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Post by Nick Harris on Jun 7, 2010 22:50:44 GMT -5
When the poison eats your heart open it with the mind and let it flow from your fingers. When the Diaspora has no home find it in the river. Find it on the banks in the grass. Birds do not choose to fly. Nor do they fly away but back to where they are going. Gone is the fever. Gone are the sinners. Gone is your hand in mine but I am in you, out on the prairie poisoned by loneliness. Gone are the mind- numbing screams, carried away by waves of beasts. The drugs help but they don’t take away the drip, drip of anesthetic. You tried to do the right thing and in the end, the finality of the frightened ghosts, the miasmic interpretations of reticence sent you into your room. The walls leak tears. The poison exposes your home – a sheet rock shelter. Grip it with your mind. Oh God, my fingers. I’m flying home.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jun 11, 2010 2:22:29 GMT -5
I see this as a perfect circle that has no fear of any stage of the journey. delves deep and soars amazingly high. I can understand that the poem may be too mainstream-heavy but its thought structure is throughout so comfortable with the depth as its combination of diction, idiom, metaphor, personification, symbol etc remain characteristically robust...
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Post by Nick Harris on Jun 11, 2010 11:30:33 GMT -5
Thanks, Dunstan.
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