cleft by a crooked crack,the mirror held untonsured hair, grainedand hued like pale oak—your mother—

ungirdled, younger, and more. Her secretswhen she was a girl: old featherfans,tasselled dancecards powdered with musk,tasselled dancecards powdered with musk,a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer.

But to think of your mother—her wasted bodyreproachful, a faint odour of wax and rosewoodgilded with marmalade—young shouts—her wrinkled fingers quick—to think

her uneager hand folded away, muskperfumed?—the hollow beneath love's bitter mysterythe hollow beneath love's bitter mystery(aproned, masked, making tea)—singing alone?Sweet mother: o, an impossible person!

Alone in the house along the upwardcurvingpath, the gowned form moved briskly to and froabout the hearth, hiding and revealingits yellow glow. Silently, in a dream, she praised

the goodness of the milk, pouring it outthe goodness of the milk, pouring it outevenly and with care, the long dark chords.

1YOUR MOTHER, HER SECRETSElise Liu

BRIAN LARSEN

Brian Larsen has recently published poetry in North American Review, was a finalist for the 2013 Morton Marr Poetry Prize, and will soon begin a PhD in Creative Writing at Texas Tech. He has an MFA from the University of Washington and an MA in Anglo-Irish Literature and Drama.

Tell me now, what is a pier. A disappointed bridge: their land a pawnshop. They are notto be thought away: thought is the thought of thought. The world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail in the mummery of their letters. Secrets, silent, stony—weary of their tyranny: tyrants silent, stony—weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned. It is very simple. As it was in the beginning, is now. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth. And here are crowns. See. I have rebel blood in me too. I trespass on your valuable space, the way of all our old industries. I am surrounded by difficulties— our old industries. I am surrounded by difficulties— wherever they gather they eat up the nation’s strength.

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BLAKE'S WINGS OF EXCESS/THE RUINS OF ALL SPACE Brian Larsen

Seaspawn and seawrack, world without end,splayed feet sinking in the silted sand,

mane foaming, waves skulking back,a carcass lolled on bladderwrack.

Behind you the sun, the slender trees,the crude sunlight on lemon streets.

Open your eyes. Beauty is not there.Open your eyes. Beauty is not there.

The blue fuse burns deadly and burns clear,disguises clutched at, gone, not here.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five,Old Man Ocean, thy father, lies

amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks;bridebed, childbed, bed of death, he calls.

Quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide Quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides?

It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand:seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man.

3MENACE AND ECHO: A SEACHANGEJoel W. Nelson

C.P. Harrison

C.P. Harrison is a poet lucky enough to have a day job and live in Austin, TX.

—O, rocks!—O, rocks!Let the water flow in.

Into Pleasants street,into Dorset street,into Eccles street,Let the water flow in.Let the water flow in.

Her full lips, drinking,hair down and undid Let the water flow in.

Let it flow In a creak and a dark whirrLet it flow Into the world she knew Into the world she knew in the kitchen but out of doors into an animal or a tree, for instance. Let it flow quayside at Jaffa, mockingly afraid of the chookchooks with tail on high crown, and a whatdoyoucallhim and a whatdoyoucallhim coming up redheaded!

Let it flow Down the laneway behind the bank of Ireland Into the till into the parlour. into her mouth into her cup, watching it flow into her cup, watching it flow the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees, into the kidney and slapped it with blotchy fingers, sausagepink and butter her plate full!

When my love comes with trousers dirtyinside his high grade ha,with gold hair on the windwith gold hair on the windlet the scanty brown gravy trickle over mewith fondest love for the first fellow Heigho! Heigho! let the water flow in!

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HER FULL LIPS, DRINKING, SMILEDC.P. Harrison

in the dank aira white flutter –a huge dull floodover the land –true religion rolling

the talking headfeels locked out of Paradise –feels locked out of Paradise –the girlin her abode of blisssings love’s old sweet song

the cold smellof sacred stone –bread of angelswaters of oblivionwaters of oblivionthe arms of kingdom come

whisperingGod’s little joke –the wickednessand snaresof the devil

like clockwork –like clockwork –confession, penancepunishmentdying –did you chachacha?

