April 7-13, 1997: David Hunter Sutherland and Daniel Laurence Gaylinn

Week of Apr 7-Apr 13

David Hunter Sutherland
Daniel Laurence Gaylinn

David Hunter Sutherland


My poems have seen good distribution in journals, reviews and magazines Recent pieces have appeared in The Trincoll Journal, Anthology and Cross Connects I am a member of The Academy Of American Poets with a recent collection of verse published by Menace Publishing of Alexandria, Va Finally, I serve as editor for a publication called Recursive Angel.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by David Hunter Sutherland and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.


Lately I go unnoticed,
dazed in the brush-fire of hashed cliches,
lost in the pyre high axioms
and moulding soliloquies as another day
ticks the hour on the face of a clock
which makes time and plans
without me
To stand wary of some unsuspected prank
or clog whose perfunctory obstacle
streams down Escher puzzles of raindrops A rubric of Moebius images
have yet to take notice
that the trees do not stir,
or the second hand pauses,
or this infernal trick of shadows
sharpens and draws
as we slip the mask on


“We have been sent to tempt you;
do not renounce your faith “

2:102 The Cow

Born in throes
on ridges, vesicles and hair line
cracks of temporal rings,
bones orbit like pebbles
to a rheostat divine In a womb whose Septuagint
reads retrograde;
Mars in Ares, Ares in Venus,
you lay vise gripped
with a moloch of indigenous care,
a satyr whose lips on nape
drunk numb and swooning Love walls you in to
a stable communicable pain,
beneath stone in dark waters
bides my absolution Out ! marble imitating flesh,
Push ! something into the piscina Straws of fatigue or parallax
are snakes, winged archetypes, truant gargoyles My obnoxious one
our scatological grace
could not traipse into form
beg your ingenuous glory
pray or nudge the choir into singing Hail Mary !

hail mary
fidelis ad urnam *
there is salt in your womb,
dust in your nostrils,
blood in the wine.

* (L) Faithful to death

Ezekiel’s Brush

In a bedroom of angels
we are drawn on a canvas
of virtues and aesthetics,

framed to an easel
of pigment filled tempera
and sketched in sackcloth and ash

These our lips, a burnished coat
from the fingers of Uriel’s hands;
hands that daub predilection
in pre-adamite strokes of rapture and pain,

and beneath Gabriel’s brush, our brow, 
the apercu of fallen feathers
sketched to immediate minimalism
All colors on a seraphim’s palette
are Raphael blues, Israfil reds
and Michael, life’s luminist
cast in starlight’s chiaroscuro, 
shaded greys to our nature
dabbed with the tears and flesh

of Azrael’s pinion-our artisan
bent on cubist dreams
and thumbnail skeletons

captures our pointillistic space
and forever paints these posed creatures
in eternal revision.


Fulfilled with a promise of tears
blown and cast in flotsam’s debris
and maneuvered in dire straits Here the harlot of my perils
the seductive voice
of molasses and glace refined
melts over its malt rich invert
over fine linen and scents The air seductive is delirium contained
in deference to the trompe-loeil
of evening raptures
yielding .yielding .yielding

when too suddenly .masquerade The clowns gather in circles
and buffoons minister to their antics
and the farrago in decrepit tune
rouses my acrid sense of shameto join in

Daniel Laurence Gaylinn
Daniel_L _Gaylinn@mercersburg.edu


Daniel Laurence Gaylinn was born April 24, 1979 in New York City Growing up in the New Jersey suburbs of the city, Dan was spiritually drawn to the “urbanacity” of New York However, he now resides in the small town of Mercersburg in Pennsylvania where he is finishing up his senior year of high school at The Mercersburg Academy, a boarding school His *home* is still New York, and will always be considered to be there He is still unsure of where he will matriculate in the fall of next year as far as university is concerned, but he is strongly considering Boston University, Drew University, or Bard to pursue a study of communications and film to ultimately conquer a career as a film director.

Dan has always been one to go it alone–ever since Kindergarten, Dan considered himself to be set apart, either as a pariah or a saint This feeling of isolation began to effuse through many different mediums–oil paint, musical notes, clay –but settled itself in the form of words after his father’s death in September of 1990 Dan began to realize that he didn’t just have something to express, but rather something to *say* It was through many trials an errors (mostly errors) at the age of eleven, that Dan began to write poetry, still trying to evoke emotion in a gritty, urban tone.

Dan has many interests including skiing, rock climbing, and mountain biking He likes to be outside, and experience as much as he can–listen to all sorts of music on bipolar ends of the spectrum (favourite being Pink Floyd) and watch obscure movies, both foreign and domestic (from Delecatessan to SubUrbia).

But most of all, Dan appreciates being young, and tries, day by day, to live life completely and totally–fully.

Dan walks on both feet.

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Daniel Laurence Gaylinn and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author

Above Silence

I owe a lot to someone
whose tears
I’ve watched drip
like Niagara,
like a falling star,
which is the sun,
who is me
it won’t take long
for those sounds
to bounce
into me again
that I pretend
are sometimes gone
forever from me
she taught me
the steps to walk
the universe–
as we all must feel
each, distinct and cold,
as if someone had died
and hovered in a constellation



have a line that
bends and curves
over your primed flesh
and beneath the fingertips
of my reason
have a tongue
that whispers
sweetly inside your mouth
as I grind your hips
and urge you to blow away
have found absolution
for the emptiness tonight
as it mingles slowly amid your limbs
and completes the intrusion
that conjugates the seconds
have fragile movements,
begging and slipping,
along the boundaries of ecstasy
that push us increasingly nearer
towards forgiveness from the Apple.

Broken blue shafts

Broken blue shafts (well?) of a cloudless winter sunset
piercing the seasonless branches leaves and

I’m too cold to ask you why
we’re here, but of course “we are”

where, on snowy benches on frozen grass, dirty young men either
harvest or get buried in the untouched weeds

wolves dissever infancy-creatures in search
of freshmeat-Jersey acting like New York

in an instant and lovely Mary praying as it begins to rain
upon my anxious thoughts of parting seas

that bob & writhe like the flesh of an eventual sunrise
like campers moving closer to their spirit

when again the sparrows glide in their lovely ignorance
“alone,” as now the sand slides sifting seconds through

your fingers like the devil’s evil it’s true,
you are always too fragile and i am everything

that comes moaning free and wet
through the separation of our lovely grind

In This Album

It seems I have misplaced the directions of childhood
(the maps laid across my arms are altered by sick nights)
And ventured conspicuously and consciously
Just to make up the difference
I remember dogs who came to my hand
(they spit to seal thepunctures on my forearm)
To replace me back to the condition of man
Simply by the grace of their tongues

Smashed winces of inertia forced up my rage
(soft dissolution echoes from the belay pins inside me)
And the canyons which carried it upward,
To the passing birds, closed in their walls
On a cliff, I paint self-portraits
(with a gush from my own pelt)
The canvas, marked by angry teeth
Is like the skin of seals so I carry them off

to bury them in the cheap precision of flames.

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