tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-94759792023-10-13T17:51:31.428-07:00Miscellanea...I have been reading a lot of poetry and posting what I really love here.Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.comBlogger308125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-38723460534104077142022-05-04T16:25:00.000-07:002022-05-04T16:25:07.061-07:00<p><b>Ash Wednesday </b> T. S. Eliot</p><p><br /></p><p>I</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I do not hope to turn again</p><p>Because I do not hope</p><p>Because I do not hope to turn</p><p>Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope</p><p>I no longer strive to strive towards such things</p><p>(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)</p><p>Why should I mourn</p><p>The vanished power of the usual reign?</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I do not hope to know</p><p>The infirm glory of the positive hour</p><p>Because I do not think</p><p>Because I know I shall not know</p><p>The one veritable transitory power</p><p>Because I cannot drink</p><p>There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is</p><p>nothing again</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I know that time is always time</p><p>And place is always and only place</p><p>And what is actual is actual only for one time</p><p>And only for one place</p><p>I rejoice that things are as they are and</p><p>I renounce the blessèd face</p><p>And renounce the voice</p><p>Because I cannot hope to turn again</p><p>Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something</p><p>Upon which to rejoice</p><p><br /></p><p>And pray to God to have mercy upon us</p><p>And pray that I may forget</p><p>These matters that with myself I too much discuss</p><p>Too much explain</p><p>Because I do not hope to turn again</p><p>Let these words answer</p><p>For what is done, not to be done again</p><p>May the judgement not be too heavy upon us</p><p><br /></p><p>Because these wings are no longer wings to fly</p><p>But merely vans to beat the air</p><p>The air which is now thoroughly small and dry</p><p>Smaller and dryer than the will</p><p>Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.</p><p><br /></p><p>Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death</p><p>Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>II</p><p>Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree</p><p>In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity</p><p>On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been</p><p>contained</p><p>In the hollow round of my skull. And God said</p><p>Shall these bones live? shall these</p><p>Bones live? And that which had been contained</p><p>In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:</p><p>Because of the goodness of this Lady</p><p>And because of her loveliness, and because</p><p>She honours the Virgin in meditation,</p><p>We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled</p><p>Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love</p><p>To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.</p><p>It is this which recovers</p><p>My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions</p><p>Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn</p><p>In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.</p><p>Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.</p><p>There is no life in them. As I am forgotten</p><p>And would be forgotten, so I would forget</p><p>Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said</p><p>Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only</p><p>The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping</p><p>With the burden of the grasshopper, saying</p><p><br /></p><p>Lady of silences</p><p>Calm and distressed</p><p>Torn and most whole</p><p>Rose of memory</p><p>Rose of forgetfulness</p><p>Exhausted and life-giving</p><p>Worried reposeful</p><p>The single Rose</p><p>Is now the Garden</p><p>Where all loves end</p><p>Terminate torment</p><p>Of love unsatisfied</p><p>The greater torment</p><p>Of love satisfied</p><p>End of the endless</p><p>Journey to no end</p><p>Conclusion of all that</p><p>Is inconclusible</p><p>Speech without word and</p><p>Word of no speech</p><p>Grace to the Mother</p><p>For the Garden</p><p>Where all love ends.</p><p><br /></p><p>Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining</p><p>We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each</p><p>other,</p><p>Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,</p><p>Forgetting themselves and each other, united</p><p>In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye</p><p>Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity</p><p>Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>III</p><p><br /></p><p>At the first turning of the second stair</p><p>I turned and saw below</p><p>The same shape twisted on the banister</p><p>Under the vapour in the fetid air</p><p>Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears</p><p>The deceitul face of hope and of despair.</p><p><br /></p><p>At the second turning of the second stair</p><p>I left them twisting, turning below;</p><p>There were no more faces and the stair was dark,</p><p>Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond</p><p>repair,</p><p>Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.</p><p><br /></p><p>At the first turning of the third stair</p><p>Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit</p><p>And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene</p><p>The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green</p><p>Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.</p><p>Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,</p><p>Lilac and brown hair;</p><p>Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind</p><p>over the third stair,</p><p>Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair</p><p>Climbing the third stair.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Lord, I am not worthy</p><p>Lord, I am not worthy</p><p><br /></p><p>but speak the word only.