ModPo & Experimental Poetry

Better than Starbucks began wholly as a creation in my mind. Now the wonderful collaboration of four dedicated editors is creating a monthly magazine that I could have only dreamed about when I was starting out as a one person organization.

 

Having said that, there are no direct connections between U Penn, Al Filreis, KWH (Kelly Writers House), ModPo (Modern & Contemporary American Poetry), or any of the actual affiliated programs to ModPo and this magazine, other than I have been a part of ModPo for several years now. There is, however, a strong spiritual and intellectual connection between BTS and ModPo.

 

If I had not gotten involved in the larger community of ModPo, I don't think I would have restarted a literary publication. I am certain I would not have added a Formal & Rhyming Page, and probably not a Translations page. I have a pretty narrow preference for poetry, but the course and the people at ModPo have expanded my view of poetry to the point that I decided if I could find good people to help me do it, we would make BTS as broad of a source of styles and genres as possible. We have been fortunate to establish a team of talented editors and are in the process of an ever expanding quest to find poetry wherever it may be.

Thus, it seems fitting that we dedicate a page to my fellow students at ModPo, and/or anyone who wants to share experimental poems. The thing about experiments is, they often fail, but as the point is to learn, not to create perfection, even failed experiments in the lab or on this page, will offer something for us, if we will find it. and when the experiment doesn't fail... well, you will see! - Anthony Watkins

IT MIGHT BE SURREAL, BUT IT'S MY LIFE:

 

THE UNWRITTEN RULES

 

Lately the plague of monkeys I keep in the blue hut

on the bridge of regrets

has been making an unholy racket every night by

rustling their dry nest bits

and making their chrrrr chrrrr chrrrr noises, the ones

they've been making since just after they were born.

A sweet enough sound — but loud once they all get going.

 

They must be agitated because mostly they're silent

and it's just the African Grays out on the rotting deck

that can't keep their blasphemous mouths shut, who

I have to worry about

But as long as I keep a coverlet over the cage at night,

they're kind enough to be silent.

 

Now — it's both monkeys and parrots — some someone put

a massive tear in the bird cloth

and no matter how carefully I fix it over the cage, it

falls open every night

and I awake to one or both of them, squawking:

"fuck fuck fuck — hear me? hear me?  fuck fuck fuck".

 

Of course, I hear them — I'd have to be bloody deaf

to not hear them; even with earplugs, I hear them.

And I'm sure everybody thinks I taught them the words

but I don't think so, or if I did, I don't remember.

I wish I could be shut of the whole lot, but they're my

family, you can't just rid yourself of family

You have to keep family . . . that's the rules.

 

 

CAGING DREAMS

 

Every evening at about half past House of Cards,

I tell the pugs, "Crate Time" and they don't move

They're cute little dogs but stubborn as glue on glass

after it bakes in the sun all day

And it doesn't matter how cajoling I am, how sweet,

I always have to forcibly move their rumps

until they can't balance on the couch any longer

And they tip onto the floor and then they'll

bounce down the stairs like rocking horses

To their kennels where I settle them for the night

 

I'd let them sleep upstairs or wherever they want

but I've tried that, and they don't stay put

They get up and wander about and get into things,

always different things — they've eaten CD's and

garbage, and all manner of stuff and it's just

easier if I know they're in their crates

And besides, I have hideous nightmares if they're

not crated — I think the house is burning down

Or floating down the street and everyone I ever

knew is in it, drowning — including me

 

I don't know why the crating and the nightmares

are connected, but they do seem to be

No, there's no doubt in my mind at all — they are.

 

 

FIRING THE SIGNALS

 

She fell into the day, a pond filled with yesterday's

friends and loose teeth

Struggled to her feet stamping through old money

and a ripped skirt that didn't fit ever

Shrugged on her jeans wondering about her DNA

and her other genes and that bridge

And if the signals in that part of her brain's tower were

firing on all circuits or if that poor organ

Had gone on strike for good and all, or if she was

thinking of some other cells.

 

 

SLIDING INTO DUSK

 

She slides into dusk with trepidation

and hypnotized,  shatters like a glove

filled with mornings gone lost

Then lies amongst the peach striations of sunset

Until plush black starlings on the wing scoop the shards,

bevel the edges, attempt to rectify damage

 

Lost in chaos with more than one reptile

slithering down the corridors in her head,

She knows it needs laying down

Her heavy, filled with rotted fruit head

Needs syphoning off, dousing;

its hissing reptiles hushed

 

Flames begin licking round the edges

of hysteria building with wobbly certainty

in the bedlam of her mind

How much time has elapsed, she wonders

in the time it takes an eyelash to travel

down her cheek

Then float through the air like a dark angel's wing

broken off at the root

That is — no time at all.

