#216 15,08:095

RAY SUCCRE : Or He was a Woman, or Bag of Numbers, or
ANJANA BASU : Grey Horse
WARD KELLEY : The Emperor Decides to Kill Catherine

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

Or He was a Woman, or Bag of Numbers, or Thinking Prow...

Perhaps he was a dog, snout shoved glove-like into old fish. Or perhaps he was a four-stringer propped up on a tavern stage. The bottom end. A clean, dirty man. Or goat. Or cough-matrix. Or perhaps he was a syntax, brackets around his conventions, parenthetical, a fuckhead bibliographing himself in lovers. Or perhaps he was edible, and the one, eerie carnivore, or wilting over toast, a limp cheese sheet sweating from warmth in a distinguishable sloppiness. Or perhaps he was an old shack, or a lime-sour pig, or a picket-beaked gobbler, or not, and perhaps his days merely fell like louse-tracks through an old scalp's grungy ravines. Perhaps he was appealing; sterile or plumbed or richly decayed, but still lusciously present as a chicken butcher, firework, or some a blanket-sniffing bee from the hot, short grass. He did not know, nor would he ever; when he lived was who he was, and the hum of uncertainty was exhilarating.

from featured poet RAY SUCRE, poetryrepairs v12.04
POETRYREPAIRS #216 v15,08:095

Grey Horse

Big grey wonder, gathered as a cloud And when the cloud bursts, torn apart Instead of thunder, the pounding of hoofs With lightning energy. Grey cloud travelling fast In the wind, tossed through the hair of the storm The sunlit rider tossed on the travelling mountain. Invincible the cloud, the thunder coming closer To burst after dark into a sunlit day A promise of glory in the iron gray cloud. The promise faltered, was torn apart The spurt of speed in vain Storm dying with the painting of a wonder That no brush stroke captured Grey horse with clouded hide fallen Stained with green and torn to shreds The thunder gone No mountains move in animation before our eyes The game goes on.

POETRYREPAIRS #216 v15,08:095

The Emperor Decides to Kill Catherine

I cannot compel myself to make reason of her. Why does she squander so many hours of each finite day, so many hours spent ministering to dead persons? She prays most of the day to people who are dead, saints of this odd sect . . . She should bestow this time on me, give me this ardent attention. For I can surely fulfill the role of saint; I can give her answers to any question she might ask about living and dying. Certainly an emperor knows more about these shades of man and woman than a dead person, and I could make her body feel much more riveted than any stirrings that words of prayer can provide. Yet . . . I fear her stubbornness whispers to me how all our gods are now dead -- our gods who lived forever and received our own most piercing, but misplaced, desires to live forever with them . . . our gods! So now, do all gods, once so omnipotent, fall dead somewhere in the progress of time?

poet's note: Catherine of Alexandria, (circa 213?), was a Roman Catholic saint, whose beauty so impressed the Roman Emperor Maximian that he offered to overlook her refusal to sacrifice to the gods if she would only submit to his desires. Catherine rejected his overtures, saying she was already the bride of Christ, and even converted the fifty philosophers Maximian convened to change her mind. The emperor beheaded the philosophers, then attempted to have Catherine broken on a spiked wheel, however it miraculously shattered. Instead Maximian had her beheaded, yet when he did, milk flowed from her severed neck. Where this tale was highly popular in the medieval West, most historians think it is probable Catherine never existed. Joan of Arc, though, did not concur with such skeptics; Catherine was one of the three saints Joan claimed appeared to her to offer advice in her military endeavors.

POETRYREPAIRS #216 v15,08:095

thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v15/095.html

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

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

from featured poet RAY SUCRE, poetryrepairs v12.04

the first international poet on poetryrepairs was ANJANA BASU from Kolkat India. Our readers enjoy a static moment taken from a greater motion.

among our first new poets was Ward Kelley whose historical poems (with notes) pleased our readers. His poetry and books are now widely read.

contents home TOP