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Post by imec on Oct 24, 2009 14:16:17 GMT
Pretty pink shrimp, plump and sweet Sit atop silky pasta, cooked just right. The olfactory gods voice their displeasure; Shoulda left out the asparagus
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Post by lola on Nov 24, 2009 3:35:21 GMT
What do you want to learn? (Inquires the banner ad.) As if we had only to ask. I'd like to know how life can be sweet sometimes with oblivion so near. A patient and wise man meditates, waits in his cubicle, keyboard at hand. Oh, you so eager to teach: I want to learn how to ask the right question.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 24, 2009 3:48:14 GMT
very inspiring lola,thanks.
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Post by bixaorellana on Nov 29, 2009 16:44:51 GMT
Lovely and thoughtful, Lola. Thank you.
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Post by lola on Dec 5, 2009 15:05:33 GMT
Snow falls on Alabama, and Casimira's town has sleet. Last night I got a message: Firewood delivery this week.
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Post by lola on Dec 5, 2009 15:11:53 GMT
Hannah's taking the SAT this morning, sitting in a roomful of strangers, pencilling circles. A timer can count each remaining second, but nothing can measure my daughter's worth.
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Post by bixaorellana on Dec 5, 2009 21:14:13 GMT
You have such a talent for this, Lola -- so succinct and poetic. I love how you compress eighteen years worth of maternal love into four short lines. The first one captures the inevitability of the seasons and scans beautifully, besides.
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Post by lola on Dec 7, 2009 16:40:42 GMT
Ambitious to get on The Scroll = me.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 7, 2009 17:49:36 GMT
Yesterday afternoon I went to the clinic since you have to see the anesthesiolgist first. Wednesday's child is full of woe. The clinic has a door and a service exit.
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Post by lola on Dec 7, 2009 19:07:44 GMT
Lots of succint and poetic there, not to mention pathos. Sorry, k, in case this is an autobiographic poem.
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Post by lola on Dec 22, 2009 3:33:11 GMT
Someone said once that sex is the opposite of death; Or was it love that is? No, he must have said sex. I don't really understand the poignant Donne poem, But I feel that love is not the opposite of anything.
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Post by spindrift on Dec 23, 2009 16:47:46 GMT
or was it that an orgasm is a little death?
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Post by lola on Dec 23, 2009 19:57:06 GMT
Okay, I looked it up:
In Streetcar named Desire, Blanche tells Mitch that desire is the opposite of death. Tennessee W. was an interesting character. I'd like to read his collected letters, published fairly recently; the excerpts I heard read on NPR were frank, funny, poetic.
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Post by bixaorellana on Dec 27, 2009 16:34:40 GMT
No transferring anything to the scroll until I get back home -- sorry.
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Post by lola on Dec 27, 2009 18:55:34 GMT
I would rather share scroll with many more other poets anyway. Let no one call me a scroll hog.
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Post by bixaorellana on Dec 27, 2009 19:07:02 GMT
We shan't.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 31, 2009 11:54:21 GMT
The old year creeps away leaning on its cane. Friendless and alone it disappears in the mist. What's all that noise and brightness coming our way? Is it the apocalypse or just new year's merrymakers?
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Post by Deleted on Dec 31, 2009 12:45:49 GMT
The bright golden light of year's end Now,faded,diminished and gray. She tends her garden of flowers. They know not the loss of her light.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 2, 2010 11:21:16 GMT
Sleepless in my bed I lie. Moonlight gently creeps in. Soon the sun's early glow Merges into the new day.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 2, 2010 19:59:53 GMT
A friend returned from Brazil today Enthusiastic about the wonders he had seen A little girl just spent a horrible holiday season Her mother refused to answer calls from Brazil
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Post by spindrift on Jan 2, 2010 23:32:25 GMT
The earth is frozen, silent and still, Earthworms comatose, moles asleep, Cosily she reads the catalogue, deciding, This summer sweetpeas scramble up trees.
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Post by lola on Jan 3, 2010 1:59:52 GMT
Nice, all.
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Post by bixaorellana on Jan 3, 2010 7:56:17 GMT
What wonderful, contemplative poems from everyone.
Spindrift, your poem is a jewel, from the gentle surprise of the comatose earthworms and slumbering moles, to the "development of the plot", to that final exquisite line.
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Post by spindrift on Jan 4, 2010 10:51:46 GMT
Thanks Bixa...the earth seems so dead now. Evergreen plants are frozen and bowed over but I know they will spring into life; and I recall the warm sun on my face on summer mornings and know that it's only a matter of a few months before I feel it again. Only sleeping, not dead
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Post by Deleted on Feb 18, 2010 21:49:52 GMT
Winter clutches the stiff ground Sending ice down through its claws Beautiful flakes dance in the sky Contradicting the cruelty of the season
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Post by bixaorellana on Feb 19, 2010 17:09:17 GMT
Wow, Kerouac ~~ I could actually see a late afternoon winter's day, with hunched-shouldered people scurrying home from work, and one or two of them glancing up to see the snowflakes glitter as the streetlights come on.
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Post by lola on Feb 24, 2010 23:56:19 GMT
Disperse your collections, you amassers of precious things, You hoarders and estate builders, while there's still time. The old man next door died the other day, Still clutching, intact, his set of antique grudge.
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Post by bixaorellana on Feb 25, 2010 2:11:19 GMT
Love it, just love it, Lola!
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Post by Deleted on Feb 25, 2010 9:30:03 GMT
Excellent, Lola!
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Post by Kimby on Feb 25, 2010 17:43:05 GMT
or was it that an orgasm is a little death? I believe SLEEP is le petit mort no?
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