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Archive for August, 2008

I originally ran across David Wojahn’s poem My Father’s Pornography while searching randomly on the Web for some of his poetry. I was drawn into the poem, not so much by the title but by the narrator’s questions in the poem about the writing, as if he is inviting us into the process of its making. Where should I begin this poem, what should I include, how am I meant to tell it?

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Years ago my brother asked for a painting of Don Quixote. Above is one I made based on the painting by Pablo Picasso. My brother wanted the painting because he saw in this knight titling at windmills a touch of his own devotion to lost causes. I’m thinking now about what I wrote my brother in my letter about Don Quixote after I first began reading this novel.

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The Poet

She is working now, in a room
not unlike this one,
the one where I write, or you read.
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How bitter and sweet the sound

Of the single gold and black insect repeating
Its two lonely notes. The insect’s song both magnifies
The field and casts a shadow over it, the way

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A child said it, and it seemed true:
“Things that are lost are all equal.”
But it isn’t true, if I lost you,
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The Red Poppy

The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. (more…)

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The Suitor

We lie back to back. Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
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