The April 1913 issue of Poetry magazine contained this now-famous short poem by Ezra Pound:

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

This printing of the poem in the New Freewomanon 15 August is notable for reproducing Pound’s original spacing, an innovation he explained to Poetry editor Harriet Munroe in a letter of March 30^th: ‘In the ‘Metro’ hokku, I was careful, I think, to indicate spaces between the rhythmic units, and I want them observed’[i]. I imagine that the explanation was intended to overcome objections by either Munroe or her printer (or possibly both) to Pound’s irregular requirements, and that similar objections may be why the layout was dropped in all other printings of the poem.

Pound’s explanation is interesting in its echoing of the last of the three principles that…

For Paul’s Wildness challenge. I hope he doesn’t mind that I seem to be taking what we call the contre-pied rather often.

Haibun for the excluded

I never have felt, and never will feel, that I am part of what we call nature. I observe, yearn to be, to enter into that wild dimension framed by grass stalks, moving, coloured air, and the million scents I will never know. Like watching a cricket match, a film in Urdu, the grinning teeth of golden people on a yacht. On the outside, beyond an unseen wall, looking in, understanding nothing.

Kestrel hovers
fearless or just ignorant
of our gravity.

Honeysuckle Love

I became blind, when your stinger caught my eye
I dined on your sweetness, your addiction was prime.
Like a honeysuckle love, your drip is too sticky to define.
Deeper than any spice or sin, beautiful angelic angry buzz.

Honeysuckle love, more than a feeling, it was more than tingling in my blood.
Honeysuckle love, my heart's soft healing, but it's beating like a drum.
Vacuous to the nectar you have strewn. I've got the devilish mind when the sheets begin floating off the bed.

Those ruby lips and cursive hips, make the movement more lucid.
She's the melody to my soul, And the rhythm is pushy and juicy.
With every breath, uhh...and every step I,
I feel her touch my bubbling skin.  The heat is a boil,  And i've dreamt every dream i've ever dreamt.  

I know what good love love is all about.

Love Themes from…

Bio:

Vikki C., is a British-born writer, poet and musician from London whose literary works are inspired by science, spirituality, existentialism, surrealism and the human condition.

She is the author of ‘The Art of Glass Houses’ (Alien Buddha Press) – a debut chapbook of poetry and prose exploring the human experience through the liminal spaces of memory, place, heritage, art and existentialism.

Vikki’s poetry and prose are widely published, both in print and online journals and anthologies. Her work appears or is forthcoming in publications such as EcoTheo Review, Ellipsis Zine, Black Bough Poetry, Acropolis Journal, Nightingale & Sparrow, Loft Books, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, Across The Margin, Literary Revelations, Lazuli Literary Group, Spare Parts Lit and other venues.

As a musician and spoken word artist, Vikki’s writing, spoken poetry and musical compositions have played a role in various audio collaborations. In 2022, her voice and poetry were featured on Iambic…

The Thievery of Marilyn

We must all suffer through the rings to the prisons We must go from the ugliest to the gossling. We must slip from stardom to the depression. The silk nights and the bleeding knocks at the doors. In '63, after Marilyn's death, The world was left whipped into the permanence of a heavy breath. The loss was so great, the stars dripped like leaky faucets, The sadness and the lewd collaborated into obedient crying. They couldn't believe that she has was gone, A life cut short, a tragedy that was the invention of some mob. As if she was took from us, but she was far from herself. With all that she had to give, the arrogance wanted more. That darkness consumed her, her spirit was caught in that cage. Just smile little Marilyn, they'd say. The money, the fame. The elite is watching. The elite…