poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:060
ROBERT J. STOUT : Break Up
CHRIS AGUILAR : Time To Slow Down
AURORA ANTONOVIC : Critiques and Croissants
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ROBERT J. STOUT

Break Up
Why he chose Oaxaca few people understood. He could have remained with friends (dating even) seeing her now and then at art openings or at parties of people they both knew. Perhaps he simply wanted to be alone, or at his age to act like a boy again, speak Spanish, take walks, sit in little street-side cafes face everything to come with a knowing smile.

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:060

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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CHRIS AGUILAR

Time To Slow Down
"It's a taste of this new life", Says the man in the cage. Maybe I'll settle for nights in the moonlight, I get so tired of all of this decay. So maybe I'll leave from here, Go beyond all that I know. Maybe I have been hard on you- I never meant to rest here this long, So I am on my way. Got ten fingers to count with, A bed to rest my head on at night, Tuna in the fridge in case I get hungry, 40 ounces of courage And glory to get me through. Maybe we can talk about the things that are really on your mind. You never thought I would turn to stone, That I would turn my head And go on home, I'll shut my mouth, I'm ready now, Ready to lie down. Got so many good intentions, So many ideas in my head, I don't want to waste all of this, And pretend that my mind is dead.

poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:060

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

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AURORA ANTONOVIC

Critiques and Croissants
We sit in the coffee shop where he slowly butters his croissant as he speaks emotionlessly about how sick he is of poetry I clasp my red parcel of works to my chest holding back disappointment and the urge to tell him that fourth latte is not good for him He bemoans his very successful career telling me all the tragedies that will befall each of us in life sorrow is no respecter of persons, apparently I hang onto every word although I sadden more with each new revelation he has to offer until he reaches out a hand fingers shiny with butter "Let me see them, Little One" He takes the red parcel from me, carefully and thoughtfully reading each poem with the patience he put into buttering his croissant "Is good," he concludes, "But never say what can be implied". Quickly, he slashes out mistakes with his ever present nubby pencil He does in seconds what I could not do in three nights He leaves his mark on my poetry, More visible than that of the oily fingerprints left behind With his act of kindness Even though he is sick of poetry. He makes his mark on my poetry As visibly as the oily fingerprints he has left behind He smiles sadness But leaves gladness in my heart With his act of kindness Even though he is sick of poetry


poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:060

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



MERCEDES WEBB-PULLMAN
#199 The Fidel Suite
http://www.poetryrepairs/v14/c04.html

SUE LITTLETON
#201 Sueko Haiku
issue #201 2014.06

TOP

ROBERT J. STOUT : Break Up
CHRIS AGUILAR : Time To Slow Down
AURORA ANTONOVIC : Critiques and Croissants

thank you for reading poetryrepairs #200 v14.05:060
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