The Golden Shovel- Four Poems

from by Adam Pierończyk With Anthony Joseph

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In the golden shovel, the poet choses a line from another poet and writes a new poem in which each word of the borrowed line appears at the end of each new line.

1.
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
- Andre Breton - Freedom of Love
She threw verbs and arrows at my
skull till I broke like water in her peninsula, a wife
who breathing deep, murmurs, coy-like, with
the nape of a question for a neck. The more the
heat from the galvanise slapped back
and the red dirt blew up, I thought of
how hard she suffered on that gospel plough, w/out a
suffocating word, with the exact patience of a bird
in flight, piercing the web of time, fleeing.
I broke her back with an axe of sin.
To be buried, vertically.

2.
all their syllables of living colour & career thru the water
- Kamau Brathwaite - Dear PM
gust of sound and sea blast and all
the windows are rattling like teeth in their
jaws. then the sky lid shifts to dim and syllables
of stone are chasing colour from the earth. Fear of
thunder like a child, like black dada in their roar of
living.The blood in the road below was the colour
of molasses; thick black with love &
this too, shall be the arc that frames the devils career.
Sudden so the junction got hot. Siren rip thru
and the sound tears straight to the
solar capital, like sorrow, leaving wounds in the water.

3.
fling of his wish have caught the sea
- Kamau Brathwaite - Master of the Mary Jones
Far flung from the fling
and the rip and the fever, grass in the scar red hills of
these islands. Cut across with cuss until his
imagination grew sombre. Wash under wash and wish
away from the grief of it, fish and bug and mollusk, to have
bliss of it, the dreamscape so tenderly caught
In the folds of terror, like a drowned man weeping in the
dark abyss of the sea

4.
In this night I moved upon the territory with combinations
- Charles Olson - The Librarian
What changes: limestone strata in
the earth.The heat pulse of birds, the drone bee in this
tree, the firefly in the litmus of night,
terrestrial objects of the heart? I
moved
upon the air as a leaf to dark waters
leapt from the roof to the
plum tree, dew wet was the bough: my territory:
the landscape, now seemed decreased, and dry with
its process of combinations.

credits

from Migratory Poets, released May 6, 2015

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