poetryrepairs #205 14.10:117
VERNON WARING : Like Voices Rising
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : Last Night in New Orleans
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Like Voices Rising
When the poet dies his grandchildren may only know him from memory someone who used to hug them tickle them  give them fresh dollar bills on their birthdays someone to tell them what his youth was like when he lived it Will they read his poems and stories his published works  now relegated to a box languishing somewhere in the heat and dust of a storage space just stuff in a box marked MISCELLANEOUS a carton among many cartons right behind a half dozen hefty bags pregnant with forms, statements, bills, things he never quite got around to shredding? Maybe he should have composed an opera with the singers' voices rising like beautiful pink angels in a heavenly choir, a celebration where the audience would stand up and shout "BRAVO!" - a sound so triumphant so unique even the gods would bow  in reverence

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:117

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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 Last Night in New Orleans
the balmy breeze is enough rapture in the Quarter, boosted above Bourbon and St. Peter. Nothing before so sweet as the last shaving of dark chocolate, last lick of biegnet and brulot from my polished lips, the last night held in bursting cacophony of rubboard, accordion and drum, fingers sprinting keys, high hatted mule drawn carriage spinning the pavement, syncopated tap of one child's weighted shoes, the click and clang of silver hitting the pavement. But I forget, in the last night\ the fact of night - taverns selling a savour of flesh, shake and twist and spread of thigh, arm, leg, old time hoochie coo; forget the staggered street, men with hard hands full of Hurricanes whispering dahlin'cheree to any passing fancy, forget tattered brown children practice creole art with a scuff and shuffle of the foot, beseech the good 'ol boys southern tradition, toss us a little somethin' mistah. In the last lick of it, I forget, wrestle this lagniappe from the crescent moon, print each postcard with a goodnight kiss: in the Big Easy, laissez les bon temps rouller.

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:117

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
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An inflection of shattered visions- Now dust bunnies in the corners of the porch. Recollections, distinct and thumping, crawling deep inside the walls. Free fall onto frozen, bladed ground and gasp for gods to gage, Sun to shine and melt. Move less, still, while shadows float and dance. While Nothing is bothered or touched, And Green goddess stalks stab the sky. Baffled beauty turns to Battered beats that call to us at night. The sun just waits to Warm And come, the next day soon, so Ground can sleep and dream of better things to do than hold us up.

poetryrepairs #205 14.10:117

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.


VERNON WARING : Like Voices Rising
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : Last Night in New Orleans

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