| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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![]() BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright KARREN LaLONDE ALENIER. 'Here, Kitty' is from her unpublished collection of poems Raconteurs in Tangier: The Jane & Paul Bowles Love Story.KARREN LaLONDE ALENIER Here, Kitty Come, my sharp-clawed cat, linger by my pillow. I'll chase sleep's flight into darkness, so I can touch the latch of your years, that long fur embedded deep in the skin. If I hold my hand out, your razor tongue might taste the aquatic I swallowed whole. How many oysters must slide down my throat before you mark me. My heart ticks wildly like that old wall clock loaded with a crazed bird. Here, my tightly knotted carpet, my gate to the gut, nine lives in one, I cut myself wide open for you. REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; resort, frequent or habitual going; making one's way; to arrive; to dwell; to heal, to cure, to recover; to renew; (AND!) to fix to original condition. Oxford English Dictionary Babson College PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors
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| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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| PAMELA WHITE --- copyright PAMELA WHITE is the publisher of The Writing Parent, the free bi-weekly ezine that supports and teaches (and provides writing markets to) parents who write. As a parent of three children, five cats and one dog, Pam understands the challenges of creating a writing career in the midst of family life. poetryREpairs.com welcomes your essay on a topic related to poetry. |
| "Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!" |
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| BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright JUSTIN BARRETT. "perhaps" was previously published on 01.02:013justin barrett perhaps it was when she began removing the nails from the wall being careful not to ruin her posters any further, or maybe it was when she packed up her belongings and souvenirs into little boxes that used to hold reams of computer paper, or maybe it was when my memories and dreams and words began to echo off the walls and throughout the empty room always trailing off somewhere inside the lightless closet, either way it was then that i finally realized she was on her way and those tears on my cheeks weren't really because i got something in my eye. 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' |
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