Tag Archives: poem

Attic

Posted on November 19, 2020 by John Biscello

“Gnossienne: A moment of awareness that someone you’ve known for years still has a private mysterious inner life, and somewhere in the hallways of their personality is a door locked from the inside, a stairway leading to a wing of … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Desire

Posted on November 18, 2020 by John Biscello

Within the rounded sermon of the inanimate, a favored coursing, by which light spreads its wordless fingers upon the world’s private longing.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Could Be Heaven

Posted on November 18, 2020 by John Biscello

No sin of which to speak, always beginnings, rogue, feral, growing wild among the greenest seasons of fire and becoming, or, siring the form of a dancer dancing in the clouds, lightning at her feet, as the rain begins to … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Lighthouse and the Labyrinth

Posted on November 18, 2020 by John Biscello

A thousand and one labyrinths, maybe more, filled with the lost and forlorn, weeping, yet never losing sight of the hidden lighthouse, that favored legend of which rumors have prevailed, to guide the dreamers, in the way that secrets whisper … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

A Thousand Women

Posted on November 16, 2020 by John Biscello

“I am not indifferent to the greater dramas hanging over us, but drama is everywhere the same, microcosm or macrocosm. It is not my destiny to live the drama of Spain, war, death, agony, hunger. It is my destiny to … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

American Alley

Posted on November 16, 2020 by John Biscello

“What absurdity.  There is not one novel of America.  There are a thousand Americas. Big Business is only one of its inhuman, monstrous products.  But jazz is the expression of America’s romantic self, its sensual potency, its lyrical force. Big … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Them Blues

Posted on November 16, 2020 by John Biscello

“… the blues is an impulse to keep the painful details and episodes of a brutal experience alive in one’s aching consciousness, to finger its jagged train and transcend it, not by the consolation of philosophy but by squeezing from … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tall Black Armchair, or, Anais Nin Revisited

Posted on November 13, 2020 by John Biscello

“The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair.  I will be the one woman you will never have … excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Wistful

Posted on November 12, 2020 by John Biscello

“It was back into the mind of the young man with cardboard soles who had walked the streets of New York.  I was him again—for an instant I had the good fortune to share his dreams, I who had no … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

All That Jazz

Posted on November 12, 2020 by John Biscello

“Now once more the belt is tight and we summon the proper expression of horror as we look back at our wasted youth.  Sometimes, though, there is a ghostly rumble among the drums, an asthmatic whisper in the trombones that … Continue reading →

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment