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Six Nights of Poetry

Six Nights of Poetry

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Published by writerhari

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Published by: writerhari on Dec 14, 2009
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01/13/2013

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Six Nights of Poetry
ORNAMENTAL FROG—Joyce Odam,In a small green sink-jarfilled with water andgray river stonesI keepan old glass frogwith one foot missing—happy there,I think.***INVISIBLE—Jeanine Stevens, SacramentoThe day I becameinvisible, I walkedinto a small photoshop, rang a bellfor service, no onecame. I stoppedto visit a colleagueon campus, studentsswarmed around him,I slipped out unnoticed.Through glass, I sawa friend engrossedin a meeting. I leftwith a cup of waterfrom the cooler,then wanderedto a park, watchedducks, an olderwoman also sat,bent, a spot of blood,the size of a nickel,seeped from her arm."I'm not hurt, justold, my skin breakseasily." I felt I tiptoedat the edge of things,anonymous, it wassomehow peaceful.***
 
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In the distancefrogs croak in the mountain rice fields,The evening's single song.~~~Unable to sleep,I hear the voice of a young deerRising from a mountain ridge.~~~The branches that will be used for thisautumn's firewood are still blooming.Please gather some summer grasses, wet with dew,and come visit me.~~~Not much to offer you— just a lotus flower floatingIn a small jar of water.~~~In the pond near my hutthe lotus flowers, covered with dew,Bloom in a row.~~~The willows are in full bloom!I want to pile up the blossomsLike mountain snow.In a summer meadowblossoming in a thicketthe red starlily:this unrevealed lovesuch a painful thing!—Lady Otomo of SakanoeI hug a stoneburnt in a fire—a dream of autumn.—Kanajo Hasegawain the summer fieldthat person with deep feelingsand a sober face—Sonojo
 
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the moon and Ialone are left herecooling on the bridge—KikushaIn spirit and in truthsilent prayer...justthe moon on the road—Kikusha***THE WHIPPING WOMANThe woman I hire to daughter my mothermakes bi-weekly visits to the dementia wardLies down beside the near-still watersAccepts the mouth kisses wet with droolFrom where gravelly wordsdribble down washed-out gulliesLike a whipping boy she bears the bruntof each face-to-face flagellationthat my rawhide flesh refusesAnd for twenty dollars an hour I purchaselike the contraposition of a professional mournerSubstitution for services I can't supply***THE DEAD IN FROCK COATS—Carlos Drummond de AndradeIn the corner of the living room was an album of unbearable photos,many meters high and infinite minutes old,over which everyone leanedmaking fun of the dead in frock coats.Then a worm began to chew the indifferent coats,the pages, the inscriptions, and even the dust on the pictures.The only thing it did not chew was the everlasting sob of life that brokeand broke from those pages***BOY CRYING IN THE NIGHT—Carlos Drummond de AndradeIn the warm, humid night, noiseless and dead, a boy cries.

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