August 14, 2011

Karla Kelsey & Ally Harris

Sunday, August 14th
7:30

Open Space Cafe
2815 SE Holgate

$5.00 suggested donation

Karla Kelsey is author of Knowledge, Forms, the Aviary (Ahsahta Press), Iteration Nets (Ahsahta Press), 3 Movements (Pilot Press), and Little Dividing Doors in the Mind (Noemi Press). She edits and writs for The Constant Critic. Find her website (www.karlakelsey.wordpress.com) for poems and more information.

Ally Harris lives, works, and writes. She graduated from the Iowa Writers Workshop with an MFA in Poetry and has had poems appear in places like Sixth Finch, Tarpaulin Sky, and Poor Claudia.


STATION

But nevertheless we traverse. With another rhythm we were off the platform and walking through the station and I was describing the workings of language in another language. I was lost in a geometrical puzzle of colored light, of event become gesture lending itself to a series of gestures until you pointed to a keyhole in one of the green-battered doors and I stopped. And as I bent to look I was yielded over to the gilded room inside, to the inaccessibility of chandelier and brocade, the intact waiting room of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in counterpoint to my body weighted by other bodies, by having been moved to the capital by the labor of a train. That we are constituted by such moments of hinging yields to the field overtaken by the sweetness of mint and so to dwell there in silence even as the cold of earth seeps into the fabric of my dress. I document this by sound constructed in the base of my throat and call this doctrine something individual, a process of pulling on gloves, buttoned to the elbow, and then unbuttoning, pulling off.

Karla Kelsey

A CONSTELLATION


Paring off the skin. The protégé of underwater
False waves 
A cast of desired goods 
That break on her throat. Possess from this a secret 
Plus or minus person. I mean physically 
Along the water-spider's wiry-black back &
The biggest comfort later fixes into the song 
With glittery beams. Alacrity, sweet nearest. The failure is
Too much. Sleep will not wiggle off 
Like some leaf into the light 
Of your easy camera.

Ally Harris