The Beautiful Hunt

I hear your hands against the door.
I will write about self-enclosure.

My brother is playing guitar
in the attic with invisible strings;

the night becomes
a terrible universe.

My father reads his Bible
breaking mythical ground;

the extinction of the body
is as inevitable as struggle.

The sound of wolves clawing
at the door; I write about

the language of death, how
beautifully it hunts for silence.

There are windows to every soul;
I pass through mine while my mother

waits barefoot in the kitchen
for the bread to rise.

My Inheritance

In an instant, a mind
is set on fire-
is meaning.

Today, half the world
was born,the other half
is leaving. When did we
become so restless?

I give to you
a music box, a clock,
a book of singing,
an undiscovered country,

the untouched sunset,
a gold and perfect dawn.

I will take from you
an honest eye,
an uncertain identity,
a refugees story,

your well-earned
and damaged religion-
a lamp you have not yet lit
that will make my heart

a flame.


amidst delicious shadows gone outward after you whisp'ring body the moon joined through appearance crossing you daydreamed haply voice of monday

regards distances swaying together sweeping stranger two-syllabled let's lay each like wanting to light between november and december that desire drunk down we'll remember pleasing given having joy delighted fortune so telling the features flying magnetic silhouettes into excitement widening shaking commotion recombined

fluid upon fluid waves conspire sweet beauty rode nude prescription wildly over tomorrow evening


A revenge on painters (Marie Rennard)

A revenge on painters

With a rubber

Shade off the dark

Soothe the light; tone the reds down on the picture.

Let the whale in the back

Play its old Chinese tunes

They will dance west,

Golden shadows on the waves of the night,

Till they spare drowned on blue sea grass

Carefully ranked round a sweet eyed scarecrow.

Inside the whale, paint what you need

Hide what you fear

Take place in an armchair of guts

They re so sweet in fresh whales,

And have a glass of this hoarse sugared wine

So expensive

But those who can afford

A living in a whale don t care about money.

Then choose one of the books,

That one, with shells on the worn out jacket

And pick the letters out


To read

A foul bunch of rambling

The problem with the whales is that they really stink

As much as a pack of dead dogs

And, how could one paint this

Without using a word?

Marie Rennard.



the grass have grown
where the dog once howled
new creatures mortal trespass
the same old bones
breaking beneath the void
today we feed the ants
tomorrow blood flowers

billy jno hope


Maryam Gazala: "These moments"   [translation of a Gujarati ghazal]

Lacking clear cause   I'm assaulted   by these moments
when I'm minded to move   I'm halted   by these moments

say I'm settling to sit?   these moments push me along
do they peddle mirages? yes   I'm exalted   by these moments

they have levied from me   the habit of regular sleep
a midnight knock   my door has defaulted   from these moments

on some days   they raid my larder of every morsel!
other days my begging bowl's filled and salted   by these moments

O when I make a try for the path of being simple
with what riddles and puzzles   I get pelted   by these moments!

day and night   I keep on piling up more errors
like a soothing friend   I'm lulled and lilted   by these moments

the entire world is disclosed as a vast museum
when into its labyrinth   I've been tilted   by these moments

what I most cherish is my desire for the murmur of roses
but here on the stairwell   thorns are belted   by these moments

oh what courteous physicians   they can prove to be!
when you wound me   I'm gauzed and felted   by these moments

why now falsify your newsbrief   darling Gazala?
when they choose to leave   you'll be jilted   by these moments


Rendering of a Gujarati ghazal ("Amthi amthi mujhne aklaave kshano") by Maryam Gazala Radhanpuri -- following from Max Babi's literal translation.


echoes (Petronius, sat. 79)

haesimus calentes
et transfudimus hinc et hinc labellis
errantes animas
anxiously we embraced each other,
some life breathes to infuse
into our mouths, everywhere


Could You Walk Less Loudly?

Can a poet
have a conversation

without thinking?...

muffle the sound
of footsteps

that walk
so far ahead

or tread
so close

behind him?


Dans les calmes echanges verbaux ses mots etaient doux,
Il disait quelque chose a propos des nuages et je me demandais
pourquoi ils etaient fait de nuages... doux comme ses mots
et eleves au dessus des autres hommes.

Il murmurait en francais, j'entend de beaux sons fremissants
comme des nuages se deplacant dans le vent,
comme des nuages se deplacant dans le vent.

Son discours d'argent comme le revetement des nuages
se refletant au soleil.

Ecoutant sa langue maternelle, je suis un champ etndu sur
son dos bouche bee d'admiration
les ombres nuageuses de sa presence filtrant au travers mon visage,
mon cou, mes epaules... sa voix pressant mes levres

avec le poids d'un ciel lourd, sa main effleura ma joue,
quand il dit au revoir, les nuages se replient...

