poetryrepairs #205 14.10:114
VERNON WARING : Still Life
NICK BRUNO : The Art of Poetic Cleansing
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : Decades Away, the Checkered Flag
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VERNON WARING
Still Life
I watch you sleeping there, so pale against the stark white sheet, your long hair, a fine, light brown spreading over the pillow's edge. Night has arrived and peopled this plain room with crisp shadows. From this breeze that moves but does not cool, the drapes seem to be in flight, their nondescript design unraveling against the dark walls. I light a candle and the glow flickers and dances across your lovely face. For a moment, I'm remembering your eyes, very blue, dark, intense, like shimmering diamonds mined from the bitter earth. Softly you breathe, the air rising gently from your nostrils, your head resting against the pillow, your hand relaxing on your abdomen, rising, falling, like a gentle wave. Your other hand is at your side and the fingers are raised, poised, and my eyes stare gravely at the ring you wear. It is strangely chipped, scratched, but even in its imperfection, it has a certain affinity for your hand. It will rain soon and the sound will rouse you and you will see me sitting here, calm, in control, alert as a sentry on guard and even if you would awaken abruptly and see me gazing at you in silence, you would instantly remember me from another time, a time marked by troubling dreams unfolding endlessly, dreams set in this same stifling, airless house where we now wait together, wait for the rain to begin, soaking the drapes, leaping in fury, twisting, hiding, submitting, surrendering to the bleak clear vision of an open sky. I observe you now in repose, as if you were a photograph, frozen, static, captured in a second, without past or future, just you there, leaving me here at your side, peering at the bed, lifting my eyes, struggling to see you in this hollow room. With tears blinding, I rise, stumble, sob, kiss the cold stone floor and watch you resting there, so pale, so terribly pale, and still, so very still, against the stark white sheet.

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:114

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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NICK BRUNO
The Art of Poetic Cleansing
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool. - John Lennon
The ivy glistens with the morning rain as he clambers up the latticework to the leering spire; above the leaves' reach the looking down is considerable and always fashionable. The climb up is precarious, but he feels well worth the view of the nose hairs, inches away from parietal lobe near the purported crux of their industry. His quick ascent causes the crack of link beneath his feet. The slimy leaves slip from his grasp and he falls head-long onto the sedges below. The surge of pain deadens his senses. He wakes inside a room filled with wall-papered words; succumbs to the tug of creative urgency, but does not know where to look or what letters to choose. He stares at them so long that they crisscross on the rods and cones of inverted logic ingraining themselves on retinal banks the walls of ars poetica purged to white.

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:114

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

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ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE Decades Away, the Checkered Flag
At fifty, you'll need to decide how to spend the second half of your life. The first is recorded on your skin; the second half can only grow deeper. You can't be a dyed woman, a shuffling woman soft and curved into a petal just before it drops off the stem. You've seen a handful of driven women stride into oldness the way you plan to, and you can follow their footsteps, which are boot prints, compass in hand instead of a paper fan. Pockets replace purses, life stripped to essentials; working muscles sheathe the body. Frame trued. Brain well-lubed, desire still fires and backfires, and you're not afraid to use the horn. Step on the gas, old girl. Make it a race from the post to the ghost line. Big finish. Big finish.


poetryrepairs #205 14.10:114

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.



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VERNON WARING : Still Life
NICK BRUNO : The Art of Poetic Cleansing
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : Decades Away, the Checkered Flag

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