</p><p><br /></p><p>IV</p><p>Who walked between the violet and the violet</p><p>Whe walked between</p><p>The various ranks of varied green</p><p>Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,</p><p>Talking of trivial things</p><p>In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour</p><p>Who moved among the others as they walked,</p><p>Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs</p><p><br /></p><p>Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand</p><p>In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,</p><p>Sovegna vos</p><p><br /></p><p>Here are the years that walk between, bearing</p><p>Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring</p><p>One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing</p><p><br /></p><p>White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.</p><p>The new years walk, restoring</p><p>Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring</p><p>With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem</p><p>The time. Redeem</p><p>The unread vision in the higher dream</p><p>While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.</p><p><br /></p><p>The silent sister veiled in white and blue</p><p>Between the yews, behind the garden god,</p><p>Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke</p><p>no word</p><p><br /></p><p>But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down</p><p>Redeem the time, redeem the dream</p><p>The token of the word unheard, unspoken</p><p><br /></p><p>Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew</p><p><br /></p><p>And after this our exile</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>V</p><p>If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent</p><p>If the unheard, unspoken</p><p>Word is unspoken, unheard;</p><p>Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,</p><p>The Word without a word, the Word within</p><p>The world and for the world;</p><p>And the light shone in darkness and</p><p>Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled</p><p>About the centre of the silent Word.</p><p><br /></p><p>O my people, what have I done unto thee.</p><p><br /></p><p>Where shall the word be found, where will the word</p><p>Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence</p><p>Not on the sea or on the islands, not</p><p>On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,</p><p>For those who walk in darkness</p><p>Both in the day time and in the night time</p><p>The right time and the right place are not here</p><p>No place of grace for those who avoid the face</p><p>No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny</p><p>the voice</p><p><br /></p><p>Will the veiled sister pray for</p><p>Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,</p><p>Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,</p><p>time and time, between</p><p>Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait</p><p>In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray</p><p>For children at the gate</p><p>Who will not go away and cannot pray:</p><p>Pray for those who chose and oppose</p><p><br /></p><p>O my people, what have I done unto thee.</p><p><br /></p><p>Will the veiled sister between the slender</p><p>Yew trees pray for those who offend her</p><p>And are terrified and cannot surrender</p><p>And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks</p><p>In the last desert before the last blue rocks</p><p>The desert in the garden the garden in the desert</p><p>Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>O my people.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>VI</p><p>Although I do not hope to turn again</p><p>Although I do not hope</p><p>Although I do not hope to turn</p><p><br /></p><p>Wavering between the profit and the loss</p><p>In this brief transit where the dreams cross</p><p>The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying</p><p>(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things</p><p>From the wide window towards the granite shore</p><p>The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying</p><p>Unbroken wings</p><p><br /></p><p>And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices</p><p>In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices</p><p>And the weak spirit quickens to rebel</p><p>For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell</p><p>Quickens to recover</p><p>The cry of quail and the whirling plover</p><p>And the blind eye creates</p><p>The empty forms between the ivory gates</p><p>And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth</p><p><br /></p><p>This is the time of tension between dying and birth</p><p>The place of solitude where three dreams cross</p><p>Between blue rocks</p><p>But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away</p><p>Let the other yew be shaken and reply.</p><p><br /></p><p>Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit</p><p>of the garden,</p><p>Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood</p><p>Teach us to care and not to care</p><p>Teach us to sit still</p><p>Even among these rocks,</p><p>Our peace in His will</p><p>And even among these rocks</p><p>Sister, mother</p><p>And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,</p><p>Suffer me not to be separated</p><p><br /></p><p>And let my cry come unto Thee.</p>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-47063461785547327272022-03-08T03:01:00.005-08:002022-03-08T03:01:43.578-08:00<p><b> What the Living Do</b> - Marie Howe</p><p>Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.<br />And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up</p><p>waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.<br />It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through</p><p>the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.<br />For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,</p><p>I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along thos<br />wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,</p><p>I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it<br />Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.