8th July 2013,
Hello to all aspiring writers and poets!
I have recently taken over this blogzine from its creator Bruce Ruston, who has decided to focus on other artistic endeavours at this time.
I have many thoughts and goals on the new direction of The Poetry Jar, the main aspiration being to provide a platform that explores the ability of different forms of creative writing, to access unconventional disciplines that would not traditionally be associated with the creative arts.
At this point in time, I would like to put forth a call for submissions of poetry/short stories/dialogues that marry creative frameworks with unconventional subject matter. There is no limit on creativity, imagination and scope.
There is no payment made for published material. All copyright rests with the writer. Please feel free to publish work elsewhere simultaneously.
in the Java ‘n’ Jazz the
chorded and semi-toned (down the
always regained on the
minor before the bay window-front
a muggy Saturday afternoon
like Sunday used to be with all the shops
the pavement shop sign is folded up
and returned closed
by the door
with next week’s opening times
Jane Avril at the Moulin Rouge 1893
I let men believe
The rhythm of the bass
Makes me lose control
Of my feet
That I must yield to
The frantic beat
That I don’t mean to
Reveal these petticoats
But of course
It’s all a show
And men are simple
To see more of Bart’s work, check out the links below!
I find you in the smallest of places in my mind
Thoughts creep in on sudden footsteps
Or softly as if you are hunting for an opportunity.
I find you in the simplest moments of the sky
Crashing down upon me as gully-washers do.
Or floating lazily across azure heavens.
I find you in the corner of the darkest of shadows
Contrasted against simple love wanting to please
Or sweetly resting in my arms seeking solace from the night.
I find you in the tiniest lights at night
Streaking madly with your light showing the way
Or twinkling to the words of this poet’s eye.
The World is Made Of
The world is made of vegetable gardens
and four poster beds that want you to find the area.
Everything has a number.
Death and life are full of numbers.
God is a number,
an undefinable line,
backflipping across your graph paper:
In old stock film footage,
the animals are whole numbers.
The princess, a fraction, is all incomplete
until the handsome prince finds her,
fills her in in all the right places.
The villain may come, he says,
the perfect complement,
the chaos of zero,
the mad hat of deity,
that hole in the number line
where nothing else can go
until some mad mustachioed Indian
draws a line,
pulls it into an arc,
screams aloud his discovery
so that the virgins napping on the hill
splay their fingers in alarm.