poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:055
SAM VAKNIN : Prague at Dusk
JUDY HOGAN : THIS SACRED WAY [21 September 2008]
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Not A Poem
This is not a poem about unrequited love             not a poem about the changing of the seasons,                                                babbling brooks,                                                cloudless skies,                                                English gardens in full bloom             not a poem about setting suns, starry skies,                                          full moons, glittering galaxies             not a poem about absent fathers, weepy mothers or                                          your cranky old Aunt Clara in the attic                                          plotting your death while her dentures                                          soak in a fizzy Polident bath cup             not a poem about the existence or non-existence of                                          a Supreme Being             not a poem about when you abandoned your children                                          or when your children abandoned you             not a poem about poverty, social isolation,                                          the Holocaust, war, the evils of                                          capitalism, the specter of injustice,                                          the injustice of inequality, the                                          inequality of injustice or any other                                          word attached to the prefix "in"             not a poem about sexual conquest, dry or wet dreams,                                          the effects of liquor or drugs on                                          one's libido             not a poem that uses the f-word, the s-word, the c-word                                                     ...or any of the other                                                     objectionable words used                                                     to "front" the remaining                                                     letters of the alphabet             This             is             clearly             a             poem             about what is             not a poem

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:055

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

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Prague at Dusk
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do. It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her. And the pain was strong.

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:055

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

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SAM VAKNIN - author of Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited and After the Rain - How the West Lost the East = is a columnist for Central Europe Review, PopMatters, and eBookWeb, and a United Press International (UPI) Senior Business Correspondent. Vaknin edits mental health and Central East Europe categories in The Open Directory and Suite101.

JUDY HOGAN This Sacred Way [21 September 2008]
The cost of a thing is how much life is exchanged for it. –Henry David Thoreau,Walden
The equinox air cools the fruit, slows both ripening and decay. Summer breathes out her relief, hitches her skirt above the knee-high grasses and retreats to a forest glade to doze. She'll rouse later, when the leaves shimmer gold and red, to warm the late figs and raspberries. I let her go, welcome chilly mornings, early dark. The turning earth, revolving sun are friends to my old age. Not everyone who adds years adds wisdom, but the earth does if we know how to read her. What does it mean to align oneself with the Universe's rhythms, to serve God, to know oneself, to love wisdom, to be like water? The answer resides in the daily rituals of listening, serving, giving, adapting to change–some barely perceptible, some sudden, catastrophic. I feel my frailty more these years, but my limbs are sound and whole. My work in garden, orchard feeds all my hungers and keeps me universe-aligned. This yellow blaze of September suns along the roadside companions my daily walk to keep all my moving parts working smoothly. They make any way sacred with their artless beauty, their earth-rooted light. Our future is unknowable because we shape our fate. Even catastrophe can be molded into a way of loving and learning. May everyone and everything teach me. Then my every thought and act will count in the long history of the Universe. I'll be an indisputably important grain of sand.

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:055

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

to read a poem is
to rest during life's journey - JH


SAM VAKNIN : Prague at Dusk
JUDY HOGAN : THIS SACRED WAY [21 September 2008]

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