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  1. #111
    A window to the soul
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    Oh Robin Hood of poetry, there's charm and humor here. You're touching souls.

  2. #112
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    Quote Originally Posted by Nerd Girl View Post
    Oh Robin Hood of poetry, there's charm and humor here. You're touching souls.
    Oh brere fox, we look at you from the briar patch, and we wonder if it is you, brere fox, slipping out at night, on the hunt for a careless poem, or a poem coming home late with a little too much to drink, to whisk off the street, bundle up, and send anonymously to Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section for publication the next day. Of course we don't know and don't want to know. And even if they tie us to a chair and torture us, we will never let the words, "Brere fox", pass our lips.

    But we wonder why you are sending us, with such charm and humour, poems to touch the soul. We wonder, no doubt unworthily, if it is to entice us out of the briar patch to your dinner table. So we argue amongst ourselves in the briar patch.

  3. #113
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    Found last night and posted today -

    Drinking Like a Fish

    Though blue at a distance,
    the surface is clear
    as gin with a tension
    that can bob you like
    an ice cube. What
    you really want, though,
    is to float below
    in chartreuse light,
    to glide through tonic bubbles
    above the swaying kelp,
    borne along on currents, while
    your heavy body, stranded
    on land, still stumbles
    and gasps. This
    is your true element,
    where predators
    ignore the pinstripe
    of the inedible.
    You're even
    a Pisces.

    Deeper and deeper
    you go, to the bottom,
    fin silt that swirls
    like bourbon in branch water
    to darken the gloom
    where things with gelatin
    wings glow blue
    as a gas flame.
    And this is where
    you want to live
    forever—to grow so
    transparent, so fragile,
    even the weight of the sea
    cannot crush you.

    - William Greenway.

  4. #114
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    If you drink like a fish or merely liked the poem, "Drinking Like a Fish", you may see and hear the poet, William Greenway, by clicking on - http://www.jennymag.org/fall-10-issu...lliam-greenway

  5. #115
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    Overheard last night, and today we repeat -

    The Conversation

    Though he thought I was asleep in the sun, I was not. I was lucid.
    For a long time I watched his ship departing
    until the flag at the stern vanished, eaten by the gray horizon.
    Then the gulls came, then the stars. I began to live between visions
    of reunion and the truth shifting like tides against the dunes.
    Under a tent of yaupons I built a hut of driftwood, using sea oats
    for a threshold and the emptied halves of mollusk shells for the roof.
    Butterflies traversed the shore. When I held the ocean's shell
    to my ear we were one
    vessel speaking to another vessel
    about the rapture of the void.

    - Christine Garren.

  6. #116
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    If you were intrigued by the poem, "The Conversation", and would like to meet the poet, Christine Garren, it's need to know.

  7. #117
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    Decrypted last night -

    Convivium

    In memoriam Emily Carlson

    After we'd redivided
    Gaul into twenty-three parts,
    our seventh-grade Latin class
    in sandals and off-white togas
    threw a convivium.

    Over the fried chicken
    our haruspex announced the signs
    as bene, bene, bene,
    so we pitched and proved
    we could conjugate, decline,
    and define some verbs and nouns
    sometimes almost as well
    as Miss Emily Carlson.

    All fall she'd listened to us
    mumble and mispronounce
    with a set smile on her face
    and at least one eye half closed
    behind thick horn-rim glasses.
    We failed her, and she passed us.

    She believed we were carrying on
    some semiclassical
    tradition, if not for her sake,
    for our own, that at least a few
    of the radices she'd watered
    in our poor soil wouldn't shrivel
    but would finally rise and shine.

    When all our games were over
    and after she'd handed out
    the small edulis prizes,
    wrapped and trimmed and inscribed
    with her own neat, careful digits,
    she shouted toward the ceiling
    an exclamatio
    and fell down on the floor
    and began to shake, shudder,
    and jitter the whole length
    of her gray dress, her mouth
    uttering through white foam
    untranslatable words,
    then died post meridiem.
    Oh sunt lacrimae rerum.

    - David Wagoner.

  8. #118
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    If you liked the poem, "Convivium", you may like to see and hear the poet, David Wagoner, by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QMOlLQUBKw

  9. #119
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    For the poetasters a taste of -

    Danger

    In the pictures we drew as children, wind was green, aquatic,
    so here was a tune only we could hear,
    a green tune of cats we painted

    in the morning when our mother's illness kept us quiet.
    And if blue was to be the color of danger
    in pictures we drew as children, then sky would be green, and aquatic

    the suns we painted yellow-on-yellow and left
    in the room for our mother where the slightest motion was the color
    of danger. What we knew we made, painting a green tune of cats

    in the afternoons when our mother's illness kept us quiet.
    We knew the color of danger was brilliant: blue and red and deeper
    blue in the pictures we drew as children, the aquatic

    limbs of trees, birds above houses in a perfumed arc;
    every night we found a tune of new paint for the greenest spire
    of our green tune filled with cats.

    In the hours of our mother's illness, we painted wind and the flight
    of wind with brushes and feathers, our names the letters
    she found in the pictures we drew as children, blue-green and aquatic
    when danger was greenest blue, was red, was a green tune filled with cats.

    - Laurie Lamon.

  10. #120
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    If, "Danger", is to your taste, you might like to see the poet, Laurie Lamon, by clicking on - http://www.whitworth.edu/academic/de...urie/index.htm

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