Il manque a la nuit comme a moi.

If I Were A Carpenter

This woman,
the tower

of a natural

and mortal as

the hands that
designed it.

In this life
we build

many things;

a blueprint
of infinity-

a house without
a single, fastened door,

a bridge
to a garden

with a thousand
singing birds-

where light
becomes a child


between the roses
and the hours

that eventually

our best-planned

to finely,
scattered dust.


No Strings

From every angle
there is retreat
many more will follow

and that silence
you've struggled
to complete, will finally

all that you
have gathered.

A good opinion
is to touch
the worthy things,

the beautiful things
and rather than
seduce or claim them-

let them
understand you,
give them ease

to be what they
were meant
to be...

despite you.


the melting pot (unending) g m m r

melting pot,
___ ___
___ ___

trip to mankind
voyage des sens,
tant de mots
one meaning

ou nous sommes des otages de l'obscurite,
where we re hostages of darkness
guido monte marie rennard



catechize your spirit
one chalkboard screech
to eternity

billy jno hope


In this world, this wisdom
(have you understood?)

I climbed a stream
and swam a hill

while this planet, an old
and silvered teacher


Always, the blind
(do stars have eyes?)

crawl across
the blackened ground

without the sense
of light or sound

and find
the rose...

in its petaled ear

I can".

Conversations with the Soul

Not far (as if distance
discourages us) my own

private altar where
the soul studies most

wonderous things
(in order of significance)

being there, the meaning
of ( ------------ ),

the importance lent
to ( -----),

the desire of ( ---------)
and how it's borrowed

from ( ------)
the purpose of (---------),

and lastly this- ( ------).


it's full of

Woke Up Feeling I Had Parsed Something

With the help of a magician holding a black bag belonging to a kindred magician who owned the nearby novelty store that charged half for most of its wide ranging merchandise

With the help of angels manufactured by distance learning professorial renditions of a rivulet drizzling somewhere in mid-Africa

With the help of corresponding nuns who whittled in the whittling olympics versus brethren who did not

With the help of signature defectors who held in competence as though it were a form of halitosis

With the help of a dictionary assembly team on duty for the full complement of thirty years to formulate this new edition

With the help of bubble machines that used to operate full time on the weekly Lawrence Welk extravaganza

With the help of smokers of the corn cob pipe that used to be a staple of the weekend country social

With the help of end run cousins populating enemy land while considering conversion to non sequitur arrangements of the language

With the help of blue corn products meant to feed the citizens of all ages colors creeds who make up stories fit to print in suburban neighborhood newsletters

With the help of conscience as a harbinger of optimistic things to come despite a stingy history

With the help of broad exculpatory outbursts meant to comfort an intended God shaped in the imaged likeness of a frail facsimile of homo sapiens


Calliope Nerve V: The Great Poetry Experiment

Calliope Nerve V: The Great Poetry Experiment featuring the work of Raymond Farr is free of charge and available now:

Measuring "bedlam" [Except for Yoshiko]

new-fangled as "bedlam" a bullet a stone
is how words put it [at hand, mid-20th century]
w/ prosody & improv: with how a tree
is a language action revolves until brkn--

"swell gal" "keen bop"
w/ prosody & improv: with how a tree

[& wearing the first day in Japan
page 3
except for Yoshiko...]
common usage becomes a vol. X, a no. 1
a fire-eating-hive-mnemonic-rubber-tree-

in walks dominant-marcolina-criteria-schemata
fluent in 4 by 7 by 6 by 9 exclusion-narration
measuring "bedlam" from the fist of its heart
its hinterland-borders barricaded against:
prosody & improv & how a tree doth speak

but who was that bavarian hat or tongue
in town tonight? so odd & on the morrow?

Other authors include Sheila Murphy, Ariel Lee, and of course me, I'm Nobius Black.

Calliope Nerve features poetry, short lit, and unique bits. To order this issue send your snail mail address to nobius at gmail dot com. Email for submission info. To support Calliope order you Amazon products via my site: White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE*. Back issues are also in stock.


Word Problem Redux

Utilizing techniques honed in the opium
dens of Amsterdam circa 1970, solve the
following word problems, equations, etc.
Suggestion: Consider Stein: i, & e, & n
toted off in gondolas at intervals: Length
what is length when silence is so windowful?

PROBLEM ONE: When gauging
or disengaging a pipeline, what aspect of "ing"
derives: 1) dislocation of thought, 2) identity,
3) distrust of singularity of perception, etc.
while misplacing/displacing a "u?"

