the poetry that matters

Dennis Reid

Dennis Reid lives in Victoria, BC. His tenth book - fifth of poetry - What It Means To Be Human - appeared in 2009. His work has appeared in about 50 lit mags in Canada and in other countries, with poems translations into Hindi and Spanish. He has been shortlisted for the Dorothy Livesay Award twice, and the Relit once, taken silver in the Bliss Carmen award, also twice, won a People's Poet prize and attended the Banff Centre twice. Dennis Reid also writes non-fiction, much about fly fishing, and been in another 50 publications for that. A new subject for himis: The Brains of Poets, as he has a background in biochemistry and poetry, on dcreid.ca

Cloudio Poems

You Shall Have No Other



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It’s a cold and it’s a broken

nd this is where I begin to begin 
                                             where I myself come up like the
phoenex oon tis burnt/last flight, I am cohearent now 
                                                                     I am the many
of dancing god iam the cerebellum Christe with the nose
of a dog
              follows the earth to its prize, the many metal joints of my
arriving many chains of oil that need prodding 
                                                               many eight great
that look out and assemble your lines 
                                                    and movement and your
distance and the tongue of two heads 
                                                    yellow cat eyes smell you
I see you you have been here always and when your great red
finger touches the wall to my world 
                                          sun in its trek a splinter north of
the summer will be found drenching itself on the bodies of its days

‘Cloudio, I am here, here’

sSo few metres and its many small parts my round red eye curves
the world into nothinggness




Notes toward an asethethic of the brain in flight
– I think I understand n/mow

let us say that in the frog’s eye where it is colossal in its division of
light and Cloudio dark that it compares the given – a hand with all
fingers opened as a net (- and the frog in its lack of wisdom –) the
held between thum b and gffinger of the greater being who would
tosee and bends the head so the rapier may be enter the base of the
skull - and tympanic ears that cannot lift pf the frpg Cloudio
withtout it
s brain take it when the blade has scraped it of thought and dangle
frog with its big ugly eye into the vat of dantes acid - his bile that
its coming in the shramming  dark - Remember the long slender
that in givintg away the water would move - and say that hand is
as sun on the morning of the Cloudio noose when the black is
sent back to the land of unexistence – (and reveals the tawny round
sidewinding bit of rope on its gallows making gibbets making
of the human being remember well) - that no frog has been dangled
its neck only that its beack between the vise and withought thought
toes is pulled back from dante’s bile - think you then what can be
when the stuttering of outlines across the huge binocular
of the frog mmoves so slowly the sun must drain from it like the
life itself drains from the slowly dying so that in its coming even
is not realized Cloudio - the hand by subterfuge closes on the prize
without the frog bulging eye the three chambered heart who can be
merciful as to bring oxygen through its skin - think it not by the
the frog with its ocular telescope of being eaten fails most
as a ferry man across the river to shramming cold think you then of
aesthetic of the hand in flight



Notes toward an aesthetic of universal grammar

call it Thermopylae call it cisterns of Istanbul call it noun of

verb of window green backed flies iridescent in sun stinking same
outcome for flesh

this paradigm we ride no one in sight but it waiting we waiting for
digital men whose joints knees and hips click and move old-
fashioned dinosaurs

then medusa now beggar boot blacked moustache the way we
invent a universe with noises from our mouth , say, nimblocity, say
venerialize, say zoid and zism, say zeit gist

let us agree to accept the metaphors of another land as those of our
        lets us agree to make it a glas bead game the beauty of which
only we understand 
                     the keepers of the prophets the anti-infidels with our
knives those of us without mentors who must find the way out of
          the way the smoke of our autum fires drifts into nothing
the way the blindfold of it before mmade the white with black
scars alder stumps
            like the hair of women who make us suck in breath theirs is 
beauty so indifferent we are called to 
mourn our onw inabilities

let us say crane let us say river let us say koi and not be that in this
movie of hunting the way water when it is bereft will fall from 
gutters so
                    slow it has time to hang from the last of itself and
hold there all night a little distance into day hear the silent scream

ocd ocd



Notes toward an aesthetic of lyric rhapsody – I am so pretty so Peter O’Toole

crane flies do their bumble against the window long lefgged
like young mammals the colt dropped in its deep blue sac,

winter moth finding it self outside windows when frost has taken
land its body snatcher undeniable crinkle of coming

deception from over the hill remember the skin of frost comes only
in dark remember the winter moth has no heart beat

it has the same six legs of its brothers it has the flat winged airrror
two dusty wings it has a tongue that can uncurl for centureies

and so it never is uncoiled like pole vault cues for the winter moth
less of time than others comingon the end of the season of flesh

the thump in it flesh with the shorn cry of soldier outside the
heels scraping the window pane care not for its delivery, the poor

