poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:074
NORMAN J. OLSON : childhood memory of the farm
STEVEN CROSS : clearing trees
D.B.COX : Exit
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NORMAN J. OLSON
childhood memory of the farm
I remember how the fields of oats would roll in waves on a windy day, like waves on the ocean that I had never seen… how the sun was hot on dust packed by the alternating vee of tread marks from the huge driving wheels of the tractor… the smoothness of the packed dirt like some ultra-silk spun from loam and cosmic fire…   I remember black and red chickens scratching in the gravel   I remember the hay barn with space between the vertical boards where rows of sunlight brought motes of dust into visibility, slicing through the gloom… old hay soft underfoot and rough hewn beams notched and assembled up to the roof unimaginably distant to my young blue eyes

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:074

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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NORMAN J. OLSON, a Minnesota poet, is also the last of the 'beatnik artists' whose work (much of which erotic) often graces the cover of poetryrepairs.com OLSON is well-known for his art and for his poetry and prose sketches of life.

Olson's 'childhood memory of the farm' subtly reflects on the oppositions in a boy's life as he enters young adulthood when, likely , he will be driven by opposing forces. --ed

STEVEN CROSS
Clearing Trees
The dismembered limbs of the old oak trees piled in a heap are wooden bones bleaching in the summer's heat. The killers stack corpses in haphazard piles and set them ablaze. The wood screams for days as smoke licks bare skin and stench rises in the wind. Between rows of dead trees Pastures gleam. Dozers steam. Their steel teeth chews, stained green from the kill. Roots ripped clean from the clay, the slaughter is complete.

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:074

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

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D.B.COX Exit
"Even death will have exits like a dark theatre" --- Charles Bukowski
  I.   Too spent to calculate the sum of scattered thoughts, he sits bent forward, hands folded in front of his face, like that Sunday school painting of Jesus in the garden, praying for a way out.   He'll spend the little time left holding to slippery half-truths, trying to convince himself that he did what he had to do.   Pushed to the edge, he lost all balance & stumbled into a hole so deep there was no way to gauge the fall.   Suddenly, as if stunned by his own desperation, his body shudders & a short moan, like the parting sound of hope, escapes from some dark place very near his soul.   Just to be moving, he gets to his feet & walks to the small cell window, where he watches a thin cloud slowly shroud the half-moon.   In his head, he begins to gather fractured images, struggling to frame the still distorted scene… II.   …Standing just out of range of the street lamp, he eyes a cab as it crawls along an otherwise deserted avenue.   His attention shifts to a small, unlit house on the corner. When he spots the beat-up blue Chevy, that belongs to her new friend still sitting in the driveway, something close to a smile plays along his face.   Every lousy little detail, behind those cheap curtains, burned, by time, into his brain: every corner, every crack in the floor, every angry scar on every faded wall, every broken glass, & every broken promise.   Every meaningless minute spent begging mercy for every wrong thing.   Feeling strangely numb, his hand moves against the cool metal of the .45 tucked inside his jacket pocket. Somewhere, a lost dog howls…   Slowly, as if on cue, he lets a spent cigarette drop from his left hand, steps from the curb, & is taken, like a wind-blown bird, into the crazy night…   III.   …No last words   He lays flat on his back, arms & legs strapped tight to the contemporary cross.   Staring straight up into an overhead light, he fights hard to stay awake as the fatal fix roars, like an express train, through his veins.   For the first time in weeks things slow down enough to allow his brain to latch onto a clear thought…   Still, no answers, only one last question…   Jesus, if you're real, & can look through this concrete & steel.   After having seen what you've seen, & knowing what you know,   can you still stand by that altruistic suicide?

from poetryrepairs 04.04:45
poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:074

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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poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:074
NORMAN J. OLSON : childhood memory of the farm
STEVEN CROSS : clearing trees
D.B.COX : Exit

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