KELLY JEAN WHITE : Your father and I were Siamese
JOHN HORVATH Jr : Old Kolto, the Checkers Master
SUSAN TERRIS : Is the Sun the Same as Yesterday's Or Is This Fire Different from That Fire?
POETRYREPAIRS v13.06:071
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Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner-city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA.  Her most recent books are TOXIC ENVIRONMENT (Boston Poet Press) and TWO BIRDS IN FLAME (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 PCA grant.

Your father and I were Siamese Old Kolto, the Checkers Master Is the Sun the Same as Yesterday's
Or Is This Fire Different from That Fire?


KELLY JEAN WHITE
Your father and I were Siamese
  Your father and I were Siamese twins one year which was not totally tasteless on his part as he is at least Asian but politically incorrect on mine. We thought it was fun. We wore coolie hats and 'borrowed' scrubsuits tied back to back. Couldn't see each other's point of view. Never should have turned around. 
POETRYREPAIRS 13.06:071
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Your father and I were Siamese Old Kolto, the Checkers Master Is the Sun the Same as Yesterday's
Or Is This Fire Different from That Fire?


JOHN HORVATH Jr 
Old Kolto, the Checkers Master 
I want not so much to be kinged as to crown my own, move freely back and forth. But each time I inch along my zig-zag course, I fret some careless move will mean an end to this and make me choose another forward way. We have played this game, old Kolto and I, at opposite ends of the table. I ask and he nods sometimes "yes," often "no." What am I to make of him? Centuries seem to play between us. He wishes my acts to mimic his, my words to mimic his old sputter. What have you mimicked in your time, old man? Sit at your end of the board; wait; I shall not wait; I'll have my turn. I'm told the old are often wise; but I say he envies my white garlic root planted in Spring for harvest two winters after - his and mine. There's no wisdom in his nodding, no sound in his shaking hand waiting to move against me. Do not wait too long; do not move too slowly. Snowing, old man, it is late. There is milk; there is bread; will you eat? Take this cup, kielich trucizny. Sleep, Uncle, sleep. Havazik, Bacsi, keso van. Tej van, kenjer van, es van. Take this cup from my hand. Alusz, Bacsi, alusz.
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Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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Your father and I were Siamese Old Kolto, the Checkers Master Is the Sun the Same as Yesterday's
Or Is This Fire Different from That Fire?


SUSAN TERRIS 
Is the Sun the Same as Yesterday's
Or Is This Fire Different from That Fire? 
1) MARMARIS: Inscape Morning sun chokes off the night-dark as water sparks against the hull and turquoise streaks ahead speaking of who I am or might be until I'm staring into a crazed mirror of the self and of you. This is an inscape with odd illumination and perception of deeper patterns. How long, my love, have we waited for the unity of sudden moments, hunch of dolphin and wake of sailfish, wedged between separation and solitude? Morning radiance strews messages of promise shadowed by dream leakage of night. Though I drink it in, I cannot quench my thirst. 2) CAUNOS: Broken Stones At noon, as heat assaults us and a fig tree twitches branch and leaf from a fissure of rock, I sit in the agora trying to decipher you and broken stones of the past. Upriver, the necropolis whispers that the last vanity of the dying is vanity, that root and water are ardent enough to split marble. Aware this fire will shudder into the cold of night, we tongue figs and let champagne grapes burst upon the palate. But still, though flesh of fig and purple-black grape sweetens your terror and mine, I cannot tell the ancient stones any more than I can tell you. 3) ANTALYA: A Jigsaw Half-Assembled You never worry that I am at sea as mist scrims islands and mountains into a puzzle of swell and sky and fir where mysteries fuse the half-assembled pieces. Soft-needled pines, rootbound to the cliffs, are a phalanx unmoved. But my fear is fragmented from today into the alien depths of tomorrow; and because you never worry about light, I do. All happiness is temporary madness with the dark embedded. You are a cunning magician who draws doves and sabers and words, but do you have spells to cure sun blindness caused by the shook fire of open sea? Can you change tomorrow? Can you save the light? A dove on a pine branch flutes a tune redolent with passion and sadness, his dropped feather, gray-white, the only quill to tell a story of shadowed romance. If you were here, I'd offer the feather and make you worry me through darkness into a hemisphere of opaled light.
*The title comes from Pable Neruda's BOOK OF QUESTIONS.
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KELLY JEAN WHITE : Your father and I were Siamese
JOHN HORVATH Jr : Old Kolto, the Checkers Master
SUSAN TERRIS : Is the Sun the Same as Yesterday's Or Is This Fire Different from That Fire?

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