“Vase Painters” and other poems by Magdalene Fry-Bigby

Fractyl Poem — Seeming, Appearance and Being

How the true was with world
Is sometimes bricked
Out with bangles,

Sound and sight both alike.
Put your paint this
Side, put it that

Side, we talk a lot, like
Talkers. And face
This way, blink, brush

Through lashes, powder on
Powders, a look
For, or about,

Female, they say, so too,
Some male, they say,
So too this or

Sewn to that. Or, some say
Wine is crossed best
In a vat, brains,

Birds, nests like glowed on
Dendrytic leaves,
A state, or a

Syntax, both one
And the same. Say
Most who say on

What is seen and what is
Thought, and what it
Is that being

Is, and yet can sometimes
Be not, and then
Become again.


Fractyl Poem: Be Nothing That Is, Not

Hello is good, morning,
Evening, night,
We say Good to.

How are you is peaceful
It brings glad and
Not angry thoughts.

We listen, we hear things
The conversing
Has its ears told.

Which is how televised
Religious yes
Religious no

Is brought to table and
Brought to lowly
So we know some.


Fractyl Poem: Fruit from the Tree

Growing earthward, not sky
Bound, or even
Thinking sky

With the hair of the branch
That thin — and more
Thinning still does,

To stretch and to store with
Storing done as women
Are known to store

Up skin and grain and cloth
To prune and ply
Some with as they

Needle a strand over
And under and
On across, in

Where the earth is bound with
The rock and the leaves
And the waters

That run about, surface
Ridden, sky phased,
But forgotten —

She is the gleaming on
Moon soft not I
Seeming as me.


Vase Painters

In the temple,
In finite,
Two opposites —

Th’pokeberry crushing
Feather a’tilt,
Shadow tossed.

Th’sea duct, eyebright
Singing Thinker
In sustained quiet
Waiting thought.


A candle burns,
N’the coarse clay wall;
He sniffs, paints worlds —

The philosopher’s
Eye emerged:

A blink, nearly
To word, almost

He eyed, the map
Drawer, feed win

Him, thought him,
Of him, on him,

The thinker
Huffed at such, th’vase
Painter —

Brushing there the
To a

Life t’live beneath
The palm that lifts
The grain,

The wine, barley,
Such th’things we store.

Salty thoughts,
Wounded like some

Great ache were born
Where thought, light leaned,
Said no

Thin, bird legg’ed,
Pursed his

Lip, scoffed at such,
The near Sophist —
Painter! —

There like pulling
Her who the moon
Winks to,

Who th’wine pink sea
Roves at, n’rides

The low lay set’n
Rolled horiz-
On cupped.

Between what
We see n’what we
See we

See. “Him” he scoff
Thought aloud, n’returned
To wait.

The cosmographer,
Barb berried,
Dripped lines, he was, he

Was questioning his
Sight, he, he was
Pluck berried
Quill dipped,

Questioning him,
His sight, “Did he
Blot his

Vase painting?” At
There now

Smeared, the whole of
Her virgin breast.

Recognized it with ease
From there

Where he sat smug
Across th’temple room.
“All good?”

He flung his words
Like the dark that
Flings right

On shadows flicked
Out at snarked darkness
By wicks

Bid to dance, to
Linger, “Dear god

Are you quite well?”
Him pursed and him
Both pursed.

Th’Cosmographer shim
Slimmered eyes drew
Out an

Inaudible “No.”
Thinker sound! Blast him!
He thought.

The bow, curved long
The plumb vase belly,

There, could it, please,
Just th’slim candle
Light be?

Vase Painters and other poems are © Magdalene Fry-Bigby

2018._photo.MFB.poetheadMagdalene Fry-Bigby is an Appalachian Queer poet and Single Parent advocate from Wayne County, West Virginia. She was educated in Philosophy and Literature at Marshall and Anglia Ruskin Universities. Her poetry and nonfiction can be found in several online and print publications. She is the founder of the Grand Rapid’s Michigan press, Deciduous Imprint. She lives in Northern California where she works as a Peer neurodiversity, social and human services consultant. These poems are from her unpublished works Pocket Book Three and A Book of Poems: for Heraclitus, respectively.

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