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of Christopher Whitby |
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Reading the Leaves
The next few hours remain a mystery, But if you had the time for just one book, What would it be? A fiction I assume. Under the circumstances history Appears quite futile and religion plies A dying trade. Yet could you bear to look Inside some novels now? We may presume Henceforth the comedy of manners lies In no man's land. A play? But we have Lears Aplenty. So when all comes down to chance Is poetry what's left to mask our fears? How many Palgraves deck the mud of France? The whistles blow. Good luck. Wish me the same, And if we meet again, I'll ask your name. |
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2006
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| The Best Poems The best poems are not creative but archaeology. You dust away life's debris from something nagging you it's there. I think this is a hand. But as you scrape, you find it is a foot, though not where you expected. Should I move it to where I think it ought to be? Or leave it, a testament to how this body's lain these thousand years? A shaper of words. A remover of silt, more like. Dig too hard and you churn away dry roots and dormant seeds to find your gold. Take a soft brush, and you will write what, in a sense, has always been written, but never seen entire before. |
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Jan 2007
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