"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."   POETRYrepairsv07.09:108

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VALERIE MACEWAN Bessie Paradise Bessie Paradise used to have four angels, but she gave one to Caroline when Grandpa died. Bessie got along just fine with three angels. She didn't feel a need for more. Sometimes all three followed her out into the yard, Or back, behind the well house near the garden. Other times, they rested, knowing where she was and waiting, until she felt a need. Bessie Paradise used to have three angels, but she gave one to Jane when the family moved North, Bessie got along just fine with two angels. She didn't feel a need for more. Sometimes they'd sit with her, late night on the porch, hummingbirds of light putting memories in the air, causing her to tilt her head to listen, as they made smiles out of the darkness. Bessie Paradise used to have two angels But she gave one to Ruth because no one should live alone. Bessie got along just fine with her one angel. She didn't feel a need for more. Sometimes they'd walk together through the garden. Holding air hands as they quietly strolled, a one-voiced conversation carried by the wind to the three patient angels waiting. Bessie Paradise met with the other angels, and since becoming one, she follows me through the garden, over the hill, I walk with her hand on my arm. ©2007 previously published in Earth & Soul; published here by permission of the poet. POETRYrePAIRS or www.poetryrepairs.com or poetryrepairs - poetry and prose on this site is published under one time electronic publication rights; all rights revert to or are retained by the author/poet of the work/s published). site and page design ©2007 by JohnHorvathJr.

"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."   poetryREpairs v07.09:108

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SUZANNE SCARFONE Domestic Surrealism (Where My Poems Come From) The outside was our school, my three brothers and two sisters and myself. The sycamore trees by the garage; the horses running on the dirt road; the rain storms stunning us; the freezing air, a gift because it signaled my father to make the ice rink in the yard; our daily four o'clock walks, on bikes, on feet, in strollers, with my mother talking on and on about the chestnuts trees by the lake, the few remaining willows, the worms, the birds, the gray and green in the waves on the water. So, there was always nature. Oh, yes, and music. In each of my poems, I paint the domestically surreal moments found in the musicality of everyday experience. I start with a scene and push my fingers around the figures, the landscape, the singing of the story until I have formed the visual image; then I write the words. The words in the poem must pull me along in a rush of sound, sometimes a chant, an incantation, a mouthful of splendor. Each sensed moment owes its language to a longing for something beyond the moment but born out of the potential beauty of the moment. My mother, a pianist, taught me to play the piano as I sat on her lap, as I would do years later with my daughter and son. Playing the piano was a way to fill every room of the house with emotion. I could bring the ecstasy of nature inside through my fingers. And hope. My father, a champion sprinter, born in Reggio di Calabria, infused my childhood with a sense of adventure and the idea that all of life was a quest for joy. My poems start with the limits of the self, then move beyond the self to the more expansive world out-of-doors, out of the self. The words dissolve into a timeless expanse and become visual. They are the part of the world that the eye sees. Which brings me then to art, pictures of the world the eye sees. Long before I wrote poetry, I drew with charcoal and painted with watercolors, mostly inspired by the Botticelli and Kandinsky prints scattered around the house. Now, my poems are written as contour drawings. I remember my grandfather creating these kinds of lingual landscapes in his oil paintings of strange seas and the swirling of desire just beyond the horizon. I spent most of my summer vacations with him in Canada. When he wasn't reading to me, he painted. As he painted, I ate blueberries and watched him and felt nothing but wonder and warmth. 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 comment on the poems here at poetryrepairs.com

"Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!"   poetryrePAIRs v07.09:108

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JOHN HORVATH jr One Son is Always Half Mother One son is always half mother. Unless cautious, father may utter his doubts. She says that if he had spent less time God knows where with whom in what cheap hotel, he would have no doubt. Cold fish for father's last supper. The one most like her puts on his felt hat, and goes to retrieve him from that place where he drank, but father offers to buy for the two of them. He'd shake his head the young man does; shakes his head. "Go, boy; find your old man; do a kind- ness for him." He goes home to console his mother, and she curses the seldom home stranger. Why must you bother? A son is a sadness of long lost battles. poetryrepairs.com seeks volunteer editors to expand PoetryRepairShop via "language".poetryrepairs.us into a true 'Contemporary' and 'International' site. If you are fluent in a language other than English and you wish to help, please edit a one or two poems; send the poems and a paragraph 'about you' to editor@poetryrepairs.zzn.com .

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