</p><p>What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want<br />whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.</p><p>But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,<br />say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep</p><p>for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:<br />I am living. I remember you</p><p><br /></p>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-59235106274995641942021-06-07T23:03:00.004-07:002021-06-07T23:04:26.759-07:00<p> <b>Allowables</b> - Nikki Giovanni</p><p><br /></p><p>I killed a spider</p><p><br /></p><p>Not a murderous brown recluse</p><p>Nor even a black widow</p><p>And if the truth were told this</p><p>Was only a small</p><p>Sort of papery spider</p><p>Who should have run</p><p>When I picked up the book</p><p>But she didn’t</p><p>And she scared me</p><p>And I smashed her</p><p><br /></p><p>I don’t think</p><p>I’m allowed</p><p><br /></p><p>To kill something</p><p><br /></p><p>Because I am</p><p><br /></p><p>Frightened</p>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-46112677803097531732021-04-30T00:26:00.002-07:002021-04-30T00:28:06.333-07:00<p><b> You will lose everything</b> - Jeff Foster</p><p><br /></p><p>You will lose everything. Your money, your power, your fame, your success, perhaps even your memories. Your looks will go. Loved ones will die. Your body will fall apart. Everything that seems permanent is impermanent and will be smashed.</p><p><br /></p><p>Experience will gradually, or not so gradually, strip away everything that it can strip away. Waking up means facing this reality with open eyes and no longer turning away.</p><p><br /></p><p>But right now, we stand on sacred and holy ground, for that which will be lost has not yet been lost, and realizing this is the key to unspeakable joy. Whoever or whatever is in your life right now has not yet been taken away from you. This may sound trivial, obvious, like nothing, but really it is the key to everything, the why and how and wherefore of existence. Impermanence has already rendered everything and everyone around you so deeply holy and significant and worthy of your heartbreaking gratitude.</p><p><br /></p><p>Loss has already transfigured your life into an altar. </p>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-42020538830220013022020-02-21T05:57:00.001-08:002020-02-21T06:01:02.424-08:00<div>
<b>Men Keep on Dying</b> - Michael McGriff
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<a data-auth="NotApplicable" data-ogsc="" href="https://poets.org/poem/men-keep-dying#" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><br />
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<div>
<i> to the memory of Denis Johnson</i><br />
<br />
The stranger bites into an orange <br />
and places the rind between us <br />
on the park bench. <br />
It becomes a small raft of fire. <br />
<br />
I came here to admire <br />
the iron-lit indifference <br />
of the geese on the pond. <br />
<br />
<i>The summers here</i> <br />
<i>are a circuit in parallel</i><br />
<i>with everything I cannot say,</i> <br />
wrote the inventor <br />
before he was hanged <br />
from the bridge <br />
this park is named after. <br />
His entire life devoted <br />
to capturing inextinguishable light <br />
in a teardrop of enamel. <br />
He was hanged for touching <br />
the forehead of another man <br />
in the wrong century. <br />
<br />
The only thing invented <br />
by the man I lost yesterday <br />
was his last step into a final <br />
set of parenthesis. <br />
I came here to watch the geese <br />
and think of him. <br />
<br />
The stranger and I <br />
share the orange rind <br />
as an ashtray. <br />
He lights my cigarette <br />
and the shadows of our hands <br />
touch on the ground. <br />
<br />
His left leg is amputated <br />
below the knee <br />
and the bell tower rings <br />
above the town. <br />
I tell him my name <br />
and he says nothing. <br />
<br />
With the charred end of a stick <br />
something shaped like a child <br />
on the other side of the pond <br />
draws a door on a concrete wall <br />
and I wonder where the dead <br />
wait in line to be born.</div>
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Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-43979036582176068422019-03-13T03:30:00.001-07:002020-02-21T06:01:26.881-08:00<b>What They Did Yesterday Afternoon</b> - Warsan Shire<br />
<br />
they set my aunts house on fire<br />
i cried the way women on tv do<br />
folding at the middle<br /> like a five pound note.<br /> i called the boy who use to love me<br /> tried to ‘okay’ my voice<br /> i said hello<br /> he said warsan, what’s wrong, what’s happened?<br />
<br />
i’ve been praying,<br />
and these are what my prayers look like;<br />
dear god<br />
i come from two countries<br />
one is thirsty<br />
the other is on fire<br />
both need water.<br />
<br />
later that night<br />
i held an atlas in my lap<br />
ran my fingers across the whole world<br />
and whispered<br />
where does it hurt?<br />
<br />
it answered<br />
everywhere<br />
everywhere<br />
everywhere.<br />
<br />Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-38046611946215577522018-02-04T18:37:00.001-08:002018-02-04T18:40:00.619-08:00<div id="cold_within">
<b>The Cold Within</b> - James Patrick Kinney</div>
<div id="cold_within">
<br /></div>
Six humans trapped by happenstance<br />
In bleak and bitter cold.<br />
Each one possessed a stick of wood<br />
Or so the story’s told.<br />
<br />
Their dying fire in need of logs<br />
The first man held his back<br />
For of the faces round the fire<br />
He noticed one was black.<br />
<br />
The next man looking ‘cross the way<br />
Saw one not of his church<br />
And couldn’t bring himself to give<br />
The fire his stick of birch.<br />
<br />
The third one sat in tattered clothes.<br />
He gave his coat a hitch.<br />
Why should his log be put to use<br />
To warm the idle rich?<br />
<br />
The rich man just sat back and thought<br />
