The Poem Cat (Erica Jong Poem)
Sometimes the poem doesn't want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run under ...
Sometimes the poem doesn't want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run under ...
I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you floats in some remote current of my blood. I carry ...
I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you floats in some remote current of my blood. I carry ...
The beach plum jelly out on the deck the thick sour dough toast dripping with it the bees coming closer ...
The ripe apples snapping in my mouth the fresh juice tart to the taste hungry for the sharp cheddar pungent ...
Bowing my head, my life after receiving the bread, the wine my fingers knitted in prayer lowering my face, to ...
Coming down the stairs from the office to the living room, dining room, kitchen descending into the cloud, the glorious ...
Another smell of autumn sweet sweet smell of Concord grapes warming ripening ready to burst with flavor strong urgent smell ...
Drink in the cool, smooth, the sweet scent of Spring Fleeting aroma of purple of plum, or white, of dusty ...
I love the church: its labara, its silver vessels, its candleholders, the lights, the ikons, the pulpit. Whenever I go ...
for Brenda Williams The dawn cracked with ice, with fire grumbling in the grate, With ire in the homes we ...
Dire one and desired one, Savior, sentencer-- In an old allegory you would carry A chained alphabet of tokens: Ankh ...
From blossoms released by the moonlight, from an aroma of exasperated love, steeped in fragrance, yellowness drifted from the lemon ...
The street filled with tomatoes, midday, summer, light is halved like a tomato, its juice runs through the streets. In ...
America, from a grain of maize you grew to crown with spacious lands the ocean foam. A grain of maize ...
Once upon a time there was an Italian, And some people thought he was a rapscallion, But he wasn't offended, ...
When the call of the hudud, Echoes through the palm fronds Carrying in their mists, Visions, memories: Caravans of high ...
Here let us linger at will and delightsomely hearken Music aeolian of wind in the boughs of pine, Timbrel of ...
Now on the hill The fitful wind is so still That never a wimpling mist uplifts, Nor a trembling leaf ...
New Year's Day 1:16 AM and my body is weary beyond time to withdraw and rest ample room allowed me ...
The day comes slowly in the railyard behind the ice factory. It broods on one cinder after another until each ...
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