| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
| POETRYrepairs v08.06:072 |
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![]() BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE | --- copyright DAVID JAMES. His TREMBLING IN SOMEONE'S PALM, was published in 2007; and DAVID also has had six one-act plays produced off-Broadway and, DAVID JAMES teaches for Oakland Community College in MichiganDAVID JAMES The Man at the End of the Line He finally under stands there is no one truth, no thunder moment when life blurs into crystal, unmistakable like a dirge. He's left with his dismal ways, his poor eyesight, brains like pastel shirts hung out to dry. The door at the end opens only one way and it's a chore getting there. Like all men, he cries to himself, pulls his hand back and looks away when it's his turn to go. 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 Bedford Fair Lifestyles - Clothes to fit YOUR lifestyle at Prices you can afford PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors
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| "Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
| poetryREpairs v08.06:072 |
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| CHARLES P. RIES, reviewer --- copyright CHARLES P. RIES, reviewer poetryREpairs.com welcomes your essay on a topic related to poetry. |
| "Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!" |
| poetryrePAIRs v08.06:072 |
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| --- copyright Jenő Dzsida. "Mi lesz?" [ Szatmár, 1926. február ] translated from the Hungarian by ANGELA L. TOTH was previously published on poetryrepairs 01.02:021Jenő Dzsida Mi lesz? Uram, Te láttad: Homlokom tele kőtilde;zúzással, vérrel, kis lelkek köve milliószor ért el, de sohse dobtam mással vissza őket, mint édes, puha, krisztusi kenyérrel. Uram, Te láttad: Foszlós-belű volt, fehér és igaz, haragviszonzás s békét lehelt mégis, meleg illata csupa ős-poézis, s az őrjöngőnek fékező vigasz. Uram, most kérdem: a világon torz gyűlölet arat. Állok ostoros kőzápor alatt, de hogy töltsem be akkor majd igédet, 'all the fine arts are species of poetry' |
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