LYNN STRONGIN : Cathedral CLuster of Schools
DARRELL ORRELL : Rooted
CHARLES GARABEDIAN : Misdirection
POETRYREPAIRS v11.09:057
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
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All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge


from LYNN STRONGIN's MADONNA OF STONE, MOTHER OF SORROWS Listed at Duotrope's Digest

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Cathedral CLuster of Schools Rooted Misdirection  
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LYNN STRONGIN
Cathedral CLuster of Schools
Brought under one administrative umbrella, they became known as Cathedral Cluster,
which made it easier to trade ideas books and literacy consultants who work a few hours.
SEEKING CATHEDRAL I found a mathematical problem: equation without entrance, debt without deed, numerical numbness. Immigration. Lying in neurology half-a-century ago stretchers formed cathedrals of snow. I balanced credit & debit sheets: how wide the spinal cord. I pictured railroad maps of the central nervous system blood-dark branched umbrella tree. A power station, lines cut: No message transmitted. Snow blew blind in face of physician nurse, pediatrician. Hair braided like copper penny nurse handed us castor oil mixed with milk-of-magnesia nightly. Kids, we developed a ward slang which walled our city Let's face it: We had not arrived in Moses-baskets, or Jesus-wraps. Our cannon of small war-weapons, our shoes, rusted back home. We'd come without coCcemoration or coCcunion. On occasion we left in night's heart covered with a blanket. Ferried across Charon. Daily we crossed the Rubicon. Was the window pane at the foot of our bed as clear as spinal pain? Opacity or clarity? In the grave digger's hours, I hugged Xavier my cat, saber-toothed I went figure-skating with hypodermic needle blades. What was the other side to this Ganges? Sunday, before parents visited, I pressed my ear to a sermon on one kid's radio, jazz singer on another, I visualized. the rose cicatrix on the baby's neck I had been expectant of everything but birth. Between dark & dawn existed the perilous cathedral-grove of passion a circle of honeybees above it glowing: Lodged we were between dark pool & black pond. Death grinned her Cheshire cat grin in barrios of Nicaragua, Caracas, parishes in New Orleans Morte pawed that bouquet of red carns so ugly mother flushed them. I was not the bees knees. A Zinger my 12th suCcer. Bye there, baby doll. We had silver screen no movie stars in the lime: Our afterlife was come: practice room, violin stand. Bach, Brahms. How make up for coCcunion? A girl's smock could be miraculously cut & sewn of ocean-fog, blue satin till it was like that grin death took with her at four o'clock on a winter's noon.
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Cathedral CLuster of Schools Rooted Misdirection  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

DARRELL ORRELL
Rooted
I suppose, at times, a tree can be a tree But Plato told of truths that lie within. Since, we've pondered time, We've pondered place If only to know what was really there In the end. We are not what we are Someone said in some ancient time Buried in dust, buried in space, Liberated from the very thing he was not, Plato would eulogize Not knowing the end. The congregation's eyes are open To see what is not there, Focusing on a faraway painting Before Renoir reveals his red heads Dancing ballet on ball bearings. The steps are hasty and ridiculous When a tree becomes more than a tree. Void of bark and foliage, A stripped sapling bows before Barricades, rituals, and rights. The last of which he won't see Until the end. Something gets lost in the picture When the audience sees too much. The tree transforms itself, Develops an intangible alter ego A shadow with no antecedent Standing before its judgment Its only friend, the end.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 057
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato



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Cathedral CLuster of Schools Rooted Misdirection  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

CHARLES GARABEDIAN
Misdirection
Five bucks short of indigent, I had no choice but to let creeping hunger growls drive me to the Woonsocket Mosque on Ramadan. A room of arabs jumped to sell me their faith-- Conversion only cost a few words back then. Mohammed is the last Prophet, peace be up on him. Allah, the all-merciful, all-knoweth, Allahu akbar... Then that noon before the sun went down, I purified my limbs under a rusted sink, snorting water to cleanse my nose for silat. I stood erect like a hard-on over the green rug as the scholar recited Surahs I mumbled back. Under their trance, or them under mine, my head met rug fibers that smelled of feet. I could smell the food being set down to break their fast. Mounds of chicken sizzled under flames, stuffed meatloaf. Tossed salads and sugar cakes, fresh pocket bread. Rice heaped over rich figs wrapped in leaves. All the juicy enticements barely broke my humble act, as I scooped scarcely enough so the scholar put more in my plate and offered seconds. It went on everyday until the last day of Ramadan passed and I split through the wood-grain doors, laughing home.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 057
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LYNN STRONGIN : Cathedral CLuster of Schools
DARRELL ORRELL : Rooted
CHARLES GARABEDIAN : Misdirection

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