An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Lost in Paradise
There is much I don't dare tell you. One afternoon
I spent getting married over and over. It was frenzy,
I guess. Rich people came to the receptions, bearing gifts
for me and my spouses. We cleaned up. I remember
the birds were very troubled and gave off a bitter odor.
My wives all drifted away, as though our vows meant
nothing. My passion now is to hear their voices in my
dreams saying over and over, "will the gentleman yield?"
Outside the Italian record store, elves sell scans
of their recent brain activity while the music falls
asleep in your arms. The birds are all naked
and perfumed. I would walk home picking fruit
right off the trees. Sometimes I took the train
because it smelled like blueberries.
Now I get all dressed up and take walks in the woods.
I don't want to get a haircut ever again or shovel snow.
I don't want to eat birds. Let's dance on the bed with the cat!
This forest fills my heart with flowering hyperbole dust.
It's everywhere. I will not serve. I mean it. The past still
hurts too much. We threw all the bones into the river,
chanting, o clouds of malice have mercy on us!
I bring you treasures from mystical lands at the foot
of the hills. I promise to defy our future of non-being.
The sun has finally gone down. The lights are out.
The streets are paved with a winter of frozen memories.
People are so full of hope. They look into our eyes
expecting to find information on their ancestors.
I didn't know I loved you until you had vanished.
Afterwards, I didn't know how to get rid of the nothingness.
Some say the silence is deafening. That is a paradox
I can't live without. It would be beautiful to smell eternity.
But for now I will just say: welcome, babies, to the world.
Whisper your desires to the wind and see what happens.
Surrealist Love Cento
I have to pawn all my words a whole stream of
water is heavy at a day's flow from the spring
Yes I shall say it a thousand times over
You will be beautiful and always desirable
and sleep restores colour to the sky
Our life you said, so happy to live
between the stones of time; but the fire is no one's, the fire
for our past desires are your tomorrow's dreams
Your laughter is the sun buried in the suburbs
just like the small heart I hold in my pocket
Terence Winch was born in New York City, and lives in Washington, DC. He is the author of eight poetry collections, the most recent of which is The Known Universe (Hanging Loose Press, 2018). A Columbia Book Award and American Book Award winner, he has also written two story collections, Contenders (Story Line Press, 1989) and That Special Place (Hanging Loose Press, 2004). His work is included in many anthologies, among them The Oxford Book of American Poetry, Poetry 180, and 5 editions of Best American Poetry.