The Jivin' Ladybug

Home | Submit! | CENTRAL DIRECTORY | Will Alexander | Bernard Bador | James Beach | Gregg Biglieri | J.J. Blickstein | Alan Britt | Luis Omar Cáceres | David Capps | J. David Capps | Catullus | Aimé Césaire | Lily Cho | Ken Cormier | Clayton Eshleman | Jared Demick | Jared Demick Translations | Gordon Fraser | Victoria Ganim | Ricky Garni | Joe Giglio | Joe Giglio Visual Art | Oliverio Girondo | Howard Good | Jessica Grim | Josepha Gutelius | Leigh Herrick | Paige Hill | D. Michael Jones | Jean Jones | Pierre Joris | Pat Lawrence | Heller Levinson | Heller Levinson, Joe Giglio & Sedric Choukroun | Michael Main | Martial | Chantelle Messier | Hayley Mollmann/Poesytron 575 | Urayoán Noel | Carol Novack & Sheila E. Murphy | John Olson | Luis Palés Matos | Adrian Paulsen | Peruvian Poetry | Alejandra Pizarnik | Jeremy Pilapil | Andrew Roberts | Anthony Seidman | Ognjen Smiljanic | Felino Soriano | Ray Succre | Anne Tardos | Edwin Torres | Renee Wagemans | INTERVIEWS | Clayton Eshleman Interview | Interview with the Ladybug | Joe Giglio Interview | Pierre Joris Interview | Heller Levinson Interview | John Olson Interview | Ulf Stolterfoht Conversation | Keith & Rosmarie Waldrop Interview | BOOK REVIEWS | BOOK REVIEWS 2 | A "Poemic" | Exquisite Corpuscle | Collaborative Poem | 5 Poets You Must Read | Surrealist Tsunami Haiku Bombs! | Merce Cunningham Tribute | Cho/Demick Poem-Jam

Josepha Gutelius

New Year’s Transformers


Out of body, the strange apparatus


air from air. It resembles a mouth,

an opening. Inhale. 

Not really a mouth, but there are hands

stitching together a summer cloud

in a sky of frayed ends.

Not really hands, not a sky, either.

Scents carried in the air weigh nothing.

All you can touch

contains a cosmos of memories.

There is not here. Now is not

the time. 


It can hear you talking,

although you only mouth the words:

it can pick up anything

and bear it along

up, up, and away: all those messages from elsewhere


and arriving and only passing through.




Interpretation of Dreams, for My Daughter


In my dreams sometimes I relive the thrilling first

sleep of a small,  sated innocent.  No howling, 

primal  twilight.  No monstrous, beating

heart rattling  the crib.

Someone’s mom

(or is it me?) devours every

creeping horror.

Awakening, I am clueless,

bruised deaf, screaming like a fish.

Maybe mothering is only a question

of which chunk is eating whom?

Ritualistically, I might squirt

menstrual hexes across

the sheets. I might chant crone’s wisdom.  Or mumble a prayer

against the scary future.  But I don’t

do anything,

I just dream. Some dreams

are also prayers.  The best ones recall

the naked grin, the bare brine tongue

of a slumbering angel.

The Jivin' Ladybug- A Skewered Journal of the Arts
All rights for materials presented on The Jivin' Ladybug belong to the artists. All materials are for non-commercial and / or educational use only.