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@uutpoetry
Sesquipedalian Rain Chant is a poetry book written by Brooks Lampe and published by Ink & Ribbon Press. The book focuses on a year-long me
My debut poetry collection is now available for pre-order!
If you are still here (I moved to Substack over a year ago), please check it out!
My debut collection to be published this summer by Ink & Ribbon
Friends, I'm getting a poetry collection published.
Thank you for being my first real online poetry community, Tumblr! I'd love to hear from you if you end up buying and reading the book.
Abandoned Poem No. 4
“Do you want me to weld you two together? Think it over” Hephaestus asks. Soul and body cry out—what do they answer? We’re all manner of mystery, disaster tied by string Sufi frogs flying through air in bodily ascension
hands grope through the curtain for some kind of donut flesh we mistake for weight
every sunbeam you sit down in paints a dream of life
a giving power we do not have
the spinning slows into a weave and we wake realists in Isaiah’s dreamscape steeping our nervous tea
_____________
Follow Uut Poetry on Substack
Uut Poetry is Moving
As you may have noticed, this site has been pretty quiet since 2018. I was busy, but it was also the way Tumblr changed. Tumblr was a good home for many years, but the time has come for a new home.
Happily, I have now found the time and the right platform for a re-launch.
Please check out the new Uut Poetry at Substack.
There will be:
Drafts of my poems
Reflections on the writing process
Theoretical musings on surrealism
Notes on what I’m reading
New Surrealist writing prompts
Poetry submissions are now open.
See you there!
Released: My first chapbook
I am excited to announce my debut chapbook, The Planet of Left Hands. It includes a wonderful introduction by Bob Schofield and several of my favorite poems written for Uut Poetry.
Thank you to Bottlecap Press for featuring my work and for the beautiful cover!
This marks an important moment in my writing career, and a day I didn’t think would ever come. A huge shoutout to my friends, colleagues, and readers for their support. Here’s to more writing!
Found in my photo archives from 2013. I have no memory of making this! It was in my office.
You Are Beginning To Have Thoughts About Life
the porous nature of it more air than matter they say with ropes that hang from a ceiling asking for you to pull, swing, hang and taste—all the uses one thinks up in paradise
that’s just it: the oily surface keeps leaching its juices of iron and light a fire that comes from under the other place the one they tell us about in class that gave us pointy ears and pink legs that dangle and seem long below the knee.
Where legs end there’s only darkness as if they forgot something.
The past was once a place you looked for thoughts but where do thoughts come from? Unanswerable question.
The center of us they call the gut it likes to grow it’s still growing—unanswered, waiting before what was once a mirror but now only eternal night
art by ||
There Was a Lump In Your Brain
There is a new twisting of children new values, the values of lonely jellyfish sensational jellyfish which once upon a time were a furnace but presently are rising up in response to a world of obeisance moving out at the widest possible angle still attached in oviparous furs anemones dreaming as one colonial family.
That is all, that is all it is all wallpaper all projection.
Let’s leave these factories these payrolls and step into the river, the sediment into fluid of ghosts carrying meaning somehow on the wind over the land of containers over the land of green wind and blue eyes of open sun.
art by ||
No Longer January
It is no longer January.
Let us reach into the banquet of trees let us march with the sun at our feet. This is the hewn stubble of freedom, the deep passage of harvests cracking like pages in the libraries of Eastern Europe as we step naked among white cherry trees.
My sorrows are young ladies in the streets. My sorrows are lost in sleep like fiery swords.
They were born within me smiling mockingly taking unto themselves phantoms and fabrics laughter and light and the fragrance of oregano taking some unknown form of witness fragilely balanced in an immortal body with an impossible interior standing ever upright a bulwark solitary and despairing as triumphant as the slanting backs of dolphins or hands composed of cruel trade… they were born within me cruel and uncertain subterranean mirrors that paint their own images like drenched roots and hoofs beating the solid earth.
