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The day I became a poet was a sunny day of no particular ominousness. I was scuttling along in my usual furtive way, suspecting no ill, when a large invisible thumb descended from the sky and pressed down on the top of my head. A poem formed. It was quite a gloomy poem: the poems of the young usually are. It was a gift, this poem – a gift from an anonymous donor, and, as such, both exciting and sisnister at the same time.

(Margaret Atwood, lecture on poetry writing)




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Tuesday, February 08, 2005
this is to remind me
because i always forget
(then i always remember again)
how our love is more of a glass heart
thin as a rose petal.
warm to the touch,
but incredibly fragile.

one word is enough
one memory
one thought can break it.

we must be careful not to
hold it too lightly
or too tight
one shake,
just a little pressure

so this is to remind me
in case i forget
and have to remember (again)



Posted at 10:19 pm by peaches

 

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