poetryrepairs #196 14.01:011
MARION de VOS : Autumn Requiem
KAREN MANDELL : Mother and Son
JARRETT FULTON : Days of Yesterday
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Autumn Requiem
In my colour-blazed eyes, the first flakes of snow douse the flamboyant finery of foliage. Flocks of Yellow-rumped Warblers and Goldfinches flee before my feet and from my sight. How many falls will you still honour? Waning red smeared across the Robin's breast lights up a last time among wild berry trees where gorging Cardinals and Cedar Waxwings show off a picture of a perfect Christmas. How many falls will you still honour? Higher up, on mountain slopes, ashy- coloured Spruces, for their winter stage already powdered, match the coat of the Dark-eyed Junco, the Grey Catbird wears his weathered cap in anticipation. How many falls will you still honour? White-tailed Deer come slowly down the hazy hills, leave the Black Bear to prepare for winter sleep, find a cave or dig a burrow under sheltering roots, Blue Jays hide their winter stock from the prying Squirrels. How many falls will you still honour? Seduced by the whirling wind, flurrying seedpods unleash their cotton wool, iridescent hues shiver in a rain-brushed spider web under the last rays of autumn sun. How many falls will you still honour? Rejoice, rejoice, my friends before the storm urges the volatile tide and the last call of Trumpeter Swans and Canada Geese sounds over your heads. How many falls will you still honour?
poetryrepairs #196 14.01:011
All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

Mother and Son
Your father and I listen as you tell us that you're torn between music and writing; notes and letters spin around you, nudge up against you crying pick me, pick me like the millions of cats in the storybook we read when you were three. When you despair, saying you have no musical talent, not really, I jump in, you do you do, you're the best, brandishing words like the toy broom I used to sweep monsters out from under the bed. I have lost the ability to comfort. You tell me I know nothing about your music– I can make no judgments. You're right of course. I sit in your kitchen, blinking, powerless. I want to squeeze you back in time through the eye of the needle, make you small. Then you let me believe I could fix, make better. Maybe lies even then. But I'd say, if you want to go out you have to put on your jacket. And you did. I zipped it up, making sure the metal didn't touch your neck. I pulled on your navy stocking cap, I made sure your socks weren't too small, your waffles too cold, your hands too dirty, your hair too greasy. I placed shields around you, talismans, warded off the evil eye. I was very busy. Now I fold my hands across the empty bag of my body. I want to do for you. Words my own mother used, generations of women, standing one behind the other in sagging rows. I rise, push in my chair, and get in line.
poetryrepairs #196 14.01:011
I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Days of Yesterday
I lie in this cell; my dead brother sits there adjacent, I killed him for his wife And his revenge is all too placid Those devilish eyes seem to laugh I cannot stand it!
Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary


poetryrepairs #196 14.01:011
MARION de VOS : Autumn Requiem
KAREN MANDELL : Mother and Son
JARRETT FULTON : Days of Yesterday
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