Note de lecture

 

 

Une note de lecture de Claude Vercey sur La voiture accidentée du futur sur le site de la revue Décharge.

Le foutoir de Walter Ruhlmann

 

L'amour est illusion, et même la luxure est dépouillée de son charme romantique et érotique. A l'intérieur, caché de l'amant, vit le loup, incarnation de l'appétit, aussi dangereux qu'énergique et sauvage. Ces poèmes se mettent à nu, rejetant les faux conforts d'une connexion facile et joyeuse. Les souvenirs n'offrent aucun confort. Plutôt, ils ramènent de vieux amants, dont certains oubliés depuis vingt ans, avec des images suggérant des choses sales, impures, ou même des tourments.

10€ - Urtica  - commandez ici ou directement auprès de l'éditeur.

La voiture accidentée du futur: note de lecture

 

L'inertie de la petite presse. Une deuxième note de lecture sur l'excellent "La voiture accidentée du futur" paru l'an dernier chez #Urtica . Note publiée dans la revue #Verso en mars dernier. Le recueil est toujours disponible ici https://t.co/v99O7Dhg7V pic.twitter.com/rji4Tjun97

— Datura Beakful Urtica (@beakful) April 5, 2021

The Wizard’s Losing his Power by Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)

Undercliffe Cemetery (c) Tim Green, Flickr

 

 Cemeteries’ womb unfold! Hurl the gnome bastard,
       to the world’s hell and hellish road!
Tin mouth roars, dragon tooth spur

       scratches and screeches. Torment and suffer! Guffaw!
Gathers mistletoe, bone hand reaches for his hand,
                  attacks thousands of hoplites with a meer sickle,
the solid phalanx bloodily falls apart.

Fly-swatter tailed wencher lurking around the Triple Crossroad,
       hiding in the bushes,
Only our Crocodile Sister can hear
his falling-failing
                      wailing.
Expand magic circle! The womb of crater stenched scummy crypt muco-pus unfold!
       Hurl the gnome bastard,
                     to the world’s hell and hellish road!
Tin mouth roars, dragon tooth spur
                  scratch-screech. Torment and suffer! Guffaw!

A bone hand holds up the skull made chalice.
„Die, rebells!”
       Commands the gas-masked Savior.

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

*****

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: (szellem)válaszok, A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya . New: Kiterített rókabőr. English poems published: Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine, Scum Gentry Magazine, Pussy Magic, The Zen Space, Crêpe & Penn, Briars Lit, Acclamation Point, Truly U, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Lots of Light Literary Foundation, Honey Mag, Theta Wave, Re-side, Cape Magazine, Neuro Logical, The Daily Drunk Mag, Unpublishable Zine, Melbourne Culture Corner, Beir Bua Journal, Crown & Pen, Dead Fern Press, Coven Poetry Journal, Journal of Erato, All Ears (India), Utsanga (Italy), Postscript Magazine (United Arab Emirates), The International Zine Project (France). Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.

Revival

 Urtica is back online. Send me your most disturbing work for the blog and your most traumatic manuscript for the press.

A Vampire in Disguise

Could a cow-boy be a coward
in the lines of indefinite pleasures?
The story of two impossible moons
landed on the skin of the red Indian.

Father! Your cookery and imagery
cannot erase the felony and treachery.
The words come true in this language
linguistically genuine;
they have the power to unravel
the dark machinery of my dreams.

Walter Ruhlmann, Carmin Carnival, 2013

Hiatus

 

The blog and the press will go on hiatus for some time. Do not send work to either of them, it wouldn't be considered but put to the trash directly.

Previously sent work can be submitted to another venue, I won't consider it for now.

Check later for a possible awakening. 

Thank you.

Crossing Puddles by Walter Ruhlmann New Edition

 

The poems which compose this collection are what I call poetry of landscapes, or geographical poems. Yet, as you well know, geography can also be mapping the mind, the life, the existence-s of anyone around. This is where the feelings triggered by these territories led the poet: the observation of the self. I was born in Normandy, France and have been travelling a lot and living in foreign countries and remote places: Bath, Manchester, the Indian Ocean. I settled in centre eastern France in June 2012, and I realised there had been a cycle in this long journey, that I had run away from a place (Normandy) because I found it an excruciating place to live in and felt as if suffocating, it had become my fetters; just to find myself in the same kind of place, twenty-years later, and in a role I quite despised at the time. What other way is there, then, than to travel and map the self, just to escape differently and farther, even if that means losing one's mind?

