Tag Archives: Poetry

Fugue

Posted on July 4, 2016 by John Biscello

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Sunday Afternoon on Kolin Island”) The camera’s lucid eye swaddles them in gauze, reverse cocoon effect and causal brakes of a fugue, fast-tracking lives to ashen blanks.

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Wheelbarrow

Posted on June 30, 2016 by John Biscello

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “Contrasts, St. Vitus Cathedral”). Considering the slopes of noble toil and grave matter, so much depends upon a soiled wheelbarrow.

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Mass

Posted on June 30, 2016 by John Biscello

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “At Church.) jesus christ we applaud your shaded storehouse of yesterday’s cured pulp and no account sins, a meat pack industry at love’s labor’s cost; we, the proud brood of salt and bread, walk … Continue reading →

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Leaf

Posted on June 29, 2016 by John Biscello

(Written in response to Josef Sudek’s “From the Window of my Atelier” series)  A single leaf, solitary, unattached, at home in space, feral pucker seizing upon glass, a lonely kiss moist to the crunch.

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Yellow is the Color of my Sad

Posted on June 26, 2016 by John Biscello

Yellow is the color of my sad, how it runs. Some think it is blue but it is not. Blue is the common choice for color/me/sad, the popular one (how moods get typecast), but yellow is much sadder than blue, … Continue reading →

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Interview on The Last Word

Posted on June 22, 2016 by John Biscello

Podcast of my interview on The Last Word. Listen here. Show description: John Biscello, author, poet, and playwright. The writer’s life and work traces his odyssey from Brooklyn to Taos with a dose of magical realism along the way.

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stones, passing

Posted on June 21, 2016 by John Biscello

At the carnival I was most intrigued by the stone-swallower. A waifish bronze-skinned lady with dark hair, plaited, and slender fingers. I was rapt, watching the way she carefully arranged the stones to form a sort of pyramid at her … Continue reading →

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Elegy

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello

small hands folding paper cranes as grief rises

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Cafe

Posted on June 20, 2016 by John Biscello

At the small, time-worn cafe, the woman in the bell-shaped hat of crushed green velvet, palms warmed by the chipped enamel mug of dark coffee, this woman, setting adrift a gondola of words to cross the unsayable, reaching, with grave … Continue reading →

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Drift

Posted on June 19, 2016 by John Biscello

How to live patiently, in praise of mysterious drift, the questions burning dark in your heart, stolen keys fitted to foreign locks; you, spy and thief to your own drama, holding shadows to high standards, must abide with fierce intent, … Continue reading →

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