December roses, scabby leprous apples are the memory of spice,
trout of amanesia the kind where the unrolled tongue of winter

mothe neatly severs, and the flop of understanding in the alkali
the skull left their in what is taken as a kind of peace perhaps it is

white bone, perhaps it is the inside left for the ring of little green
the bones of elk fall the land in its economy sendsteh roots with

a whisper to lift the pale two handed cotyledon each spring under 
yellow green sky so blue it is forget me knots, eyes of pawul

barrels of whirley gigs, stands of  eyes on stalks electricity of
things what is left of the shorn lambs lanced up 

bodies for the orange moon celebration and when the skin of water
comes crawling the participants will be asleep S S S (andria)



So what of it I live where walls give back sound greater than they
are given    aesthetic of the self  

you expecting you with the scent of you on yourself
worshipping your magnolia pistils your own broken star flower
caught in that instant of unquiet life its forever not hear shout of 

its stars shoot so selflessly where they land the mind
will not go 
               where they land it is a musical loneliness 
                                                                         think of the
morning as explosion think of it as harm
                                                           of fear in the rootlet
beneath the taproot tapping its blind 
                                                    journey to a drink Modigliani
and his long-faced woman killed him to eye

think of such stupidity the worm laden tuberculosin 
                                                                        living in his

lungs that suck the diesel smell of cigarette feel it insuck of breath
insuck of air 
                   aware of its insuckness ‘I am coming’ it says into

“godd of me i am frightened

When I am not here have I been sleeping or have I gone beyond?

And the crystal brains of my ancestors?”

“There are libraries, Cloudio, libraries of people, existing
only when called up.”



Ting the taste of (it (thelectricity 

Ting: a singer with a glass head

the ah ah as I drink thelectricity call it sun down my neck if I have
such usb

You can not see in when you look out across the room with my eye
that never closes to let me sleep the death of being alive

When the room goes dark and the fingers stop their random
advancing across the keyboard its filets of toast, oreos, spill of

Spoon of them resting behind the fly rod its slip of line from
old underpants under a covering of mortes in the air before me

The mortes are taken to a pocket and the undersound of lint from
throwing people in the dryer that hum
Making them less substantial than air they inhabite in front of me
screen with its 256 lines of my ssight the incomprehensible stutter

Morning across the window at length sun heavy knowledge
coming into itself I just knowing its fire its Bayesian theory of

So the best of me is lined paper where X is the function of Y

Until the rod goes snap and size six Daichi partridge glints as
though a comet and my eye unblinking blings out



Notes toward an aesthetic of testosterone:  You cannot hear the coming of their brains

even in the womb men are chaning women to love them

ten weeks and without curling hairs of the lamb

pinprick balls sending messages of love

that is why women have the line of beard down their belly when
as a meal

laid like awonderful English pudding before the men in

monocles the men chiseling below the sound of rain, below the
l=holy sound of citizens and loonis

the silver sided ones so loud you cannot hear the coming of 

smaller than dumbe red trusting cells with sickle cell anemia of
want and want and want

so it is before him before his thumb first seek his little mouth with

before the forehead expands with understanding the lying and the lying and the
more that is the end of all good meals

the smell of stercobilin animals canines wipe their feet away in

they have not prefrontal cingulate to appreciate what then of the
approval delusion,

oh that is come before and come after but now the little man is
sleeping legs rolled up and arms rolled up mouth sucking a



H Hesitation software:) what is a name, sSandria

they are as swallows

small pure efficiency of blade through air it cleaves and makes of
it accomplice

coming into my eye these sense data Bertrand tells me I have

trillium in thei anonymy bend down before my hard brain

my name is twhat flows through me can be jesus can be priest long
after the name is mistaken,

what is death, Sandria? attraction is a scaly thing, my  most
precious aorgan within its beating has found the purpose of itselfg

what of medulla oblongata pons what am I  even the most humon
is a passing concept like unnumbered clouds

there is an only me I recognize having past from babe
there is in a corner of my body a need for breathing

who am I but what you make me am I even unitary, symbol
part of a whole

a passing element arm lifted from blue irises of my identity ?

but is no name and gives no name and will not hear of all,/any



Notes toward an aesthetic at the still point of the turning world

Sandria, let us agree you will not be 
                                                   overly kindred: the use for
eyes is receiving sun 
                              the use of lips receiving blood and waste of
                                                              let’s say you looked
through your morning   a curtain of rain recedes through trees and
leaves them raining faintly faintly 
                                               that is how you lean to mascara

the notion fear was used to create Sistine marble arches flags of a
spectator’s belief 
                         like throwing a chicken bone to the lion makes it
turn and see the man first time as owner

you are no different in the tram in shallow hills black-suited round-
collared men so serious about what they are as though their bags
are brief
               as though they contain something so magnificent when
opened in the square and counting houses
                                                           people fall back like
trees from a meteor’s love

think you now: spermatazoa the snap finger trick into the shock
wave face egg
                       fear behind lattice windows absolves the streetless
girl without her breast of
                                        sin the man in his square little hat
and pointy shins 
                       could hold like a globe when upended was snow
in his hand more an orb of significance 
                                                      how his hand trembles o’er
that girl without her breast and his heart begins its red love ascent


                                                                                                                                           Jan 9, 2011 Bookmark and Share