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GOD’S LITTLE JOKEEd Bremson

TRISH HOPKINSON

Trish Hopkinson loves wine and words and digs poetry slams. Her mother tells everyone that she was born with a pen in her hand. She is a project manager by profession and resides in Utah County with her handsome husband and two outstanding children.

Lots of them lying around—lungs and livers and old rusty pumps.A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of bloodevery day, every mortal day, a fresh batch courting death like stuffed birds buried in a kitchen matchbox.Consumptive girls with little sparrow's breasts,baldheaded business men, women dead in childbirthmiddleaged men, men with beards, old women, children.middleaged men, men with beards, old women, children.The cemetery is a treacherous place.The soil fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh, nails,and shades of night hovering with all the dead stretched about. So much dead weight always in front of us.Thousands every hour. Funerals all over the world, everywhere, every minute—whooping cough, measles, scarlatina, influenza epidemics,whooping cough, measles, scarlatina, influenza epidemics,overdose, death by misadventure, infanticide.The insides decompose, the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off.All that raw stuff, hide, hair, horn—too much bone in their skulls and the rip never stitched.The circulation stops. Still, some might ooze out an artery,burst open, shoot out and rolling over stiff in the dust.burst open, shoot out and rolling over stiff in the dust.It would be better to bury in red: a dark red.Much better to close up all the orifices with wax—the loose, the sphincter—seal up all.But the shape is there. The shape is there still.Shoulders. Hips. That soap in my hip pocket.Never know who will touch you dead.Wash and shampoo, clip the nails and the hairWash and shampoo, clip the nails and the hairand my feet quite clean.The cease to do evil—God, I'm dying for it,the pomp of death, the struggle when you shiverin the sun, in white silence, my heart in the grave, saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips with oyster eyes.white turnips with oyster eyes.As if it wasn't broken already,kicked about like snuff at a wake.

6BROKEN HEARTS BURIED HERE Trish Hopkinson

7AEOLUSWm. Todd King

WINSTON PLOWES

Winston composes his poems on a narrowboat on England’s inland waterways. His compositions have been widely published, hopefully making people pause and ponder the magical details of life. Winston’s website – www.winstonplowes.co.uk.

Mushroom houses built of moon breezeBarrels of black burning comfit vapourA penny daguerreotype of rough potatoesLamb’s eyes with black glasses staring at The TimesNewbaked sidesaddle kidney pieLapping treacly brain bobbed apples Flapping codfish pantaloon puddingFlapping codfish pantaloon puddingCrumpled glazed raisins blown in from the bayA slow procession of brittle dancing fishy flesh Potted Fleet Street luncheon paste Soaped corner beef squinting on the twigA collation of naughty bluey perfume creamsFlapdoodle picnic of braided elderflower frogsRattlesnake Demerara muttonchop whiskers Rattlesnake Demerara muttonchop whiskers Rhubarb funnybone saffron charadesOyster eyes (glasses off) Riding astride a clotheshorseStopwatch plumbs with custard cheek ribsCaramel rock buns burnt by a divorced typist A chunk of twilight pineapple peel Flowing rivers of inkbottle stoutFifteen feet of lemon wax plattFifteen feet of lemon wax plattSerried vats of sucking fat Warm sidesaddle gutter butterscotch Washed and floating skin of a harpAustralian three-day tobacco soup A vinegared dotty handkerchief egging a hot potatoKeyhole student decoy duck Gammon and spinach debating societiesGammon and spinach debating societiesSun rising peaches same day fadedSleep walking salmon lost property officeSuetfaced Liver and bacon nutariansOctopus tentacle stockings loose over etherial anklesSalt Pepper

8TASTING EVERY MORSEL IN THE LARDER OF VITALITY

Winston Plowes

1.buzz) Thursday.Listen.Remember.

2.two index fingerstwo index fingersdoing the commercial partlooking forwardto give a good puffa national epicquite so

3.fatherfathersonprepared for paradoxesfaded cinnamon may come to bebut the passages

4.private butterin the original

5.I feel – it might be…Surely – Surely – But.So you think.A journal – Will you please?

