Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
At night we lay with each other
a human
and a feline
across a place of star fields
we dream
Penthius
Prosthylkass
Zyvar
Places of the endlessly living
Bent fist and paw
we claw
back to mortalhood
With the sun bleaching out
what was known of spirits
we wake to live with
and love each other
not knowing why we love
what has been made amongst
the particles
pronounced in arrangement
On a capsule we gather.
We gather 20 trillion humans.
In this capsule to the stars we gather
yondered
fields of dust and allergens,
books of bones and markets of skins.
We shall fit between
space and time here in this capsule.
Upstairs, above,
in the city plains of Earth,
they go to lunch buffets.
Cooking oil drips down to the tunnels
where this capsule runs
with the rest of humanity gathered.
Here, in this way,
all the Universe is filled in,
mercilessly unstopping.
So should we love the collective,
or should we love the lore?
More of my fantasy soccer travel writing for your evening, end of week reading…
By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”
As Kældurn and I were winding down with our stretching a trainer came up and introduced herself to me as Lo’o’toag. She knelt down by Kældurn as he bent my feet back and held my knees. “Is it ok if I touch you? I’d like to check out your muscle and tendon tension.”
“Sure.” I replied. She had a very calm presence about her. Her head was large and broad, her forehead especially. Her hair was dreaded, but short. A headband pushed the short dreads up, but it wasn’t the yellow and black headband. It was white with outlines of blue flowers and yellow stars in their center. She smelled like fresh cedar.
Lo’o’toag pressed behind my right knee with two fingers. She motioned to Kældurn to continue stretching me. “You’ve had this knee replaced, haven’t you?”
“Wow,” I…
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“I want to know the Kepler torrents with you.”
“The Kepler torrents?”
“The ones between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.”
“The ones in the starmap on the back of your
neck?”
“No. The ones further in … and much further out.”
“The way the lifeforms are formed?”
“Yeah, the way the lifeforms are formed.
Well hold on, yes — I guess. Kind of. Sort of.”
“Ah, so the force between objects.”
“Yes, that’s it, but I mean the unaccounted force
between objects.
I guess — the as of yet, unaccounted force
between objects.”
“Oh, so then I think you mean — love,
or the love that is greater than the chronicles of
humans.”
“Ok then, you’ve made my point — come with me
to the points between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.
Come inside of there. Come for the dead. Come
for the living.”
Might not be your cup of tea, but some more of my fantasy nonfiction travel writing. This is part 5, there’s 4 parts that precede it if you want to read more context. If you like football / soccer and Hemingway’s vignettes of nature you might like this — though this is probably about 1/16th as prosaic as ol’ Papa Rum.
By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”
Up ahead, on the trail, the rest of the players had filed back into line. They were about 30 yards ahead. Kældurn looked back, to check on me I assume. I lowered the water bag down and gave him a thumbs up. He shot me a salute back. I sprinted a few steps to tewkKyoo’ihf and the trusty waterbearer, handed her back the bag, helped her swing it over her head and shoulder, then grinned at them, “Come on, we’ve got a little catching up to do.”
We bolted forward, the team and the hills gaining ahead and leaving the city back below to the right. It wasn’t a dead sprint by any means, but probably a good solid 5 minute-a-mile dash.
“You made it, survived one of the toughest parts.” Kældurn welcomed us back.
I huffed and puffed…
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I feel the same with these computers
still around me.
Brooklyn, 2004.
Chicago, 2018.
They’re still here.
Not the same computers.
But their forms and
with similar feelings,
similar smells.
Electrons activated on air.
Petroleum exhaust from the street outside.
Somewhere in the labs,
wormholes ripped open
in our cosmic neighborhood.
But, the computers are still here
in their form and feelings.
I feel them, see them, know them, smell them.
They will be something different
at some point,
but for now they’re still here within
the concrete, steel, and glass buildings
of the city
and of the agencies,
where the computers train
and dream to be deoxyribonucleic acid.
I feel it.
I have seen it.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
“Alder 9,
this is a mud shit mess
I tell you,
a mud shit mess.
Alder 9,
are you registering this
with yourself?
Master,
why’d you bring us here?”
“The course of resources is possible here,
according to the genetic terminus,
as the famines and wars served their purposes
on Earth
and as the Earthlings say,
and also in Heaven.”
“I wish I was in Heaven right now,
I’d go to the recreational platform.”
“Alder 9, most Earthlings don’t know
about the recreational platform in Heaven,
let’s not mention it out here.”
“Alright . . .
Look! On that ledge,
something’s moving!”
“Oh God, oh no,
up there!
It’s a bus full of school children!”
“It looks like it’s those dinosaurs and barbarians
over there.”
“Alder 9,
let’s fucking roll,
stop lollygagging around!
Move it,
fucking move it, you chintzy bastard!”
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
They let him go
when he was young and dying of cancer,
drifting through outer-space
they let him go,
the last people’s race of people
didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an eternalness created
archetypes of the sufferer,
the fear of the shadow,
just the vessel of the genome,
we lift you up to the cluster,
the ridge of stars.
Child without childhood
reaches for your fingers,
the seven wrinkles,
your chance to perceive things
but it ran away with the forms and
words of humanness,
just the vessel of the genome,
information is transferable
in
this
standing in a field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college
in Kansas.
They got to go to college,
wave, wave . . . waves
but wave to the abilities of Einstein,
those crackling transmissions of the
Pentecost,
those crackling wavebands of gray.
Jesus saves.
Computers save.
With the astronaut herself
I ran up to her funeral.
At her funeral was the telling of the cliffs above Mars
and the planets around Centauri.
Her husband and children were there weeping
and
the Nation
looked on
through video channels and viewing devices.
Politicians and bureaucrats spoke about space air
and referenced the “distant cliffs” she’d walked above,
the “distant stars” she’d seen,
the t-shirts she wore,
and even the fluorescent green rain she farmed crops underneath.
When we walked up
they turned around amazed and looked up in shock.
Stricken with sweat and a pale white face,
someone spoke up and said,
“Holy Lazarus! It’s you! Captain Marsha Pinsky!
It’s you!”
“It is me indeed, Graymont.
I have returned home, Colonel Graymont.
Was this what you were expecting?”
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
Slowly on the spaceship you finger me.
I look out to all the worlds,
I see the Orion nebula.
I realize suddenly I am a man
and you are fingering my asshole,
you are making me feel like a woman —
there is warmth and stars before us.
You devoid my heroic masculinity.
You are a woman and have a vagina.
If I was a more cowardly person
I could not admit this,
say a politician,
a banker,
or a soldier perhaps.
I take on certain things,
for this is my will on this voyage.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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