poetryrepairs #203 14.08:088
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : This is a Poem for My Father
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Time and space contract and expand. Regrettably, you will not be able to attend.  Reach for the stars instead: touch the nethermost regions of your terrific synapses: take yoga.  You owe it to yourself.  You owe it to us.   The stroke of a pen is mighty, mightier, mightiest.  Retaliate thought control; joke with the mind bender. Ask yourself if this is what you really want.  Talk to trees, your baby if you have one, and yourself. Take a deep breath and write your to-do list, or just wait there at the table, at the keyboard, until   the line materializes.  The lines stretch, reaching throughout eternity: infinite. Accept the inevitable and plan it out. Think before you speak by drafting. The blueprints and the graph paper or drawing paper just stares at you.   This passageway has been around for centuries. Receive its rustic appearance as a call to all that is holy. Advice does not always come easily. Toplessness is usually inadvisable.  Trees topple.  Lumberjacks say 'timber.' Once upon a time we had a forest.   The first artist, like the first man, revealed his features, drew the lines a stroke at a time.  It's not just cute to mention it or to pay it some mind. Time is willing and adjustable. I love the wind in the trees, who doesn't?

from poetryrepairs archives
poetryrepairs #203 14.08:088

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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Speak Low
  We could speak poetry language languid with eloquence and charm evoking meanings far beyond common conversation's command.   Spin me your dreams and inspirations Call out my essence to imbibe meditation Lean mean serene obscene we careen through floor and ceiling in dramatic semantic scenes ecstatic play   Speak low, my wondrous love Echo within the interstice of heart and mind Lift magic's metaphoric blind Find that dance of pure enchantment only poetry conjures.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:088

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

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ANDRENA ZAWINSKI This is a Poem for My Father
..There is my past which is really past... --from There Is by Guillaume Apollinaire There are my feet in cotton socks on your toes. There is a Patti Page waltz, my wing bone arms at your waist. There I am with you, bathed in light. I hold on tight. We are dancing. There is long ago and long to come. There is a flutter of leaves on a speechless breeze. There is a wind moving in, in an echo of motion and chatter. There are clouds in the sky I search for your face. There are strangers a blur in the crowd, a hum heavy with voices. There is who you have become, your face a face in the crowd, one of many faces on a vendor selling lace from a stall at Les Puces de Paris Saint Ouen, on the lips of a Tunisian eating chorizo in baguettes at Gare St-Lazare, on the ferry captain's arms at Pont de Neuf carrying me down the Seine, on the soldier riding the train watching sunflowers grapple the fields, on the old man's hands rolling balls across Coquille Square on a gypsy boy I tossed coins for a look at your amber eyes on his face on that Morrocan, Bastille Day, just off Rue St-Antoine. In the street, we were dancing. There are words pressed into my fingertips brushing your cheek. There is me missing all that you might have become. You are large. There is you looming above me wrapped by your muscled arms, and dancing. There is your heart beating hard inside my chest wall. There is time passing through me like a conduit. There is long ago. There is long to come. There is this past that is really past. There is me, without you.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:088

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. -- O.E.D.


ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : This is a Poem for My Father

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