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Best Poems Written by Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld

Below are the all-time best Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Prelude

The terrace offers a point. From this point
a view. It's only a stopoff; it assumes 
the motion requisite for temporary 
stays will continue. The speculative 
friction required to stop those passing
through would require planned extinction;
would require war against generations
of persistence across biome, suffering &
misery magnified it remains threatened
always. Building requires digging.
Digging creates hollows to be filled.
A move past botanicals—it doesn’t exist.
A pulse in the web. Walk toward beyond
the view: journey’s luck to close in on 
production. Pace picks up, dusk’s dis-
appearing light invites one in: welcome.

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Undo Unmake

But breakfast’s subject beckons: 
the booster affair effect in Tumblr-
land? The digital map surveillance
co-sponsor the soccer mom sauce
minivan project, relay & speech 
to cell battery fiasco. Batteries 
have lives too, reads the cloud script.
FML maxims of self-loathing guilt 
& shame reach into their emptiness.
They find, feeding on excrescence 
derivatives piling up in excess,
that death's preferable to that 
I say so chamber. 
		& from such varied
 buffets, on the inside, on 
 sublime regions of the in–
terior where everyday sound makes 
in its own grammar – 
as in, in the style of – subverts that ease,
brings pause; regathers fingerprint
to tensions suspended as if by 
cables even though, between sighs
ataxia keeping pace without ordered 
syntax & symbol graft’d to its surface,
ciphers eat lines of fir-tree needles.
Q botanical fur - Cy Twombly, first
Love of Rauschenberg,?caught up 
in its stitch. 
                       Slips emerge in a scene,
Allowing language to find body's instrument 
To hear the dead who live in in it:
phone homes to homes are calls back
to homes no longer home to hosts. 
In the a.m. a window 
red nova 
 thread from bovine breast
 drips squid ink in 
a polypropylene bin.

No point a point still, none 
but a collection of outside ofs 
Whatever set limit; to be 
as hunger takes each form
exchanges of fluids & food
 to maintain, though phantom, 
These forms. Children pass
 comets in public square,
parentless parenthesis. 
What begins in fold or recess 
means to mean 
good to friends, to make
 window instead of transparency,
to paint orange-peel textured 
walls with latex grey, 
to tape every foot of trim 
& hang doors, to keep a clean 
line of sight, to thank the ones 
who brought one into
this, the whatever it is form
 & stranger still unknown
animating it, slow 
                         but sometimes 
with deliberation.
The chip man’s on the corner 
with processors, off-kilter 
hums come from alleys 
& from above, not a man-
nerism crisp or elegant, ribbons 
mis-guided in glue’s
normative guide–
voices adjusted, injuries 
with long life spans.
 Successive treatments 
like going out fishing
in a lake unable to hold live animals 
for a generation. The bets go out 
anyway, thin necks, brains powerful
enough to bring contusion’s 
combination dark blue depths
to bruising with an attention 
to that man standing still
in the middle of an intersection
                   in the middle of a street
		in New York City.

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Mother's Day Parade

You can feel them move through streets
Emblazoned with sirens' primary colors,
A swatch of fjord's colonial flagship hues
Left to slap in the wind of reorderd forms
Until sheared into confetti strips. Scripts 
Writ into a code are but partial prophecy.
The DA wants to press on with felony 
Charges, I push the 19-gauge needle in
& the accompanying rush pushes body 
Into a boundary line, the structure of 
Which is the last remaining imaginative 
Object capable of delivering feeling past
The anesthesia opening in a field. The
Chainlink perimeter under which a fox
Slinks prefigures a new condominium.
ICE & breaks in space by metal fences 
Shows this complicity, shrugging off 
The children & their parents. Dead signs.
Heart's venous throb generously snuffs
Out what is outside it for an interiority,
A maze academics dream up in Molotov,
Professional rebels rendering in febrile 
Flame navel via strained restraint or ex-
cess. Case in point former piston pitch. 
Grammy loses her mind in a house 
She's got no memory of; she's three blocks
From mama's house which burned down
On Christmas. I managed to get the dog
& Grammy out; my mama was having a 
Drink at Brenda's; woke up to crunching 
Sounds inside the walls & a melting steel
Conduit burning my hand. Only did find
One extinguisher; the can went at its 
Solo with undue gumption. I used to know 
How to express love to her. Legibly
It read with regular meter & rhythm.
She helped my little brother evict me 
From my older brother's basement late
In winter. Translating pain is impossible.
I head toward a motel looking for another
Charge or broken relation where the songs' 
Derangements are far beyond the promise
Of beauty's industrial rows, though the
Furrows' signals are petal-like, freshly dead.

