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I am an amateur writer, but have been writing poetry as long as I can remember. By luck, my poems
were accepted to Bread Loft Writer's Conference in my teens. Bread Loaf is the oldest writers'
conference in America, started by Robert Frost in 1926 (for US that is old). I think poems give room to write about
things that you normally would not express and give you the opportunity to think thematically in order to connect the
sounds and thoughts as if pulled together in a string. For a person, whose English is not her native tongue,
I felt that poetry was an easier medium of writing than regular stories. I am really bad at telling stories and
writing things in length, short attention span I guess but I'm working on it on my non-fiction & fiction section. Here
is the link to Bread Loft if you are interested:
http://www.WritersConferenceBreadLoft.history
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The Mended Hour
What is this face heavy with plans for
tomorrow
Where waiting depends on absence of
luminosity?
No boats floating to or away from you
here,
Skimming on water next to bobbing candles,
Cant scare the blind fish away
At this ludicrous and useless speed.
Star-shaped clocks, with its sharpened
hands scratching the surface
Of the broken hour, where you put together
the chipped enamel
To spell out the days that are coming.
Weaving in and out the tangled nets
of dreams
You catch the pops and tears as it happens
in sequence;
Put it back together in remembrance
of things you wished
In figure of July 4th lights
fading fast.
Creamed top-heavy waves push up
your lead-weighted eyebrows,
Staring at voices above that catch on
the corner of rooms,
No lack of this or that in this place
All seems like fashionable semblance
of moods and colour;
Gone before it fits
Into a dazzling array of weightless
tumbles.
What was said?
Hearing you and me talk of things,
Changing the air around us to keep us
awake.
Lacking no such things,
Leavening the air around us to keep
up the temperance
Of situation fertile
For things to become.
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The Bend
To
change it is said, a welcoming but frightful thing.
What
is changed is never lost,
An
avalanche of thoughts turning ajar
Leaving
out the things that are forgettable, but holding in all.
About,
regarding and is just a bend,
This
thing that is recognizable, but estranged by time;
Like
walks you used to take,
Where
the bend in the road is carved out
Into
a useless rotary that ends when it is too late.
Often
it happens, the old woman trying to raise her head
Like
a dying sunflower top-heavy with black seeds,
Dark
tears that feed the beasts.
Woman
with her aching back, tries to pick
Up
the dust of her gardens,
As
if lost in her itinerary.
The Ending
So it seems that there is a pause
In your listless dreams you rest a bit,
Calls from conch shells, awaken your senses
Perhaps a development with details
That have yet to be revealed, fully;
A gossamer in front of your eyes
Gone and melted into the skin.
What is it you try to capture
When no one is around you,
What was it you remember
When no one asks you;
In plum red streets in the dark
There is a call,
Of something
An entrance to
And fro, and perhaps an ending.
And there you hang
A smile that is haunting
You revive it so
With drops of sacred oils,
and such;
To the youth, the reverent youth
Where innocence is but a scent
That fades not,
Where laughter never means more
And warmth fails not
The ending is soft,
Inviting a hunger;
Like morsels,
Larger than crumbs
Left by frivolity of life
And its cushy blocks.
Assembled again,
A complete vision
Of a life that is to become.
An entrance to
And fro, and perhaps an ending.
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Northern
Pegging
me into
That
corner,
A
traveled Yankee corrects,
Naples
is in the South.
Without
real consent,
I
reply ,
yes.
For
those of us from
That
deep South,
We
view from where we are.
Puglia,
my adopted Puglia,
Is
really in the South.
So
is Calabria, Basilicata and
Sicily,
all in the South;
With
Naples in its Northern place
Geographically
and more.
Puglia
Salentine peninsula, the boot,
Faces
both the fair Adriatic and Ionian,
So
unlike Napoli and Rome facing the Tyrrhenan Sea.
Yes,
dirty Napoli is our North.
All
the Andalusian lands, and lands of South
Twenty
years in New England,
Without
real consent, I reply and correct myself
From
South Korea, but not Seoul,
But
the South
More
like Malaysias kind folk
Than them cold Northeners.
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FALLING STARS
She
walks besides the currents,
Moon
illuminating her soft tresses;
T'is
the night when sweet birds sleep
In
their silver-tipped down,
Breath
touching the still air,
Perfumed
much by sweet wisterias
That
hang about her.
Without
a sound, the channel flows
To
this sea;
It
washes away
The
wings of butterflies
Torn
and abandoned.
Without
a sound
The
steps quicken
towards
Waves
that deliver no answer.
She
disappears slowly,
And
stars above
Observe
her sinking mass disappearing.
The
stars burn bright, as to reveal this moment;
But
one by one
They
can only fall
for
her.
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The Liking
First
the idea fits
Then
it turns aside to be taken
Considered
to be good
Then
understood to the Other That it may foot the bill.
Gentle Gentry
and His Gentleman
Wonderful
it seems this gentry;
Should
I further my cause to his liking?
Polite
good bredding of a specimen for my purpose
Should
be of gentle nature,
As
long he has
His
gentleman;
For
fetching my wishes.
One
cant have one without the other,
As
all my kind supports,
As
long as his monthly allowances per annum be fitting,
To
me, the fair thing.
My
white fur coat be warned No sucking leech should be too well-combed.
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