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  1. #51
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem, X, you might like to see a picture of the poet, Vona Groarke , and hear the sound of her voice by clicking on -

  2. #52
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    Mar 2008
    Lodged by our mole last night and published today -

    Everything Lush I Know

    I do not know the names of things
    but I have lived on figs and grapes
    smell of dirt under moon
    and moon under threat of rain
    everything lush I know
    an orchard becoming all orchards
    flowers here and here
    the earth I have left
    every brief home-making
    the lot of God blooming into vines
    right now then and always

    - Kimberly Burwick.

  3. #53
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem, "Everything Lush I Know", you might like to see the poet, Kimberly Burwick, by clicking on -

  4. #54
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    Mar 2008
    Posted anonymously to the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section, and published today -

    Come Trembling

    In the country where believers eat the bodies
    of the gods, we meet a priest who pulls a rope
    of thorns through his tongue to make his mind

    pure enough for a vision. He dances to music
    we can't hear and waits to come trembling
    into knowledge. We don't recognize ourselves

    in his radiance, but we do in his suffering.
    He passes through pain and into healing
    without seeing the holy rendered visible.

    He tells us the oracle died when she refused
    to divine the future, but we find her tangled
    in her own hair wearing a garland of burrs,

    manacled to the bed. We ask for a better world
    to die in, but she says, Submit to your freedom.
    We tie new knots in her hair and swim

    into the belly of a shark to retrieve the book
    of signs. Rumors say the secret of life is sewn
    into a dead man's coat, but when we unearth him,

    all we find in his sleeves are his fractured arms.
    We want to believe, to split open the myth
    and lie in it, return to original dark and be changed,

    but the bones won't yield to us, pages are missing
    from the book, the gods remain so quiet
    we hear water speaking between the stones.

    - Traci Brimhall.

  5. #55
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    Mar 2008
    If you would like to see Traci Brimhall, you might click on -

  6. #56
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    Mar 2008
    Sent by anonymous and posted today -


    In Bushnell Park there are only a couple
    of statues & while I knew
    who Minerva was I wasn't sure
    about Horace Wells & I wanted
    to know because the plaque underneath
    him says The Discoverer of
    something I couldn't see & I didn't
    think anyone in Hartford
    had ever discovered anything except
    for guns & drugs & when I looked
    him up I found out I was
    right because the thing Horace Wells
    discovered was anesthesia at some
    kind of show where
    a bunch of people inhaled nitrous
    on stage & then ran around like idiots
    & when one of them hurt his leg
    he kept running & seemed to feel
    nothing & Wells who was a dentist
    thought maybe he could use this
    so he got some nitrous & put himself
    under & had a tooth pulled without
    any pain, which he thought
    would make him famous so he went
    to Boston to put on an exhibition
    & called someone out
    of the crowd to go under but
    the man didn't breathe from the bag
    long enough & felt
    Wells pull & screamed & everyone
    heard it & no one else would volunteer
    & no one wanted to believe
    Wells except for William Morton
    who stole the idea using ether instead
    of nitrous & got patients
    & patents & a job at Harvard & maybe
    Wells never knew it but credit in the books
    goes to Morton or maybe he did
    know it because Wells sold his practice
    & left his wife & went to New York
    where he went mad & went to jail
    for throwing sulfuric acid at prostitutes
    & in his cell inhaled chloroform from
    a rag & cut open his groin vein
    & died & the only people now who think
    he discovered anything are some people
    in Hartford who can't read
    the sign & probably don't care what it is.

    - Samuel Amadon.

  7. #57
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem, "Wells", or even if you didn't, you might like to see and hear the poet, Sam Amadon, by clicking on -

  8. #58
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    Mar 2008
    Sent in last night and released today -

    Herb Parker Feels Like Dancing
    —Richland, 1949

    Mr. Parker's Sunbeam is shiny as an atom.
    He pulls up, alights with grace
    and makes his dance hall entrance.
    Perhaps you sense his English accent
    and pocket square. Women shy
    like ponies to one corner. He corrals one
    and trots her around the dance floor.

    Herb Parker rides a shapely 4/4.
    "That Old Black Magic,"
    "Baby, It's Cold Outside."
    Maybe it is, or maybe it's blazing,
    unsafe to breathe tonight.

    Her earrings are zircon daisies.
    A silver belt rings her slim waist.
    Herb Parker steers her toward
    his dark place. "Mr. Parker?"
    he hears somebody ask, like a tremble
    on a seismograph, but you can't blame
    Herbert Parker for his appetites.

    He palms the tender center of
    her back. "Mr. Parker?" again.
    Perhaps it's her voice, or her husband's,
    or one of the voices in his head. He's
    a Dutch master with his finger in the dike,
    a valvular, crepuscular figure.

    "Look out the window at that storm ... "
    He takes the government's calls
    and negotiates those devil's bargains,
    how much of their order can he fill?
    You understand they say "product"
    and mean plutonium, they mean
    how many bombs can you afford to fuel?
    "Darling, down and down I go,

    round and round I go in a spin" ...
    the river, and its sediments,
    the air, capricious with winds,
    the soil column, the ground water,
    the vase of wildflowers on Deputy Chief
    Gamertsfelder's desk! Native species
    sprouting in Richland yards.
    The mosquitoes, for pity's sake,
    the farm animals, the farmers living
    off the land, the water birds and the
    duck hunters, the bottom fish and
    the fishermen on Richland dock.
    Everything he thinks to test ... good god,

    the entire food chain contaminated.
    He's basically a shy man with
    immeasurable power. A sultan
    coaxing his courtesan's smile.
    She only shakes a little now.
    Don't you understand? Someone
    must step forward and play God.
    How much better that the man
    can lead? hold you tight
    in his very good hands, and spin.

    - Kathleen Flenniken.

  9. #59
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    Mar 2008
    If you liked the poem, "Herb Parker Feels Like Dancing", you might like to meet the poet, Kathleen Flenniken, by clicking on -

  10. #60
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    Mar 2008
    It's true, the noosphere is right here, we are sitting in it. And the 'noosphere' comes all the way from the Ancient Greeks to describe the internet today, and even the poets can't resist the sound of the noosphere -


    At your center:
    spectacles to sharpen sight,
    wake of two white birds’ liftoff,
    two wide thoughts, compassed round:
    Teilhard de Chardin’s priest-scientist mess—
    “if only Rome would start to doubt
    herself at last, a little . . . ”
    Herself beloved and busy arranging
    Sacred & Precious,
    Blood & Heart
    in combos for good
    institutions and export.
    Those o’s, if excised, leave
    a sound like innisphere,
    like Innisfree, Lake Isle of,
    where he’d be free
    to love God & Rome
    microbe & bone shard . . .
    Splice the o’s back
    and there’s Noah’s fear—
    a fear Rome wakes to
    each October, perfect light,
    the air so sweet and God, now what
    if it’s all so fresh,
    and not spheres away.
    But right here.

    - Lia Purpura.

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