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Prelude

Tonight the act of naming fell through the floor.
We speak permeable solids inflect’d by light.
Things move indistinctly: a pine palette floats
momentarily from semi truck’s bed, crosses
its body with windshield; ovidian shift from a
Forest to an old faux confectioner’s swatch,
lines up songs taking fleas for fleece. 
A fawn fractionates its flecks & somato-
phonics, flees without need of adrenaline.
The plate? A plait whose pleats play’d
pleas against fetch’d plots until its dizzy
balance congeals into il canzioniere,
In service of blueprint architectonics.
Flotillas float low in shadows’ camouflage.
Hot air balloons cypher skyline celebrè,
Uniting you & prairie fair. Parcels're 
parsed. Farmers burn burnoff in oil drums,
birthing coils of smoke in loosely co-
ordinated helices whose out of body ends
in the sweeping concentricity of hundred-
foot-long turbine blades. Say it fades it? 
Thunderheads drift. Sin naps in synapse’s
nook. Haptics touch, from relation to
harassment. Earth’s got a wicked medium.
Acoustic waves morphophonemics
shapes complete exchanges in related
spatiotemporal contexts; what’s hatch’d
later is what’s desired & what will never
bring resolution. The figure applies epoxy
to a fence with excessive force. Transparency
leads eventually to blindness; just so
Boidae code’s got python script, diamond 
syntax & dimensional ranges of black.
Eyes eye legend’s designatory sign seams
for scratch’d map & abandon’d quest.
The wet up-close extasis ten-lane road
splits, vents vulcan aurora; I want the aura
to aurally kick faith in the elsewhere
overlooked by the tyranny of sense. A
polystyrene quartet pitch’d on vector’s pastel 
ledge steers into bassoonists lane at high noon,
cussing out coordinating chord machine
minting harmonies the same way sow takes
bolt to skull. A splenetic racket ejects me
becoming then in dense cordage fray,
in knots in discord notes caught in song
clots in versions below the taken planar baseline,
the surveyable limit recorded in perpetuity.
No, it’s a low harmony with plural means
of resolution. To the tonic in one key. 
A singer alerts us to undertow brushstrokes
In Matisse, the quadriceps with a woven flexion. 
We suck’d dry wax & comb. Nearby: a field 
of lightning. Assn. of associations 
polymer chains bind—strip mall froth 
frosts the cartilagenous go-betweens 
of chest cavities, the waste slurry ribbon
of a billion hogs looks blue-green from
pilotless drone mapping something in 
the interest of greater returns; A scattering.
—share not hold but will nothing
bring halt to time? Constrictor vines climb 
& strangle their hosts in increment. Magnolia 
grove ungoverned in improvised grotto 
heaves vap’rous fog over damp dark branches,
freighted leaves suspended by a gravity's 
Gravitas, intoxicating a gay eden scene 
projected from the wasteland of the real. 
Leave a leavening, a painterly incompletion, poised 
In a preludian phase of a departure departure,
where a puzzle of  stratigraphy is left to machines,
poor things, their programming, so to the 
lebible wed, they missed the bonds welded
in misreading each, in the striated earthen 
crust— Walk with me through the forest’s ash,
thin grey trunks thick with newborn beetles
vibrating in the bark’s husky shadows, Pthalo blue.

