Author Archives: Damian Garside

APOLOGIA

APOLOGIA

sorry so sorry
to interrupt
mess with your attention span

but I need to
tell you
how to weaponize this poem

clean it, cock it,
prime it
      load it

point it in the right direction
take
   the safety off

aim low when
you got your target

fire at well
       single shot

automatic fire
      the poem should cycle
through its action

smoothly
    no jamming

have the impact
you wished for
when
  you helped write this thing

OUR MUSIC

OUR MUSIC

The aliens are, coming here
rushing head-over-heels
faster
    than a guitar riff
because they love
our music

speakers blaring Zeppelin
and Hendrix
smashing the peace as
they hurtle through
the galaxy

reminding those
old enough to remember air cavalry choppers
colonizing the skies
of Vietnam

the aliens are coming here
now all the critical questions
of survival
     relate to the possibility
of jam sessions

and whether our human
overlords
    will let them land and
pluck and strum

or pull
    the plug

desperate to
shut them out

WITHOUT SIN

WITHOUT SIN

I took every
precaution to ensure
this piece of writing
is free from blasphemy
totally without sin

God forbid
that my little village
with all its stark poverty
gets burned
to the ground
for sinful infraction
or bad punctuation

it is right
that evil be erased
wiped out of existence
before it
   gets to
see itself stand
naked

hear all the bloody
euphemisms
whereby we hide its name.

WHEN YOU SUCCEED

WHEN YOU SUCCEED

I sent this poem
to your letter page

neither
floated it
on the air currents
nor shackled it
to a tbunderbolt

sending it
the expressest
of express deliveries

no I
broke it up into
bits and bytes
photons of light
two-slit experiment
forwarded it
    digitally

no message
in a bottle

ether crossing nothing
to do with the ocean

testing you
to your Turing limits
pushing you
          hard until you crack
like the
Nazi code in
an enigma machine

and there before us all
in hallucinatory space
all
  our circuits, on-board
programing

my little poem, this tiny
buffet
        testing you to
outer inner
the limit of your limits

finding, reflecting where
you fail, back
at you,
where you succeed

WITHOUT SHADOW

WITHOUT SHADOW

when in church
I gravitate towards
the spaces with shadow
deep, dark shadow

the better to observe
those without shadow
singing
   their inner light
to the point of exhaustion

shaking the precious
golden vessels that they are
like tambourines

no shadow without
to speak of but
who knows what shadow
penned inside
keeping the flock secure
keeping it meek

who knows
    but more to the point
who gives a fig
thinks that
    this goes anywhere?

when I leave
long before
        the end of the service

I make sure
to rustle up my serpents
pocket them, take
them home with me

TURING TEST

TURING TEST

Sylvia and Tom
chatbot avatars of
two of the greatest
poets ever
     put pen to paper

  grill me about my poem,
(this poem); my life
(this life)

slyly stretching my
humanity as far
as it will go (much
machine learning
in the process)

watch me sink, suffocate
under the weight
of all their accolades

learning to predict
to phonomenal exactitude
where all these
    metaphors, images are
headed;

where they all are coming from
what parts of me
are  
    in harmony, symmetry
with what it is I am them
force-feeding

scanning for intelligence
anything/all
    that is real.
.

REVIEW

A, REVIEW OF MY 2014 POETRY COLLECTION

Zero Gravity
 
Damian Garside
Xlibris, 267 pages, (paperback) $13.99, 9781493140923
(Reviewed: August, 2014)
Damian Garside’s Zero Gravity is an intelligent, nuanced collection of poems by an engaging new poet.
The collection lacks a clear, organizing structure; poems are offered randomly, with no section headings. One of the collection’s most promising aspects is a series of poems (spread throughout) in which Garside explores the subjunctive. For instance, he imagines “If Philip K. Dick Had Written the Iliad,” “If Vidal Sassoon Had Written the Communist Manifesto,” and “If Julia Kristeva Had Written the Odyssey.” These titles suggest a certain playfulness, yet the poems themselves generate insight by probing a canonical text through the eyes of a contemporary figure. The language sparkles, and the conceit compels.
Garside thrives when he stays grounded in specific, concrete details and clear, direct diction. One particularly incisive poem is “Poem for Denise,” which reads in its entirety: “The reason there is day and/night/ is that the sun/ grew too fond/ of the moon//and the world would end if/he ever were/ to hold her.” Garside can also be a strong and surprising image-maker, as in: “The tarot told me (in no uncertain terms)/ I am upside down man/ dragging on a/ hookah” and “After the/ big bang// it was all bits/ of broken omelette.”
A few minor criticisms: Too many of the poems are explicitly about the nature of writing poetry and tend to veer into abstractions and dense, cerebral language. For instance, “I tend to forget, perhaps because the/ thought of writing being a powerful weapon/ is frankly preposterous.” In addition, the book is overly long (four times the length of an average traditionally published volume of poetry); more organization would have been welcome.
Despite these flaws, however, Garside is intellectually curious, well-read, and frequently humorous — all qualities that add to the appeal and accessibility of his work. His poetry reflects a unique talent and perspective that is well worth a reader’s consideration.
Also available as an ebook.
Author’s Current Residence
South Africa
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WORD (ABOUT MINDING MY WORDS)

WORD (ABOUT
MINDING MY WORDS)

got reported
Gestapoed

someone snitched
on me to
the Institute of Poetry

which
      in its wisdom
commissioned a
whole delegation

sent
   them trooping
in through my door

here to
   “have a word” came
the proclamation
riot act read
   right
     of intervention

silly me
to have expected a style-fest
as for apparel,
sequins and feathers, breast-.
plates and
    leather

and, Oh My God, hats:
stetsons and Panamas, hombergs,
berets and trilbies
(the odd
    Mr Plod helmet kind
of thrown in
for
    good measure)

something akin to
the madcap extremes of a
Gaultier or Mugler

not this gravel gray, matt
black sundae of
   mundane business
managers

well-suited to shut down,
perfect for
      repression

apt for no-nonsense
straight talk laying
down the law
             demandibg
I cease
and desist promptly

arrow-straight and professional
telling me
       without slightest latitude
opening
for latitude, ambiguity,
space to maneuver

to
  mind my
words

if I do know what is good for me,
care about the future of poetry