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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 23, 2011 8:07:22 GMT -5
has cascaded from good wine to the finest port
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 19, 2011 9:40:44 GMT -5
much enjoyed...transports this reader into a safe period in time with description and contrast providing a happy feel among ticking bombs that are unable to scatter routine...
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 18, 2011 3:19:06 GMT -5
that is super dark creativity...does what o good poem can do...provide a formidable image to go with a source of thinking beyond limits....small but wonderful
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 14, 2011 7:33:18 GMT -5
I live on a small island her skin of a believing sun; feeding us forbidden absolutes
and when the moon is done the stars move upstairs knitting silver ideology practical as a marble Venus talking to the ages with perfect nakedness made of silence and misrule
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 13, 2011 3:53:05 GMT -5
your paintings and gradually coming within range of your excellent poetry...i am enjoying experiencing the developing process
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Aug 9, 2011 9:49:36 GMT -5
love the flow and rhyme...challenging expression as most times...a very fulsome poem indeed
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 31, 2011 14:56:02 GMT -5
Thank you don for the great compliment...re bio i willl try to rehash what is already here...one moment...Please make any changes you consider appropriate...Dunstan Attard was born in 1953 on the Mediterranean island of Malta where he still lives. The significant influence on his life was his father who struggled to come to term with his detachment from his agricultural and deeply religious comminty in Gozo to live in the ambitious environment of a Maltese town. Attard's fascination with island life wrapped in steep history today energises his concept of being. Attard, who's first language is Maltese shares his emotions using the English language which is his second language. He rarely makes an effort to communicate with his reader as his poetry is very often a series of words that surface through his emotions at the time of writing.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 31, 2011 10:19:33 GMT -5
well having read your poems and seen your paintings (through poetry) mediocre is the last thing that crosses my mind...i would see a quasi unique capacity to catch big moments into one delicate drop of dew...
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 31, 2011 10:16:21 GMT -5
dogs die in bundles of echoes that come from perfumes of childhood roses oozing the resigned flesh of silver moons
then comes the resolution not to adopt another dog, for too great is the pain of the passing away
then eerie emptiness creeps into cracks of water spreading the alphabets with tears that taste of mint
i call on the old landscape and gaze on the stillness of empty stables
by now the horses have become butterflies, i empty ships
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 30, 2011 3:48:49 GMT -5
this is the type of Don Schaeffer poem that embraces a moment in life with detail, and is able to involve all the senses...a moment that embraces the present with a sense of philosophical rigor that accepts the nature of life with the hope of a child and the resignation of an adult...
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Tosca
Jul 29, 2011 10:20:04 GMT -5
Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 29, 2011 10:20:04 GMT -5
Thanks don for reading and for making a contribution which i treasure ...
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Tosca
Jul 29, 2011 4:34:47 GMT -5
Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 29, 2011 4:34:47 GMT -5
Her faithful memory floats in a passage of time that lingers for a while beyond the pain of a thousand wounds, then leaves like a winter into the breaking light of spring; she lived her seasons where we searched for her among corners of history as she savored the earth Lora Terence she stays and would not go away into salubrious summers
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Poetry
Jul 23, 2011 2:12:16 GMT -5
Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 23, 2011 2:12:16 GMT -5
so much wisdom that comes from intelligent travel through life...
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 23, 2011 2:06:24 GMT -5
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jul 22, 2011 3:17:08 GMT -5
Other than sea rain and night; other than drinking water food and gold cuff-links; other than garden tea-parties and death, I am alive, and kicking the occasional blasphemy that some confuse for the uttering of one illegal immigrant drowning among the scent of sacrosanct Easters
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