*****

 Some poems lean toward the lyrical, some toward the narrative.  On one page an elegy, on another an acrostic. A trio of prose poems turns up. One poem, The Horizon of the Poplar Trees, is bilingual. Running Cows delights with humor. You never can tell who or what will show up on the next page.

Throughout Crossing Puddles if we must journey toward our painful understanding, we do so in the soothing company of the weatherman who is also the man who paints landscapes. We experience a sense of wonder for the fog of Normandy, the cold and damp of the Center Eastern French winter. Not surprisingly, but certainly pleasingly, the man in all his iterations is firmly rooted in French soil.  Indeed, the organizing principle of the book is a tour de France with sections titled Nantes, Normandy and Bresse.

Taken together, climate and geography become beauty’s antidote for
“those whose life has gone too thin” (Mamie).

I also think RUHLMANN intends for us to find relief in his lush botanical milieus.  Poet as imp would have us meet the “Messy Messiah, moss in the missing mass (Making Zoran Come). Poet as shaman would have us worship trees.
Karla Linn MERRIFIELD, from the foreword to Crossing Puddles


As an artist of any stripe, it remains a constant duty to one’s vocation to keep questioning, researching, and refining one’s identity. RUHLMANN's Crossing Puddles pays homage to this courageous and ongoing process.
Marie LECRIVAIN, Al-Khemia Poetica, 2015

As its title suggests, Walter Ruhlmann’s Crossing Puddles is a moist, wet and sometimes drenched book. It’s sticky with fluids, supple with organicity, non-cosmetic – and, above all, funky. I mean “funky” in three senses of the term: the olfactory, the depressive and the existentialist a la philosopher Cornel West, who thinks of “funk” as “wrestling with the wounds, the scars, the bruises, as well as the creative responses to wounds, scars, and bruises.” Really, relatively few writers dare to scrape the underside of things, to plumb the profane as much as the sacred, and to pull back humanity’s foreskin to expose its shmegma.
David HERRLE, Subtle Tea, 2016

*****

Another Day Out

 

Decreasing the days from now,
revolution has its own way.
The sparrow flies towards its night,
wings covered with milky dust,
eyes opened wide,
crystal meth falls with its tears.

Clouds cover the landscape,
softly driven from the west;
winds erupt and blow them out;
the rain, the storm have gone astray.

From there
no minds are known
and there are
none left undone.
Forty thousand specks of dust and we count down
stones falling from the wall
the signal has been shown
the other side is our salvation – what salvation are you expecting?

The finding took longer than expected
the caterpillar and the spider mated in the dewy cobweb.
What way out can one find from this?

The green prints, foot steps on the dark soil,
on the other side of the garden
where the dragonfly landed yesterday
to meet the sprites hiding under the hedge row.

*****

What Hides in the Bathroom Drawer

Could there be anything wrong
when night comes?
Or when left alone in the dark
I visit the moister parts of myself.

I mentioned it to her lately.
I could see she was annoyed,
alarmed,
stressed out.
Should I lie and keep smiling
when I feel it all comes back?

This darkness invades my head,
it mingles with all my cells,
the whiteness of my brains only blurred by blood
in the veins and arteries:
small rivulets encircling neuralgias.
They all become full of coal dust
cigarette ashes
thick ink
carbon.

So vintage,
black & white,
sepia
burning crosses,
naked men.
A pale moon invades the room.
Ogres crash in and gulp me down,
flesh and bones.
Big Bad Wolf and Beelzebub
dance together and collide,
they mate and they come.
They give birth in unison
to a devastating son.
He whispers close to my ear
filling my skull with strange sounds
that cannot be erased by songs,
or the birds, fluttering.

*****

Paperback - 71 pages - black & white - 10€ - £12 - $15 from the printer's website

From the author via Paypal with the mail address wruhlmann [at] laposte [dot] net