JOAN McNERNEY : Lost Landscape
KATHLEEN O'HARA PODZIMEK : Black Ice
DAVID NOVAK : Lord He Was Meant for Her
POETRYREPAIRS v11.09:059
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge



Often at night, often when the mind sleeps to all but one task, we beging to explore our subconscious too often more frightening than reality JOAN McNERNEY is a new and promising voice for poetryrepairs' international audiences.

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Lost Landscape Black Ice Lord He Was Meant for Her  
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JOAN McNERNEY
Lost Landscape 
I am driving down a hill without name on an unnumbered highway. This road transforms into a snake winding around coiled on hair pin turns. See how it hisses though this long night. Why am I alone? At bottom of the incline lies a dark village strangely hushed with secrets. How black it is. How difficult to find what I must discover. My fingers are tingling cool, smoke combs the air, static fills night. I continue to cross gas lit streets encountering dim intersections. Another maze. One line leads to another. Dead ends become beginnings. Listening to lisp of the road. My slur of thoughts sink as snake rasps grow louder. See how the road slithers. What can be explored? Where can it be? All is in question.
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
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Lost Landscape Black Ice Lord He Was Meant for Her  
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KATHLEEN O'HARA PODZIMEK
Black Ice
Black Ice Nothing moves me I feel torn-up There's a nail in my soul cracked, crippled in blood It's like black ice sending me into a cold crypt of tears Hidden from the world, I flail myself for sins whispered and echoed Grief and trouble visit my dark, weary soul The harsh winds of memory
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 059
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato



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Lost Landscape Black Ice Lord He Was Meant for Her  
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DAVID NOVAK
Lord He Was Meant for Her
Lord, he was meant for her, and she for him, The living with the living, young in love, While I within the realm of prospects dim Despise not that which I may not remove: My fate! to be susceptible to life, But lain in prison with the many dead, To feel my hope shorn from me with a knife, Gladdened by this, that they love in my stead. For it is my now chosen, once despised Office to bear a witness to the days That these young lovers pass, so highly prized, Forever matter of a poetšs praise. For she could not be mine, not for the taking, Because my crusty heartšs beyond all breaking. Lord, though I may despise him, let me not, For were I him, I would as greedily Allow my sense to drink up what hešs got Conversing there with her, observed by me. Despise him? Why? When in the race of life Than mine his footsteps have been shown the swifter, Not having stopped to drink this cup of strife That is my own; and how his spirits lift her! For that which I have drunk, has made me ill, Full undiluted consciousness receiving, Remembrance of world-sorrows which so fill My heart and render it beyond all grieving; For many years ago they passed the brim Of what was bearable. She looks at him. Content in this, that I set down in verse The many splendid facets of a love It has been mine to know, and knowing, curse, Because that which I know I cannot prove. For even weeping long ago was stopped, Heartšs insularity firmly ensconcing Itself from further hope, that which was dropped As soon as love had ceased to be entrancing. No, what they have (these words I tell myself) Is something I should not want to possess, Their love--best put upon the highest shelf Unreachable. I hear her murmur yes, Which yes so penetrates, and harms my brain, That in my stoicism, I fall slain. No, she could not be mine, not for the having, For I so many years ago departed This weary realm of misery and slaving For things which only leave one broken-hearted. To love and be in love! Such tender folly, As I may never hope again to feel, Forsaking all for poesyšs melancholy, A folly all its own, and all unreal. A folly so to gaze upon the face Wherein all poetry originates, Lovešs face, a folly in my mind to trace Its contours, gentleness that never sates. For life is all unreal, not seeming so, That face too beautiful--and so I go.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 059
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JOAN McNERNEY : Lost Landscape
KATHLEEN O'HARA PODZIMEK : Black Ice
DAVID NOVAK : Lord He Was Meant for Her

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