6. gentleman:off and out,off and out,a silhouettea daylit mockeron the immense corner:aloud – a telegram

7.List!a forecast spareLifted. Laughed.

8.deep spittingdeep spittingin the air

9.a buttonover all the rest:things that are not,they are still.I understand.I understand.Thanks.

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NINEFOLDBruno Neiva

Home.A homely and just wordgrowled by a one-leggedsailor, out of his ruined mouth.

Home. Where pigeons rocoocooedas her fingertips lifted ripe,as her fingertips lifted ripe,shame-faced peaches to her mouth.

No mace on the table,tapping points of vantageon the floor – a plume of smoke.

His grey claw went up.

Eyes looked quickly, the whitedeath and the ruddy birth. Glossydeath and the ruddy birth. Glossyhorses pranced, jet beads inkshining

on that archipelago of corks.Clatter…sounded from the air,his stern stone hand sailing west-

ward, with hulls and anchorchains rocked on the ferry wash,where fallen archangels flung where fallen archangels flung

and buffeted thewless bodiesbetween two roaring worlds -salt green death.

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SYMPLEGADESSonja Johanson

Kennedy

is that Kennedy?yes we all agog

look at the fellow in the second carhe’s killed looking back

Kennedya man bearing in his breast the sweets of sina man bearing in his breast the sweets of sin

Kennedywhat is it? loud retort leaving spyingpoint Lady Kennedy they coweredheard steel ring from afar a shell

KennedyKennedyKennedy

he threw head back signals to each other piercing

imagine being married to a man like thatgolden

he reachedheard a round wound his bodyheard a round wound his body

riding a car the seat he sat on warm blacksaluting a prince

Ms Kennedy her gliding head went downO Judas Iscariot, devil gentleman

death a hackney car mortuaryJohn, waken

the dead march, the dead march, we march along

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THE BRIGHT STARS FADEKaren Massey

his first six strict minds with shirts fitin kind with kingsbrings figs, drills, big chips,drinks.

his first six drinks.I him, I him.

brill pigs in right milkbrill pigs in right milkthirst still in kilt sighthid in blind signs in big split ribssift, mix, bring night in wispswith wind in fish kick his twin

which is which?which is which?

wink high in sightstitch bitch bits in knightswink his pip bring tin bits inbirth with grim, firm blindsick wish in lipsring kicks till wild kindring kicks till wild kindfinds him right drinks him blind with strings -Mister Right

slight skill in stiff brisk fightin still bright milk fizz six pints in his thing(first in mind, dismiss his third)(first in mind, dismiss his third)kiss him

which girl did I?

this is his tricklight in tiplift him with childin flint in silk

in pints sits Christ with wind nighwith wind nighbinds his high gift:his bid, his pigin silk, in midstI limb, I limb

right fish in hills with firsthis high silk sprig bits with his dick bits with his dick piss in wind his ships in sightspit in thigh skit stick child sick with fright crisp with pint blindwith might with might limp

Did i kill him.Him. Him.

Right, his fish.

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HIS FIRST SIX DRINKSjames w. moore

The summer evening bent over gipsy-like. Gerty pronounced beautiful

the dull aching void, the electric blue intelligence. Hers the bravest burned

cork ministering lime. And the babes frightening murder signal always:

Say papa, baby. Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa.

Here the confession common as ditchwater. Here the candles set fire to the flowers.

Mr. Bloom, love, lie, and be handsome; be horrible;

wait. Get rid of it someway, wait. Get rid of it someway, the blood. Sit on that stone and take

advantage of the sun like the eagle. (He was eyeing her as a snake eyes its prey.

And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind blank and O! She's lame!) Dark devilish

bold hand. I. AM. A. (naughty boy). I do not like. (naughty boy). I do not like.

But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made me feel so young.

