| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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| SHEEMA KALBASI Ivy Nights Deep in the mouth, Ivies have grown. It is rather tricky To claim her as mine Now that I have given her to you. Take good care of her. --- ABOUT SHEEMA KALBASI --- Iranian born human rights activist, poet, and translator. SHEEMA KALBASI is the director of Dialogue of Nations Through Poetry in Translation, director of Poetry of Iranian Women, the poetry editor of Muse Apprentice Guild and the associate director of the Other Voices International Project. REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going - Oxford English Dictionary |
| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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| JO MARK --- ABOUT JO MARK --- MAKE BIG MONEY ON THE INTERNET! Create your own Ebook in 3 easy steps! Easily develop your own product and start making money! Visit http://www.milliondollararticle.com/ezebook.html NOW poetryREpairs.com welcomes essays on any topic related to poetry.. |
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| RUTH DAIGON Musings on the Black Keys Mother of alphabets you call me from the underskin of sleep beyond the dream of dust and drought of spring floods and rings of fire. You store in the heart's hollow a perfect memory never-to-be-completed. Your soft-skinned inner arms begin the story of my life. You teach me how to enter the day how to be quiet marooned in a tongue of shade where there's no sound as startling as silence. I know what I know: how the seasons insist and encourage, how dark eyes of water glitter through grass in the spring how the heart tugs at the end of September when even the mildest breeze floatleaves down how December's crust leads me back to frozen footsteps and idling light. Snake dancing before the blaze I'm blanketed by winds protected by cave shadows but if I step out of the circle the earth worm will find me Better the cactus and its thorny geometrics than the night-blooming orchid. Better a damaged day of almost spring expanding without limits than a safe haven austere and silent. There is no such thing as no such thing and I am oracle and secret like a lone feather on the breath of a wind or the spider that spins a retreat but no web, or a moment of pure waiting. previously published on poetryREpairs MM.02:014 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' |
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