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The Playwrights Forum > The Art & Craft of Writing > Poet's Corner : Critique my Poem > Night Sepia

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 Posted: Sun Sep 6th, 2009 07:15 pm
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timmy
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Joined: Fri Jun 9th, 2006
Location: Oz, Minnesota USA
Posts: 1079
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The first thing I do
to awaken is turn to music
to subdue that time
when the strange bird
sings its dark song, gaudy
among dream flowers

each night seeds of my past
are scattered from shadows
in the countable hours between
saneness or sickness

sometimes my mother
at the foot of the bed;
she waits almost every night
for mourning

sometimes Chopin
composing his Preludes,
half listening more
to his third doctor
than my sad request
for a requiem

old teachers:
Richard speaking
of Canterbury in his frog voice;
or Elizabeth, tall & brittle,
white & stork like,
urging me to write about art
and singing or music

"just because you’re no good
at either three, don’t mean
your writing can’t be"

like hummingbirds
within me, like small kisses

wondering where i’ve been,
where i’m going, and asking
why i still hold pictures
of people i know longer know

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