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The time has come
twilight and mist
home in
on his longship
prow pointed
towards the eye
of the sunset
a faint glimmer
through the smoke
his ..
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She sits like a sausage in front of her telly,wasting one gnarled paw on her barren belly,and craning the other thin claw from drag to drag,between he..
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To what end, from Mallarmé’s example,do I now assemblethoughts of sailing somewhereI shall never know and,arriving, discover was never th..
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When does this poembecome a poem?Is it when these wordsexplode in your mind,sending dust flying in all directions,creating gods and myths,and engravin..
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Very unproductive day:began insidiously - the trouble:a few rowdy questionsabout the meaning of life,and why write poetry, etc.Should have gone out, t..
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And later on, returning homeafter another of our walks,re-defining myselfwith a turn of a key -someone who’s foreverframed in a doorway, forever..
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François Villon is like the must-see gargoyletoo far round the other side of Notre Dame,or the stained-glass chef d’oeuvrethat you miss f..
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Do I know Mad Malcolm?
Yes, and we still talk about him
at our weekly meetings.
Connie’s usually the one
who starts, reminding us
abou..
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They left the hospital
while it was being done -
the cold air
took them by the arm;
streets, cars, people,
floated, swayed past.
I’ll do i..
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Wait for it, you’ll hear the old boy really yell!My dad hurled a stone over our back-yard wall,chuckling as it hit the shed’s corrugated r..
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