A. D. Winans : OLD MEN OF SKID ROW
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : NOT THIS: Letter to a Son
MARIE KAZALIA : Magritte Exhibit
POETRYREPAIRS v12.09:099
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All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge


WINANS writes scenic poems that allow place to carry the weight of narrative; they fail miserably in lesser hands but work miraculously in the sure hands of an artist. A.D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet and writer. He is the author of over fifty books and chapbooks of poetry and prose. In 2002 a poem of his was set to music and performed at New York's Tully Hall. In 2006 PEN National awarded him with a Josephine Miles award for excellence in literature. In 2009 PEN Oakland presented him with a lifetime achievement award.

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OLD MEN OF SKID ROW NOT THIS: Letter to a Son Magritte Exhibit  
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A. D. Winans
OLD MEN OF SKID ROW
these old men beat their heads nightly against the four walls forced to listen to death's call the pain so great that a fifth of whiskey brings no relief men who envy those fortunate enough to escape men on the verge of suicide men who wait with nothing to look forward too but an obituary column so small it fits them like a charm bracelet
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09:099
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OLD MEN OF SKID ROW NOT THIS: Letter to a Son Magritte Exhibit  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

ANDRENA ZAWINSKI
NOT THIS: Letter to a Son
I am thinking of another time: Providence, you inside me dream begun on Valentine's Day. Today I salvaged from the basement flood a book stuffed thick with scraps and scribbles, the one in which I first wrote of you. And from its pages fell a snapshot that survived the pyrotechnics of my old rage - in it was your father smiling, not then yet to have come to manhood. You never wanted me to tell you about him, but I will tell you how we were: He was high speed racing slick New Hampshire backroads, lightning striking turns with me at the back of the Norton; he was a long Latin summer with the top down, natty pinache lean-suited in white linen. I was all the stars strung out spinning the Delmarva sky, his midnight flower pilfered from a D. C. war memorial. Your father was a way out, somewhere else, not my country, the first of many more goodbyes. Here in the old book where I stored words, he slipped by the chronology of you in ounces and inches, toes and fingers, arms kissed by sun, hands announcing starfish, stone and shell. Even through those first and awful things - broken finger, dizzy of virus and cold, road kill dog, your cat a fever took one night - he missed you playing with strings of new language and his name you later would not mark down for your own. He missed what you were, summer grass suddenly tall with the meaning of green. And now, son, that you have come to manhood, and you too have lost at love that packed up a U. C. degree, first job, 10-speed, skis and hiking boots into a new car, racing, as he did then, the hills of Berkeley for Marin, I imagine you in another picture behind the lines of your picket fence before the tree heavy with the yellow ripe surprise of lemons, waving me off the day we last spent summer together chasing sun through Wildcat Canyon under the miracle of sky, watching wildflowers defy a winter of drought, eating blackberries plucked fresh from the bush, drunken in the scent of pinyon pine poem on air. This is what I wish to imagine: you inside my arms, cradled small against my heart where I would rock you, spare your restless nights, not this melancholic Nightshade dream where I play Perfidia, cross my arms around my waist, close my eyes, hold on tight, move real slow and moan, inhabiting my old loss and your new pain - not this howling as the beached seal must, head turned seaward from the rocky western shore, staring through hollows where once were eyes; not this poisoning for which there is no antidote, traces lingering the bloodstream, foundering the heart; not this troublous wringing of hands, this dark ceiling without a star; not this loss of love repeating itself, like words weakly honed, like a life under revision.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09: 099
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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OLD MEN OF SKID ROW NOT THIS: Letter to a Son Magritte Exhibit  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

MARIE KAZALIA
Magritte Exhibit
cruised thru pretty fast too damn many people ran into a tour group femme docent loud in her simple-minded condescension disguised as education pass them and keep ahead out of hearing range my early childhood days constantly visiting the Toledo Museum of Art roaming hours amid art in galleries empty of other human beings experiences still remain foremost in my expectations so I'm always appalled by those crowds of eager idiots tourist families in shorts and t-shirts no style no sense of design or art what the fuck are they looking for here... the family groups the young trendy couples here for the doing companionship probably just want to say they've been they've seen the lone men (mostly) (except for me the only woman alone under my hat) stroll about arms folded over chest one hand on chin gesture of contemplating intellectuals? and of annoyance dressed in classic black suit and shiny shoes despise those about them those that step back or sideways bumping into us alone ones - the groups they occupy a protection one bad taste woman just stepped back too enthusiastically exhibiting her feeling of awkwardness at being here the way she looks not looking behind her ass in beige slacks stuck too close to my face I'm seated on a bench writing - she too obliging to move out of some other's way then a tall guy in short blue cotton shorts hairy thin legs stands too close to my seated eyes I feel some disgust to which of course he is oblivious - so many cameras on straps over shoulders around necks some carried by the some-kind of hip-ness to convince themselves and others they too are image (art) makers the few women well dressed are always with a man to tell them what to think how to act what to feel what to do where to go next at least have enough sense to avoid eye contact and sweeping analyzing looks that linger too long with surprise in their eyes more conservative women stare at me don't understand my style my reason to be here see in their eyes wondering about me looking and looking even when I return their gaze directly into their eyes semi-startled expectation in there's waiting for me to tell them something? explain myself provide answers to their questions - if they want that they'd have to buy my book of poetry and if they actually read my words still wouldn't get what I'm all about -
POETRYREPAIRS 12.09: 099
A. D. Winans : OLD MEN OF SKID ROW
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : NOT THIS: Letter to a Son
MARIE KAZALIA : Magritte Exhibit
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