1) Arabian peninsula taxi rides across.

2) Hopi reading Flaubert, no mixture of cults.

3) Jack & his Klondike opposed by sutured.

Note: Write carefully, diligently. Measure all
strides issuing from "measure" e. g. "a sure me,"
"use ream," etc. If it helps accept present tense
as your raison d’etre in real time.

PROBLEM TWO: estimate dimensions
of the following sentience sentence fragments
in kilometers, meters, centimeters etc
while racing the word clock to its doom:

1) scoped denuded funnest "V."

2) The guidon’s 6-legged imago.

3) 6-legged.

4) Vices subtler than consequence.

Suggestion: Write as though "gun"
was aimed like "church" at your temple.
Time is the enemy. Remember: a cat
is a cat on history’s hot tin "Hazzar!"
If it helps look up post-Enlightenment
agonistes as though "during" interprets:
of colors after heavy nights of rioting.

A mulling of Mulligans killing time
is the same length as:
Opposition arrives in twelve seconds?

Hint: space/time effects Irish patriots
inversely when Guinness is poured.

PROBLEM FOUR: On a separate sheet
of blank paper, calculate the total number
of responses possible in nature:

1) Negative howitzers spawn "Y" on Gaza.

2) Crop circles gauge "W" like opaline tsars.

3) If science deletes, "N" is Alaska-topiary.

Hint: Keep in mind Foucault’s
premise that modern art is not
a confirmation of modernity
but an articulation of its limits.

Note: In the following problem,
Dada, as a methodology, may be helpful.
Or, if you prefer, apply Surrealist
principles to weed out: of thinking
running like a dog or maiden’s flute
in the opium dens of Amsterdam.

Remember: sr / sd applies. Language
(lacking a clean break / referents
in the "real world") approaches Absolute
Zero like a swan dive aficionado.

Father Giotto (née fin de siècle-Jones)
is counting halos not sheep or syllables.
Two distinct asses tote Andy Warhol
through the id of Jerusalem. How many
gum-wads are stuck like:

1) glue to pink?

2) Cadillac gulch in summer?

3) the Presidio?

If time permits solve the following
equation first. Then plot it on graph paper
according to principles set forth by
poet, Joan Retallack:

a man is in a John [Cage] equivocates:
distance between objects in fields
relate like JohnCage in a field is a man
singing: on a page I am a page or a field.

For s. t. & _nselm

The second id talks goests. Is written
text. The answer is scion phonetically.
A Celt por favor und parlez Li Po
submits mississippis of interpretations.
I. e. Olaf’s buzz saw fires the howitzer
inclement as weather. Sartre’s farts
modulate voids cantering to nocturnes.
For conflict obliviates a treasure red
as licorice on avenue dot com. A PIN
deuxième ululates / defines: one sonnet
one ode duo with trio. To rhyme is a
dime so uno yavole. What swimmingly
he admitted punning for his life: Dear
[nom de plume—noun here], Erin
[erratum] equals fraught w/ postmodern.
P. S: s. t.'s a he-gloss: _nselm's a plod.
Ennui is the oui in [is’s] torso.

Form as Seperate Heresies

"Didacts" & "did acts" clomp westward into margins.
Engines / consumers sequential (as)
continents on knees.
Wild (in) gouges.

Limits articulate Foucault's suzerain chat-room-asylum.
Talc-vroom shadows his verb-plank—
scenic, ,(as)
snarling Marvel-Comix'
curved trajectory.
A factory-in-receivership black-snakes (bomb-sites)
condones its way
across door jamb
after psaltered, spook-riddled, L[intel] & postmodern.
Predestined lives,
cut out of
sqaunder the view,
spoofed by a language poets winnow to traverse.
Instances propose—
a shoal
a sentence
(desire opens

to a lacking.

Thus poem is a man / is a didact / is a tribute
funks up Foucault’s machine gun machismo,
a history he only snubs to embrace.

Supposing vorac--, ,a joule,
what is felt is purchased: NO REFUNDS!
vorac- ( desire
opposed by,
p—the past is the past
a debit of cholera p_yroll frontier (_a_____)

What didacts write they lack—
"Please, sit down & talk to me" adulterates solutions
forms, as machines, employ to survive.




Moving On

We will say our goodbyes,
slowly now, like the clouds

whose wise decisions fail
in the weakest of winds

and only the discerning eye
will remember our previous

commitments- I love you
still and constant.

What do you think you hear
as the storm stops suddenly

or the exquisitely bright
vision seers an impression

on the blank, white
canvas of your time?

Does she move
you... like me?