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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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Saturday, June 03, 2006
no more words

when there are nothing more to say,
you say: there are no words.

i say: no more words
and sometimes a tear breaks
and creeps down the face
and sometimes nothing at all.

and all the promises
that this is the last time
my voice cracks and swears
fingernails drawing blood
and palms hiding.
lips swollen from pouting.

tomorrow morning
the sun and wind will remind me
that it was really
nothing at all

anymore.


Posted at 01:57 pm by peaches

moks
June 28, 2006   11:46 AM PDT
 
words come back.
 

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