poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:054
TERRY WOLVERTON : Not Well
AURORA ANTONOVIC : New York Cocktail Party
WILLIAM DORESKI : Buffalo Plaid
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TERRY WOLVERTON

Not Well
Enema or lobotomy? What will be enough to ease the ache of migraine or loneliness? Can we unmake the rain in her knees, remove the dark lump of her heart? Do we dismantle the liver's fire, lightning in her breast? Can she vomit out the itch until she's innocent, bury her disastrous expectations? A shot might settle her sleet, but what will blanket an anger deep as night? She'll pretend to mother the plummeting nightmare, hope lies can burn through dawn. She'll follow the melting coffin, sing sweet ground. Now imagine your hand on earth's body, praising the wasted house.

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:054

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

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



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TERRY WOLVERTON -Affiliate Faculty of the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University - has authored ten books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, most recently Wounded World: lyric essays about our spiritual disquiet.
COMMENT on "Not Well": a powerful poem but its first line made me smile at a bit of humor --JH



AURORA ANTONOVIC
New York Cocktail Party
In a sea of little black numbers And perfectly coiffed bobs I am the Only one Wearing red silk And long, misbehaving curls. In panic, I say to you, "I am the only one not in black!" You smile, lean forward, Kiss my neck And wickedly whisper, "I know!"

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:054

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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WILLIAM DORESKI
Buffalo Plaid
Stoic in buffalo plaid, our host regards me the way he regarded the elk mounted above his fieldstone fireplace the moment before he shot it. He snatches the single-malt scotch from my grasp and uncorks it with one quick gesture, wringing it like a chicken neck. He directs this mayhem at you, not me, his lust flowing over, foaming on his lip. He didn't expect you to bring me to his party. He didn't foresee his favorite scotch arriving in my rough and clumsy male grip. We chat about hunting and sex, how one excites the other. I despise hunting but accept his hirsute self-portrayal the way one accepts vanity in a purebred cocker spaniel. He would shoot me on the spot if he hadn't invited a pair of state police detectives to drink at his wet bar staffed with bunnies from the last functioning Playboy Club in Chicago. You've told him about my years in Africa, my stint as a minor-league catcher. He appreciates these lies and drinks to me and himself and the buffalo plaid we both wear in honor of your sultry past and the present tense we've shattered under burly waterproof boots only the thickest men can wear.



poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:054

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



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TERRY WOLVERTON : Not Well
AURORA ANTONOVIC : New York Cocktail Party
WILLIAM DORESKI : Buffalo Plaid

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