a note from the poet

Bernard believes expression should not be inhibited by form and reflect honestly, though enjoying a wide scope of appreciation for the many shapes the art provides, it is a personal mandate of his to increase readership for contemporary poetry by encouraging more organically formed and conversational text that reacts to and captures everyday events. He is the founder of two online sites, 'The Ink Blot' and 'The Cartier Street Review' where artists can submit their contemporary art and poetry for publication and feedback.

Bernard Alain has been published and/or featured in a few online journals recently such as the Orange Room Review, Madswirl, Pirene's Fountain, Mississippi Crow Magazine/RiverMuse Press, International Poet, The World Poets Society Electronic Catalog, Bywords, Bywords Quarterly Journal, Smoking Book and others with an upcoming publication in Wood Coin.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

having died a thousand deaths

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
--- Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue ---
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

---William Shakespeare


last week it was iritis
swarms of flashing black locust attacking my eye
and the doc said it was an immune difficiency of some type
likely to reoccur infrequently; without reason
and the cortisone, the emolients, all just feeble retaliations
against a body so determined to die
after 40 we are no longer superhuman
to rot is to be human


today I'm no where near the uppers or the god-like
even my fellow helots feel confident enough to piss on me
and there are no concessions for the meek unless
you want to be a castrato for a lady's night out.
it's play or be played
show me how to roll 9 to 5 into a cigarello; tipple daquiris
and I'll toast with the carcinogens sing like a ho
fuck go all the way cry havoc; let slip the dogs
I choose to rot


die-hards and martyrs have nothing to lose but time
the winners have taken it all
and we are hangers as in expired centuries
hangers as in dangling bodies
hangers on the last letter of I'll never let it go
so I can't imagine it ever happening the way Shak' wrote it
in the last line of o pardon me
it's the cigarellos that roast into perdition; groan for burial
the meek are hangers
quite used to the rot

Shopping Mall Playland

This is one of Don Schaeffer's most recent posters, the text is hard to read so I have typed it out for you below:

Shopping Mall Playland

even mid-winter light
is rosey and deep
in the place
where shapes
don't challenge

small globular people
roll on orbular color
under mild eyes
floating on
flowing songs.

Diane Recapitulated

Above is a poster selected from the upcoming 'The Notes of a Digital Ghost' collection by Don Schaeffer, the words on the poster are hard to read in this resolution so I have provided the text below:

Diane Recapitulated

So heavy 
when she lifts herself 
from the electric 
legs into a flesh and blood chair. 

"This damn corpus," came 
into my mind from hers. But then 
her face opened at the corners of her broad mouth, 
like a deep Irish red-head. 

And she could dance 
memories of Diane 
next door in our Pennsylvania days, 
before we found paradise.

*Don's blog is listed on the right along with some other favorites.