Looking for poetry
July 30, 2011, 10:21 pm
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“What you think and feel are not poetry yet.” -Carlos Drummond de Andrade


And the days are not full enough – Ezra Pound
July 23, 2011, 2:37 am
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And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

what the living do- marie howe
July 20, 2011, 11:25 am
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July 13, 2011, 7:18 pm
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“I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity and her flaming self-respect and it’s these things I’d believe in even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all that she should be. … I love her and that’s the beginning and the end of it.” -Scott on loving Zelda

“Don’t you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered, and I was delivered to you, to be worn. I want you to wear me, like a watch, charm, or a button hole bouquet to the world.” -a letter from Zelda to Scott, 1919

No Real Than You Are – Larry Fagin
July 13, 2011, 6:55 pm
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Not to know me is not to not love me. I could be anywhere near you. Lemon meringue? It’s no good unless it falls apart. It’s not you. Someone put a logo right over my face. Call for the opener of the mouth, Philip Morris. The words want to be alone together. It’s one way to put them through it. Ethics not aesthetics demands it. People yell, attracted by a gesture — personal, spontaneous, sincere. But jammed verbally. It’s all automatic, spooking the flowers. Are you asleep? The sleeper has two left sides. It wants no straps. Its dreams are light glowing up from under flowing water. We’ll finish the story later with the words at hand. Keep a top eye out for visions.

A poem I worry in a life i worry doesn’t work
July 13, 2011, 6:38 pm
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Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey- Hayden Carruth
July 9, 2011, 6:54 pm
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Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren’t we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick, and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don’t say a word,
don’t tell a soul, they wouldn’t
understand, they couldn’t, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.