poetryrepairs 15,06:071

CAROL SHILLIBEAR : Eurdyice Running For the Pass
CAROL SHILLIBEAR : jump
ANDREW MACARTHUR : Canto Jondo

for your reading pleasure, verse
from new and established poets
poetry requires a mature audience,
if you are under 18 years of age, click here Big Fish


CAROL SHILLIBEER
Eurdyice Running For the Pass

Late Monday and dark is falling but light still breaks the sky over the road to the east. Floating from the west, the dark grey jowls of the dying sky jitter and spit, try to follow me past the mountain's spine, track me out over the wide gold fields, state's dry yellow tongue, but only a few deep black pillowed clouds can keep up, keep in front of the drying wind. Rain sputtered against the hills all day. In the slip stream of the car rabbit brush flicked yellow, shaking out the unaccustomed shower. From ridges, wet tunneled down to the belly of the plateau, toward the Columbia, rills, rivulets, old basalt scars bubbling again. A coyote streaked by leaving a vapour trail. Slap and tingle, rain at high speed, an open window, the smell of sage curled over the hood and tumbled like Chaplin bonelessly into the back seat. But with all that, it was only the horizon that grinned. Under the lip of an eastern scout cloud a wedge of rainbow showed south and another to the north. Widely spaced coloured teeth; down its throat, over the lip of the eastern horizon— oh to be swallowed by the world!

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:071





CAROL SHILLIBEER
jump

down fly on a great wind, jump the cliff on wings, leg sticks and arm rudder the arrow down ignoring the current that birds know but open arms and the red silk suit underarm net, crotch air catch and you will glide … on what … that gull knows empty air is never empty

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:071





ANDREW MACARTHUR
Canto Jondo

You know your saints because they keep dying. Catching the balls the juggler keeps dropping, Jesus, you must be just as good as the Juggler. Garcia Lorca is the blue guitar Playing the Deep Song at blood weddings. My guts are purple roses- My guts are bloody pearls defeated Moors, exiled Jews Singing the songs of Gypsies stealing when at last the matador drops the bull to his knees with one thrust. In the stony country there is heard the sound of cattle lowing. Lorca is dead. I am a block of ice crushing a pebble- I am a black stone on a white stone You know your saints because they keep dying. Christ, catching the balls the juggler keeps dropping, You must be just as good as the juggler. Cesar Vallejo is the reef of reed-pipes playing the Deep Song in mountain citadels. Singing the songs of conquered Incas Singing the songs of runaway slaves Singing the songs of soldiers deserting The Ebro crossed and Madrid falling, in Peruvian passes then is heard the sound of flutes whistling Cesar Vallejo is dead. And this is the Deep Song.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:071







thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v15/071.html
link to POETRYREPAIRS




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







Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT @ http://www.zazzle.com/poetryrepairshop







No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs.



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



free counters



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. -- Oxford English Dictionary







READ MORE POETRY








TOP