Submission Policy





Mel BrakE Press acquires first serial rights to all work published. Mel BrakE Press also reserves the right to electronically archive any content published.




All other rights revert to author upon publication.



Mel BrakE Press has a liberal submission policy, and will accept poetry manuscripts (not books) for its next publication cycle, the Spring of 2018.



We do not charge a reading fee. We DO NOT PAY TO PUBLISH YOUR WORK.



We only accept submissions via email for collection of poems. Please send no more than 3-5 pages of poetry as an email attachment using standard MS format. We do not accept epic manuscripts:10 pages or more will be rejected.



Please note in subject line: "Submission".

Manuscripts that do not follow our guidelines
will be subject to rejection. We do not publish books.



Direct submissions or questions to:

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Sunday, November 7, 2010

The Poetry of Kai Laursen

Mel BrakE Press is honored to present the poetry of Kai Laursen.

Kai Laursen was born and raised in Seattle. He earned an MFA in
Writing from California College of the Arts. Currently he lives in
Bali.

The Poetry of Kai Laursen

HAIKU RAIN
for W.S. Merwin


through the bamboo forest
making friends out of clay
one who is far away
we dream them in waking

the star is fading
we invest in loss

we think about angel island
the deer that swim the channel
swimming against the current

the star is fading
we invest in loss

there is a poem in this pencil

hanging upside down
like a nuthatch

the star is fading
we invest in loss

friend the jet engine
friend the book
the look of the other
the last cheetah on earth

we have thrown away the ladder

the star is fading
we invest in loss


DEAD POETS
For David Wagoner


He read from Yeats, Thomas, Stevens and Auden.
Pray to the Muse, he exhorted.
What was her name?
She has a tragic sense of humor.

He praised and blasted my early poems.
That old raven; or hawk; the next moment—a dove.

When he read Yeats’ The Fascination of What’s Difficult—
That got me; the bolt burst off the door.
He even dared to pull the curtain on my father,
Whose mask hangs like a trophy, in my room.


CAFÉ COYOTE

This poem does not begin with a feeling-tone or image. This poem begins by chance at the Café Coyote. You wearing a buffalo skin robe, me in a blue tuxedo. The band plays a slow peyote song and the little people dance. I look you in the eye and say: honey, you look familiar. You laugh and pull your hair back in a ponytail. We speak in a secret language. We trade eyes. I place my hand on the small of your back. The moon takes a detour and makes love to the sun.


THE WHALE HUNT

Tilkut prepared for the whale hunt,
fasting on fern roots and wild lily bulbs,
purifying himself in the sweat lodge.

On the fifth night of prayer and fasting,
Tilkut invoked the spirit of the whale.
He danced like a pine bough in a gentle wind.
Sage is burned. A haunting song began:

Salmon crooned in the whale’s belly,
baritones and high-pitched trilling,
the drone of plankton swimming,
a sea lion howled. And the whale joked:

Tilkut, all your preparation was in vain,
for as you cook me, I will rise up in smoke


THE WORDS ON THE WILL

The words on the will
Are a portrait of a man:
One third for the artist,
A quarter for the sergeant,
A cut for his attorney,
All the rest to Prince Charming.


WATERWATER SYMPHONY


Ugly puppy void like winter.
Beneath music is language.
How may purple please time?
Drive goddess chant petals.



BLACK BUTTE FLYING SAUCER TRANSMISSION



I TELL YA GOOD BUDDY WE GOT BRIGHT LIGHTS BEAMING DOWN IN ALL DIRECTIONS AND HEADLINES ABOUT FLYING SAUCERS IN PHOTOSHOP CLASS I’M PERFECTLY WILLING TO BELIEVE IN FLYING SAUCERS BECAUSE I HEAR THEM RAVE AT THE CLUB WITH SHORT SKIRTS AND GREEN TIGHTS THEY ARE BECOMING PSYCHEDELIC POSTERS WE DONT KNOW THE FUTURE WE KNOW THE FUTURE HEAVY CLOUDS BUILDING A STRETCH OF RAIN LATER HE SAID IN AN ENGLISH ACCENT BLOODY HELL A TIGHT GAME SHE ONLY CONCEDED TWO POINTS ALL AFTERNOON IT REALLY CARRIED MUCH TO CLOSE SHE REALLY GOT A HOLD OF THAT ONE THE RUNWAY SIX AND OVER BIRDS CHIRPING IN THE BACKGROUND GIVEN IT WASN’T A CLEAN BREAK IN THE END THE BOUGHS HAD COME OFF STILL WELL DOWN THE PITCH AND LOOKING DOWN THE HEATHER LOVELY SHOT AGAIN WE HAVE TO MAKE ROOM FOR IT YES THAT WAS A REAL CROWD PLEASER THE POWER WENT OUT IN AGREEMENT.


THE IRISH CASTLE

The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are not the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for anything.


The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for the darkness.


The stones have their say, though some are hewn
for the walls of fortresses.
Whitecaps charge like horses in the channel.
Say it! All poems are not the ghost of a sonnet.
And faith does not prepare one for anything.

1 comment:

  1. Hey Kai it's AFP89, I like your poems! Was wondering if you can take a look at my new blog and tell me what you think of mine?

    ReplyDelete