poetryrepairs #204 14.09:098
SAM VAKNIN : Getting Old
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Rumpled afternoon, cloud bellies climb the feathered breeze, inching upward can you see them rise? Wisps hum in the glass-walled room, make their slow escape. Without the faint wine of father's tears, without grandmother's weave of hair, I drift into warped sky, bring you blue medicine lilies for supper. After the comedy of weather, after a snowstorm of roses, after the tornado of bees, there is pity for the sunny day. After the squeeze of years, we watch this threadbare fishtank with god's broken eyes.

poetryrepairs #204 14.09:098

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

I wouldn't mind returning as a moth. Not a flamboyant butterfly--the thought of being caught in a net, my wings dried, mounted, and displayed at an international butterfly convention makes me shudder. Just a plain brown moth with two desires: for light and for cloth. But not any old light; only a flame or bare bulb. And not any old fabricated cloth-- no acetate or polyester, no bare fibers, nothing so worn it tastes bitter and salty. A carnivore to the core, I'd feast on wool, the best Shetland ever sheared, fine wool from the backs of Merinos, cashmere, alpaca, llama fleece. Wool from which all fat has been scoured, tangles and riffraff snipped, the carded fiber spun, woven, shaped to luxurious sweaters and vests. Then the banquet-- wings passing through slits of quilted bags presumed to be tightly zipped, mouth consuming the clothes of the most gifted and filthiest rich. Each night I would suck and bite my fill, making holes whose ragged edges resembled the sprouts that poke from old potatoes, so many holes more gap remains than sweater and the once regal jacket looks like a net for a basketball hoop. I would feed on the fibers until the first chill, then fly off without looking back, like the bombardiers over Dresden, Nagasaki, London, Cologne.

15 years ago: vMM.09
poetryrepairs #204 14.09:098

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 Getting Old
The sageing flesh, a wrinkled vicedom. The veined reverberation of a life consumed. On corneas imprinted with a thousand dreams, now stage penumbral plays directed by a sight receding and a brain enraged. To fall, as curtains call, to bow the last, rendered a sepia image in a camera obscured, a line of credits, fully exhausted, fully endured.

from poetryrepairs v04.09
poetryrepairs #204 14.09:098

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.

SAM VAKNIN: author of Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited and After the Rain; How the West Lost the East. He is a columnist for Central Europe Review, PopMatters, and eBookWeb, a United Press International (UPI) Senior Business Correspondent, and the editor of mental health and Central East Europe categories in The Open Directory and Suite101. Until recently, he served as the economic advisor to the government of Macedonia. Visit Sam's Web site


SAM VAKNIN : Getting Old

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