All the dirty things, Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

13MR. BLOOM WITH HIS STICK GENTLY VEXEDJessica Van de Kemp

From the bowels far under the seafloorthe sleepless wombchamber gate eases open

Behold: Woman trembling immense opulenceA sore tumescence like sorrow couched below her breastbone

Wary by the horn she pulls forth Man: thatched thatched dreadfull congruent wellbuilt She gripeth his hand soothes their way through teeming weedsfishswaddled in sweet bliss of copious flux water's heavied gravity

Together they wimplerise toward night's light orb loose in the welkinlimbs oiled with desire to bellycrab onto land

14CONTRAPUNTALKaren George

With both hands the man jerks me. The spasms creep slowly—panting mirror, unstruck fire lurching close. Tensionmakes nervous, stiff. I beg. He slips

against youth’s white hand, I a staircase banister mumbling service, a silk ladder, yes, never touched. (Dreaming, I sin yes, never touched. (Dreaming, I sin nicely: a finger, a big O, exotic

strumming. A ruby tongue betweena cry, pleasure.) His hand, his back, a cockin his twisted voice. (The bulge beyond the sweets of sin: a smaller want

unrolled.) I, caught looking behind his hand, pure man, a stain on boys—his hand, pure man, a stain on boys—the laughing witch hand uncurled, his looking down, his trousers open. Across

his belt, his palm more harm than good. I,sixteen. The blind whisper—show, show,shoot. The vacant gaze. The measurements, crackingfingers. A hand limp on two innocent arms

left behind. My monster private and gone. O left behind. My monster private and gone. O liquor and bones! Light hands and fingers! His body, holding a bloom, tightens and loosens, the face a delicate diamond, his free hand a cane.

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THE CONFESSIONALPatrick Kindig

under the archesagain, calling:

the gloom of the sentryboxleaving you there

tendera darker figurea brazier of cokea brazier of coke

you beganto remember that thishad happened

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WATCHMANBekah Connell

Were their points divergent? Ask if their archipelagosof footmarks, their masculine feminine activepassives are possessive of fears. They surface at the table, lineage and line, their heads in atmospheres.Ask if relaxing was jurisdiction— if it was knownthey are fractions of understood science. If the penetrativenessof water is a fear: major or minor? Each hour, of water is a fear: major or minor? Each hour, in each per hour, did articles of light make them want to breathe? Did the articles of green,power, or stone? If green represents the components of the bodies, do their maleatmospheres appear less or moreor less green? The elimination of differencesis an elaboration on light—ancient and hot.is an elaboration on light—ancient and hot.Between them, is there a male melody—do they each reciprocate manners and possibilities?There is molecular affinity. Is it believedthey kissed under the nightblue fruitof night. Yes, sunk deep they kisseduntil respiration was new, until the beliefin conditions, the components of bodiesin conditions, the components of bodiesbecame circumstantial evidence of pleasure.They poured their nebulaeinto each other. Did they elude themselvesinto enclosures, these solitary hotels ofdifficulties? No, they expanded. Each is a different order than the last. These twotellurians, in the semiluminous dark, the moontellurians, in the semiluminous dark, the moonhot as a chariot. Their brilliance, his foot, that foot, an archipelago of steps, theirheads raised to the stargroups, as if they had never witnessed this phenomena,at the end of their relief, floating on kissesperhaps from the cinctures of Saturn,back to the living room, the articlesback to the living room, the articlesof furniture, into the rotation of objects,the ancient smell of urine.

17THE OUT OF TUNE BALLADMatthew Walsh

Theres nothing like his kiss hot down to the soulO heart kiss me straight on my mouth I cant waitsweet like incense his flowers on my bosomand yet not a particle of love in our natures

Im soft like a peach but stretched out deadThis damned old bed is jingling like the dickensWeve too much blood clattering up in usWeve too much blood clattering up in usIm a juicy pear where his breath makes me water

I dream cream muslin at the bottom of the basketI remember a young May moons beaming loveI touch fellows in cloaks asleep in the shadethen crush them deep and send them all spinning

He was a balmy bollocks but too beautiful all the sameHed be glauming me over my moaning made him blushHed be glauming me over my moaning made him blushWe kissed goodbye the canal lock was frozenAn icy wind skeeting across from the mountains

18THE SMOOTHEST PLACE IS RIGHT HERE Jennifer Liston