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Polylepis

To be a polylepis tree you gotta know 
You're a polylepis tree & this knowing 
Cements by being a polylepis tree,
Knowing between diagrammatic cracks
Fork'd already info knowing during descent.
Mud run through alpine meadow. Rubberized 
Crunch on ruddy paths, rucksacks looped,
Deltoids, silly sound serious bulge spine
Ached before leaning away to swallow,
Sepia bark holding his musculature; 
Paparazzi march out crimped edges 
Of fungi, sussed then left together. 
Glottal ribbing. Skeumorph thread
Discs, spades, b-side timpani under eaves.
Copper sheaves, wine burning in cups
Thickening until dark brown oozes
At a lesser velocity, blown eardrum, 
Given the climaxes of greater viscosity—

Green epiphytic ferns stitch airy
Misconceptions (soil, root), the drawing in, 
& expulsion, the search for a golden
Arboreal rat. A tunnel-maker
Said to be densely populated in woods
Near-gone to potato farms, cattle,
The absent lecture, then, on survival plastic

Spool of thread glued to the back
Drawn in a thin white line, followed
For ur-experiment, hundreds of feet
Climb up the lateral limb, down, dug under
Grass, tunneled, then over miniature crick,
Through nodule floor-sponge, a wetland,
A watershed for a whole valley, to grass
Again, below, finding elaborate nests but
The rat escaped, the sinewy string left.
A choreography misses it, an instinct
Closest but dull, so a blind sight in high
Sun, a canopy growing at itself not up,
Sift, shrift, the want to lay down before
Night freezes the water inside the air.

A return at night to the espeletia, giants
Sunflowers shocked by moon, switch-backs,
Doing Zs, squared, cubed to the tenth clouds
Departing, something horribly there not
Constellation no not a galaxy those are
Not things let them not be where’s the
Name laying in the grass, alpine creekline
Eschatological curvature, mutter, murmur,
A yellowing light flung, the cold how they

Open little air, the screaming sleeve, there!
Of not-this this, in it, out it, here & away,
Something recalled, what a string, rat,
What ways you move, only that body,
No containers for the humans so the sea
Could get that travel-manic blue, sworn
To make another moon of it, another go,
Unfixable, in need of fixing, air adjust,
An alkalinity expectant, a Sulphur rain, 
Chattering cargo setting fire to night.

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Barn Burn Party

Off from formal stage's pageantry 
Collisions of pewter play tenor to horn 
Vessels filled with mead, wheat-gold,

Foam. Monks trade lines with scops 
Who tile a church, swapping agricultural 
Know-how. The technics prepare 

Bard for a solo harp song in a barn 
& there’s to the Caddy’s tune gathering sway
Lost so unquotable. Nightshade, potatoes,

ions, herbs, good gods & the animalistic
Sex. From a source outside chaos:
Terms return thermal bundles, 

Predicaments inside time's homophony 
From alloyed spinal column. A donkey
Drags a blade through red sea's surface dirt

Meshed in with hay dank from contra-
dictory earth—these testimonies to greater-
Thans. Cyber sectors offer testimonials

As a means of convincing discerning surfers to
Bypass impasse & buy by following the crowd.
Data suggests but there’s this thing in hand:

A cattle-bolt electron split down the
Middle; a steel beam cut by narrow flame;
A diamond-footed tub with fresh extracts.

Details | Henri Wyatt Blumenfeld Poem

Celia's Suite

Celia from 'A' 
  tenures the lot
Standing near those Grey
  Bay's rocky scabs
slapp'd by tide
Stagnant water
  Green at the feet.

 Into time too
From womb birth'd
briefly hearts
  Remark regularly,
Geiger counter

Measuring, drone
Circulating 
A style that too
  Tho pound for
Pound bests itself

Croons when moored
  Hits the deck when able;
Dies. After all, that's 
Part of circulations 
Verse & volt what

 Did they do
The songs from strings 
 The blood bells the 
Thin pines at work,
   ’44 ash magnum 
Coiling skyward?