JOHN GREY : Nightmarish
DAVID BARNES : Central Station
ALAN CATLIN : Henry Miller in Paris After Dark
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10:111
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

for mature audience over 18 BACK

John Grey, an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, "What Fears Become"with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon.

Nightmarish Central Station Henry Miller in Paris After Dark


JOHN GREY
Nightmarish
You dream of confetti, wedding gown, tuxedo, being tossed into an open pit. And an old country store. its shelves stocked with poisons. And a child burning in an open field, surrounded by men in masks. No wonder you toss and turn. Your floundering wakes me from a cruise on the Mediterranean on a warm sunny day in June. But you don't escape from the giant falcon's bloody grip until morning. You have these nightmares but I have yours as well. You slip from reality to the worst it could be and back again. I go from that same commonplace to better than it has any right to get until, without warning, I'm shaken out of bliss, must report as spectator to your troubled sleep. So a nightmare can be sheer hell. Or maybe heaven jerked out from under the imagination. Ultimately, we arrive at the same place despite our unconscious differences. Come daylight, you hug me for meaning you no harm. I hug you for the harm that does.
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10:111
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

FIND home

Nightmarish Central Station Henry Miller in Paris After Dark


DAVID BARNES
Central Station
They say most of the brain closes down under stress ... Hearing Beethoven's ninth, taking backstreets in your mind: and it's arduous facing reality, hunters nearby, impassive, at Perth Central station, listening, for the clatter on tracks, at midnight ... unnerved ... aware ... clockwork orange ticks close at hand, hovering to strike ... the brain kicks into survival mode, tense on the dais, Waiting... hoping the Samaritan on the road to Jerusalem is around ... after midnight ...
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10: 111
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

guidelines INDEX



Nightmarish Central Station Henry Miller in Paris After Dark


ALAN CATLIN
Henry Miller in Paris After Dark
Not the man with the crushed felt hat reflected in the bistro mirrors eyes interrupted by absinthe, tongue stilled and swollen at the lips whispering in the deaf ear of a bored lady of the night. Not the man seen partially clad, straddling the naked woman whose arms are raised in mid-air not touching his damp white shirt unhooked suspenders dangling, astray or the carved headboard behind then, independent of the act, not touching anything at all. Nor is he among the men struggling beneath the bridge, swathed in the skins and rinds of garbage, eyes bloated, blinkered as moles are reaching for an uncorked bottle of vin rouge. Perhaps, he is the solitary man smoking, standing on cobblestones, shadowed by gas light and vapors escaping from the sewers below, his writing a sleepwalking through insomnia, fully clothed for the ardors of loving that comes with each step in the night.
POETRYREPAIRS #193 13.10: 111
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JOHN GREY : Nightmarish
DAVID BARNES : Central Station
ALAN CATLIN : Henry Miller in Paris After Dark


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