poetryrepairs #203 14.08:089
AUSTIN ALEXIS : Missing Poem
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Letter E
In my beginning is my end T. S. Elliot 
  Letter E turned in circles spiraled through colored nothingness and landed on Earth It clashed with oxygen and hydrogen, rode in the middle of trees and seas, embraced elements of a sphere, and was crowned as Emperor of Existence and Evolution.   It traveled to the end of life and emerged with the enchanting Eve, merged into name, personality, destiny, and towards the end of money headed for mere adversity.   It made a nest in love, eroded in hate, but kept a vigil after “w” and before 'dding”.   In desire, it went after “S” and before “X” then slept tight in the middle of each.   When separated from “We” it sadly marched to the end of divorce-e   Surprisingly, it was pushed between “Fun” and “Ral” to rest in between till eternity. It began Existence entered life, rolled up and down and sadly fell into death.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:089

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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As a child, I fooled the trembling priest, pretending to be a stripper in the memory bar. I carried cupcakes to men in business suits at long glass tables. His hand on my arm, he overlooked my faulty wisdom, so young, so ancient, how I confused death with nowhere to go. My mother had a yellow parrot that remembered Polish jokes. They'd stare beyond the silver window as if it were a crime to be stranded, tiny nuns without hunger or memory, just ugly hats and jam tarts for tea. Their surprised shoulders were forever twisted and defenseless. This story is really about Death, his unsightly head grinning at us. He comes in the middle of a sentence, perched at the window with his long knife. Because we cannot imagine, we forget he is well-fed, but he knows our names. Arrives to walk us to the fragrant, jeweled desert.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:089

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

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TERRY WOLVERTON is the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, most recently Wounded World: lyric essays about our spiritual disquiet. WOKVERTON is Affiliate Faculty of the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University.

What happened to that poem, the long, skinny one, the one I wrote seven years ago, the one about ice skating? In that far-off poetry, the ice glistened like African waterfalls. I've seen photos of those falls jewel-shining in equatorial sun. The ice-rink ice in Central Park likewise doesn't know how to turn-off its blaze. My poem captured its exciting gleam. But that poem is lost, escaped, somehow gone from my folder, desk, computer. "Return to me," I demand. The air is crazy with excessive silence. Maybe poems die or are killed and voyage to an afterlife. Maybe there's a heaven and a hell for good and bad poems. In that case my absent poem, transcending the earth-bound, might have found a Home and its syllables, no longer a poem, are a prayer.

poetryrepairs #203 14.08:089

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.


AUSTIN ALEXIS : Missing Poem

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