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Post by Don Schaeffer on Jun 3, 2011 9:20:33 GMT -5
He is allowed to sit bundled on the porch hugging the walker
on the cool June morning with all the piety of the flowers swarmed around him.
He feels that poetry is fraud. But the pretty poets long fingered, pavane
among the peonies, gesturing toward but not quite touching.
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Post by Ivan Carswell on Jun 3, 2011 16:15:36 GMT -5
This certainly states a case without prejudice for the best of poetry. There is an acerbic wit here which captures what I believe is the quintessential essense of Modern Poetry. Certainly worthy of a Gallery nomination Don, great writing...
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Post by Don Schaeffer on Jun 3, 2011 18:08:26 GMT -5
very kind. Thanks Ivan
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