 

There is a crack in her sanity

And if she squints she can just make out a drizzle

of "everything's fine."

But it looks like sap or resin

Just as it's closing she has time and cogency enough to wonder

if it's freezing over . . .

Or instead —

 

S.E.Ingraham©

Published on-line by Red Fez (Issue 48 - 12.08.13)

 

 

IT'S BEEN MY EXPERIENCE

 

It's been my experience

When the mantle smells

Like swamp-gas, it's time

To brew a pot of never

 

Wind the battery clock

And set it to snakes

In a basket or half past

Unpleasant children

 

Crank the pepper-mill

Past the scent of jackboots

Or, being locked up in a jar

By now the tea should taste

 

Like forever and the mantle

Will be starting to sway

It will be past time to seize

A pocket level which will feel

 

Very much like nothing

Worth knowing, life

In prison, or a stack

Of quilted lies

 

Or, might I suggest

Instead, you take

The powder brush —

The one giggling there

 

By the clock — but hurry

 — if it coughs or worse,

Sneezes, it will vanish

On you —

 

For by now, the mantle

Shall sound like a waterfall

That really tall one

In South America —

 

And the level  well — it will be

Old news, the tea will be dirt

The clock a cow and . . .

It's been my experience

 

S.E.Ingraham©

-published in Pyrokinection October 2, 2012 (editor Amy Huffman)

-chosen by editor Amy Huffman for "Storm Cycle: Best of 2012" Dec.26.2012   

- read by Iain Kemp on his radio show in Spain, Fall 2013 (2 mins approx.)

Red Eye Open

 

I would like to say no words were harmed

in the making of the poem.

You see, I like words as much as some people

like puppies and small children.

As a grandfather,

and something of a pushover

I love babies, and puppies,

and old sad saggy red eyed dogs.

I also love sad saggy old words.

The ones that can barely move their rheumatoid consonants along.

Long time ago,

in a different universe,

I was a truck driver for Pepsi,

and in East Stuart, Florida,

there was a place called

Bessie and Ma’s.

I don’t really know what it was,

but it didn’t open until late,

like at dark.

By dark I had to be back in Rivera Beach,

so I would rattle

my long-straight-body-roll-up truck

alongside of the store,

bouncing over mud holes

and gravely bits of grass

and I would dodge the old hound.

He wouldn’t move.

There is a special sound a roll-up door makes,

you probably know it.

I hear it in my heart,

not my ears,

nor my mind, even.

I roll up the door in the slow late afternoon,

last stop.

4 cases of non-returnable 10 ounce bottles.

Tossed on my shoulder.

Even though three was the limit.

Safety man says.

But It was a dollar’s worth of commission.

 

I wasn’t going to unhitch the dolly

for a quarter extra

and I had to take them all in.

Hell, I was young.

 

Thirty Years Ago.

 

The old storefront windows are filled with signs. You can’t see inside. I bang on the wood framed glass door. I wait. I bang, again. In a little while, a very old, very dark lady let me in. I shift the cases off my shoulder and onto the cooler box. I ask if she wants me to fill the box. No. she gives me the $36.00, I sign the yellow copy and give it to her. Thank you, she says. Thank you I say.

 

Out of the very dark place.

The hound is still laying on the edge of a mud hole.

Now he opens one red eye.

Now.

 

I don’t touch him,

but I lean down close and say,

“hey old guy, way to watch!”

then I rattle off to Palm Beach County.

No dog was harmed in this poem.

I am sure of that.

I read as much as I can that Al writes.

I have befriended,

or at least attached myself

like a groupie,

to some real LANGUAGE poets.

I try to protect the words.

 

I try to make sure my poem

knows it’s a poem

and that it writes about itself,

but maybe I am the dog in the mud hole,

just one red eye open.

I look in the mirror now.

Now.

“way to watch!”

Anthony Watkins

Featuring
           Silent Poems
              by Anthony Watkins
and 
         Games Poets Play
              by ModPo Students

Copyright  Better Than Starbucks 2017, a poetry magazine

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