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![]() BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright ANJANA BASUANJANA BASU Who is He? Shopping bag bird sky wide sky broad stretched on the shoulder of a green hill I look for high streets and goose cackle people but the empty skies cry clouds and bird song The sun slides its warm fingers over my legs to evening Bees glide in sunset waistcoats in an ominous drone. Spring shuffles its shoulders slowly slipping into leaves the green dress stitched with pink and blue second best before summer's parade of purple heather bloom She dances on the hills trails her perfume through the closed brown rooms until day follows helpless never mind about summer Summer is old Slip out of your green dress again And veil yourself in mist 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 BeadRoom.com PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors
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| BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright KIM WELLIVER. "Neanderthal" was previously published on poetryrepairs 01.02:020KIM WELLIVER Neanderthal We find whispers of you, lost brother, in Lapedo Portugal; that lush, rocky Iberian valley ochre wrapped like a sleeping seed sown in the blunt arctic leg bones, of a four year old child, carefully snugged in Paleolithic clutter: delicate twigs of red deer bones and horse teeth like a scatter of yellow dice a pendant shell drawn from ancient dreaming seas and the semi-articulated xylophone of rabbit ribs. Three thousand years after rumor of your ignominious death twenty-five thousand after those who followed, we come upon you hidden in the Lagar Velho child, like a secret prayer, like a stolen promise of immortality. How is it that you came across the distant years, undaunted, bearing your genes like a standard; a banner of skins. Did you, isolated, alone striding your icy home, find the need for another? Were you some coarse suitor bearing gifts of swan bones, fox teeth, the useful jaw of the hyena come amongst a tall race with your own arctic bones, the short powerful limbs tempered by the tundra? Did you, driven by hormonal madness, you could not understand, but must be slave to, mutely follow, half turned away in hard humiliation come before these who carved the hunt upon stone walls, who tamed the colors of earth and blood to breathe there, did you come to these, who wooed fire from the heavens, and woo a mate? How else can it be that we have found you? How else, over a triple century your blood, your bones live on, in Cro Magnons's child. I must confess I'm glad that knuckled and hirsute rough as a cobb, you continued, lent your strength to the tropic brood and their long limbs, until only the bones of a four year old child wrapped in a shroud of ochre-smeared skins concealed in Portugal's secret earth, can know your story, and whisper it softly to us. 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' |
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