| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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![]() LYN LIFSHIN's SOME DAYS v07.04 v07.05 PS : sponsor poetry visit Poetry Sponsors | Everyday Some People Are Going Home to See Who is Dying my graduate school office mate with her father and grandfather alone in a big Victorian said, "I never know who'll be living, who'll be dead when I come home." For weeks, small girls in pink pajamas are dying in wrecked trail under a heavy pervert's garlic stinking breath or hog tied behind a rusty pick up. Death shall have dominion Thomas said but lately it's the main thing on TV. The line between the living and dead keeps moving. What does it mean when you start to read the obits? Every morning the ambulances streak by the park I walk thru. Someone tells me "lost at war" is easier to live with than certainty of death. When Arthur Miller died, who didn't think of Marilyn going before him, staying beautiful in our minds as those who linger won't |
| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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The Other Night I Had This Absurd Dream terrorism was going on but it was in only parts of the city. Some were gunned down but others seemed to make it to somewhere else. I was in spike heels, a filmy dress, chartreuse I think, the color Nicole Kidman wore several years ago to the Oscars. Suddenly a dark man puts his arm around me like a shawl and says its the blacks and Jews they are after. Ambulances across the pond and the rain seemed like bullets. I wait for guns from the street, something terrifying as what catapulted Jessica from her seat in the Campus Theater when The Thing played. It comes thru the blinds, pulls me from quilts even the cat is hiding under. I can feel what is just waiting for me slither toward the bed, even the cat smells it, leaps from her warm cove. It's too late to fall back to sleep. This terror will wrap itself around me, weave itself in to my hair so when I go to ballet it it will keep me will keep me leaping and turning. I will be as not there as an old lover's voice on his answering machine I called months ago to just listen to or feel safe I could not still want him, safer than those hours in the dark with the geese and traffic not enough to make things seem they were as they had been E books, v07.05ary, education, the plain language of essays, interviews, opinion, reviews and, as ever, the grand language of poems, by poets whose poetry and prose stretch prevailing views of our world. international writers writing in the global creative community. Gather with friends and recite poetry over food and wine, light candles in darkened places! poetryrepairs.com invites your essay on poetry, or on a poet or poets, and, also, essays on all things related to poetry, its theory and its practice. Or, simply v07.05 on the poems here at poetryrepairs.com |
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Do I Have to Really Write About What Seems Most Scary? Isn't it enough I've fought against it, ballet classes every day, often more than one. Do I have to tell you I was stunned by the letter from a woman who says "now in the gym the men stop looking." Do I have to joke "pull the plug if I can't do ballet," laugh when a friend says " I didn't sleep with him because I'd have to get undressed." Do I have to remember my mother saying she'd rather be dead than lose her teeth? Have to know if I stay slim, size zero in ultra sexy Victor's Secret jeans without more fat my face will look less lovely. I think of that friend who says she doesn't worry about what poem she'll read but what she will wear. Another says she wants plastic surgery but doesn't think it's right for someone in the arts, shouldn't she care about loftier things? I think of another woman who will only be photographed in certain positions. Do I have to tell you what I'm thinking about isn't death? |
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