94:1 ( i think? i will try a set) Broken Bottle Diamond Light

Can you write a poem a day for seven days?

94:1 ( i think? i will try a set) Broken Bottle Diamond Light

Osel
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Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

February 12th, 2018, 12:20 am #1

o


please bear with me zipping in and out. I am going to try a set, but won’t be my usual self. 


words are birds, Milarepa says. 
So I watch them appear, — before I have formed them?
Before I have loaded beak and neck with a paving 
of gems, weighed them down, have given them 
my thought streams, they take flight, un-ornamented 

love, (not an ornament upon ), without origin, without diversion
or detour—indistinguishable from flight, when they are still 
green as undersign leaves, blue of a blue streak, 
where our cups fall, between two round-headed, 
tossing trees.  

when we wore our hair loose, in jatas, my wings 
were heavy, the span of a creek. I flung cobbles 
of water over my long arms, my feathers sent them 
back to a shirring, guppy flutter. I broke the stream—- 

rising out of it, and my neck lifted out of itself. I was bird! 
there was nothing of that life that remains
but last, sun-broke cobbles. I search them, and long 
waits later, find them, in the drystone glassy wall 
bottle cobs of ginger ale. In Majestic Drive

ditches, where blinding, galvanized culvert 
was wrestled onto gravel bedding, it was laid down 
like a burning gullet across the farmers’ fields. 
Majestic took the smash 

where bottles were thrown from snub-nosed 
finned cars, and ground it to a soft-shouldered ice, 
and I have collected these, as stones. for a sea-when, 
for what, when they were still quite young. 

And then, with my hands examined 
for how I had entered them, and how long 
eight was, and why, I would lay bended at the waist 
in my yellow checked skort, matching scarf 
with the backs of my legs tickling fat seedgrass, 

and sip at pink clover slips, an entire globe 
of the honeyed white-tipped straws could do me 
an elephantine day. I reminded myself of something
 
there was no naming wind for, but it kept me, 
it works slow, — and it has sifted me small.


——-

John Fowles: A Maggot. “I work slow, but sift small”. 
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TerryO
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Joined: November 28th, 2014, 9:40 am

February 12th, 2018, 7:30 am #2

Wow. So much in this. A becoming bird, water, girl in water and that last line, such a take-off from the Fowles line. And he is such a source for lines and . . . the things half shaded in the world and ourselves. Another beauty, this one. 
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Slowlearner
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Joined: August 30th, 2017, 11:32 am

February 12th, 2018, 2:28 pm #3

Yes, so much here. I will not claim a few readings have delivered it all. It amazes me that you can keep going as though free of that school teacher in our minds judging. Children and clover is something I so remember. I hope there are still children in clover. Beautiful.
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toniclark
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Joined: May 5th, 2006, 6:47 pm

February 12th, 2018, 2:33 pm #4

So much beauty here and I know I will get more with each rereading.

when we wore our hair loose, in jatas, my wings 
were heavy, the span of a creek. I flung cobbles 
of water over my long arms,

yellow checked skort! makes me smile

Re: I would lay bended >> lie?

Nice: and sip at pink clover slips, an entire globe 
of the honeyed white-tipped straws could do me 
an elephantine day
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Osel
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Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

February 13th, 2018, 1:07 pm #5

thanks for reading, and your comments
Terry, John, Toni!  
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Billy Joe
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Joined: January 24th, 2010, 6:30 pm

February 14th, 2018, 2:52 pm #6

Quite a journey. Like MilarepA's journey in a way. I like where u end up.
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Osel
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Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

February 15th, 2018, 11:52 am #7

it is good for this I to be sifted small. thanks everyone. 

Milarepa, what a life.. . . amazing. i doubt I will ever be able to say enough about him. 
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