Details Date: 2011 (Composed between 2007-2011) Run Time: 3.1 Hours Published by: Stag Records Download: Internet Archive The Book Burner, the Sleeper, and the Stalking Womb by Tom Fahy Between storms in a wooden chair in tall grass, your hair drying, wisps in the wind, I watch from within the circumference of willow roots,...
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Worlds do die, necessarily, by agency of their parasites who with lances for reverence swing, pad larders, pack troves, defend unwinsome broods, toothy hordes, bowlegged ciphers; while down on them bear the White Reasoning Devils, with razor-sharp jawbones, prepared with will to crimp iron in their fists, to rob of light and to pot...
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There is a spirituality about this place, and about the time... Christmas... that does tend to make one a little bit melancholy. And one thinks of one's friends and family, and you know that they're thinking of you. And the sense of separation is somehow increased by the loneliness.
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(Q. Mr. Williams, can you tell me, simply, what poetry is? A. Well . . . I would say that poetry is language charged with emotion. It’s words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has worth expresses the whole life of the...
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Car engines pass and slowly the air becomes still again. Music soft touches cheeks. Filters through rooms, gently pausing to watch it fill with light.
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The eBook Edition of 1987 by Tom Fahy is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. “1987,” a collection of prose and narrative poetry, had a brief incarnation as “It Went Up In Flames,” (Orchard Park Press, 2011). The former title has been revised and expanded… Purchase Link: Lulu.com (Feb. ’12) List...
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Woke up sweating ate a croissant got dressed under duvet
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Craftsbury, no-man’s land, on a plateau above birch forests, an empty commons, men carrying axes, women with children in rotting papooses. A hard, fast drive east to 91, 91 to 55, 55 to 10, 10 over the St. Lawrence into old, old, OLD Montreal … She says, “I have to keep my options open...
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(FOOTER) Another night spent alone and pondering this abstract thought and woe she sits in her small living museum – every thing with a meaning a purpose for just existing in its space. Thick tights and a jumper dress keep her warm. A messy hair-do and painted nails. Halfway ready for anything. She ponders...
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nights i didn’t sleep, mornings i didn’t wake days resolved to that or this nights absolved of what i did promises i didn’t keep, vows i didn’t make this or that dissolved to days by numbered hands and counted ways wait the new year’s fate it’s unattached to this or that my hidden hands...
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