Art by // P*
Utilitarianism
John Stuart Mill’s Utilitarianism, such a slim member of the club, flashes its pink sides by the culturally relevant and recently rediscovered bookmarks giving a remarkably precise right angle to my brain as beautiful as Velasco Vitali’s Fluxus #5 whose green is a vegan smoothie running down the side of your mouth possibly creating even more fog on campus suffocating the man in the cravat whose pinched and wary face moves through the glow of a February morning stepping over a traffic ticket and a sour pickle until everybody’s struck with agitation combing their hair to look like the white horizon of an Italian landscape caught in the sun’s eternal silver hair.
Art: Velasco Vitali (Italian, b. 1960), Fluxus #5, 2015. Oil on canvas, 60 x 80 cm.
Clink of Shunting Engines
What shall we do, what shall we do? The world calls us, breaking its neck like an eagle on Friday while pursuing the good, weight of eternity on its back cool back of stone, appearing to bystanders to close and open close and open, organ of the ruddy god in our veins. Deacons and presbyterians have disappeared—what have we but each other? The river when it opens grabs our knees, bends us toward the warm gusts of June blasting the oaks outside torching them like butterflies, blowing sea-ward our heavy baggage like a ruby in the invisible dark, glowing letting the weekend come early, at least in my heart.
some phrases from D. H. Lawrence and James Michael; art by /|\
at your breasts two blackbirds awoke, shook their heads, then swung on huge musical wings high above us
Peter Wild, “To Silvia”
Frescobaldi
You were pilot of a ship with three flags, spilled coffee, defunct Hydroflasks, and dry erase markers. The over-watered plants drooped toward us as if bowing, but they’re dying. My least favorite surrealist poet is staring at me from the corner. She’s a stressful coworker who comes to work early and talks on the phone. Frescobaldi seems too sharp, my shoes, too brown.
art by DulceChicoLatina
To Stitch Together Green Bones
Angelo 'NGE' Colella
To stitch together green bones first you need to adjust the crosshair on your needle. It’s no different from swaddling disproportionate opals because bones have that mechanicalized allure but it’s more similar to plugging in windmills and sketching flowcharts of their thinking & dreaming activities. When lovers will see how non-collaborative Time is they will treasure even the swarfs of sculpted palpitations like they really are ransom sacks extrait. But, before that, they shun the false king with his quicksilver appetites with his hypnotizing whip to telepathically deflower roses with his marching band of acuminate fifes and shivering ouija boards. If I were a lover, I’d love to just moonstrike candleholders like flags during a backseat zoning-out.
art by ms. neaux neaux
old memories of fallow lands slumber in my flesh listen to the immensity breaking in the trees outside
Tristan Tzara, “Acceptance of Spring”
Totem
My coffee this morning is all the way from Jamaica, and The Surrealism Reader cannot explain. The golden-blue June sunrise cannot explain. The world is around but also next to me, the same as I left it. There were no vacant spots in the luggage of my mind to take it with me. Where I went is best explained in Brauner’s Totem of Blessed Subjectivity II, which “touches base” on how, in a dry meadow, we hold our hearts out while screaming. We grow weary, put on contrarian gloves, form an ouroboros with our feet, mouths, eyes. Do we guard or destroy the tiny animal inside? We are a womb which is about to become a sun, a maze of umbilical cord and teeth, transfmorgrifying the wheat field in gory psychology. May our kidney bean gym weights bring us “gains” in pensive vascular markets. Art destroys the world as it existed, leaving a foetal rubble as bright as stars.
Art by Victor Brauner
Freedom has no age. It is not the fact of colour or reason. It belongs to a person as much as the sound of his own voice. It is, at the level of the immediate gesture, his means of choosing one path rather than another, his attitude with a landscape. It is his poetry and his portion of mystery and his difference from his brother. There is no one who is outside of freedom or who might not be called upon one day—even if only for a single moment—to meet with it and to grow with it.
George Henein, “Freedom as Nostalgia and as Project”