Of the wealth he had in store<br />
And how to keep what he had earned<br />
From the lazy shiftless poor.<br />
<br />
The black man’s face bespoke revenge<br />
As the fire passed from his sight.<br />
For all he saw in his stick of wood<br />
Was a chance to spite the white.<br />
<br />
The last man of this forlorn group<br />
Did nought except for gain.<br />
Giving only to those who gave<br />
Was how he played the game.<br />
<br />
Their logs held tight in death’s still hands<br />
Was proof of human sin.<br />
They didn’t die from the cold without<br />
They died from the cold within.<br />
<br />
Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-10546183982491608452016-11-10T08:58:00.001-08:002016-11-10T08:59:13.609-08:00<div class="detail-intro-text-author">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b>Lower the Pitch of Your Suffering</b> - Charif Shanahan</span></span> </div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know my suffering is loud but my skin<br />
is light as sky and I was told to let it</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">open doors, shake hands, slip the cover<br />
over their eyes, so I could be. <i>Free</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">is not a <i>negro doused in white</i>, blanched,<br />
bleached, and sent down the path. <i>Free</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">almost never means <i>alive</i>, so please try—<br />
I’m asking for help. Whose fist is in my ribs</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">at which gate. What color is the moon.<br />
How do I move the line when it is buried</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">in the earth. Why do you think my face<br />
is the face you think you see. In the earth.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the water. Where can I rest my feet.<br />
My hands. My tongue. My lungs. My eye.</span></span><br />
<br />Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-19453601464095228882015-10-25T00:44:00.005-07:002016-09-24T02:18:40.893-07:00<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Kemo Sabe</b> – Diane Glancy<br /><br />In my
dream I take</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the white man</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">slap him</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">til he loves me.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I tie him to the house</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">take his land</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">& buffalo.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I put other words</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">into his mouth</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">words he doesn't understand</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">like spoonfuls</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">of smashed lima beans</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">until his cheeks</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">bulge.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Chew now, dear</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I say.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I flick his throat
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">until he swallows.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He works all day</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">never leaves the house.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The floors shine</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">the sheets are starched.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He wipes grime</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">from the windows</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">until clouds dance</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">across the glass.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He feeds me</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">when I'm hungry.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can leave whenever</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I want.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let him struggle</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">for his dignity</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">this time</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">let <i>him </i>remember</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">my name.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-16189352592690580352015-07-01T11:28:00.002-07:002015-10-25T00:46:41.116-07:00<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="ya-q-full-text" id="yui_3_17_2_3_1435774867115_715"> <b>I Go Back to May</b> - Sharon Olds <br />
<br />
I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, <br />
I see my father strolling out <br />
under the ochre sandstone arch, the <br />
red tiles glinting like bent <br />
plates of blood behind his head, I <br />
see my mother with a few light books at her hip <br />
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks, <br />
the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its <br />
sword-tips aglow in the May air, <br />
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married, <br />
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are <br />
innocent, they would never hurt anybody. <br />
I want to go up to them and say Stop, <br />
don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman, <br />
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things <br />
you cannot imagine you would ever do, <br />
you are going to do bad things to children, <br />
you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of, <br />
you are going to want to die. I want to go <br />
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it, <br />
her hungry pretty face turning to me, <br />
her pitiful beautiful untouched body, <br />
his arrogant handsome face turning to me, <br />
his pitiful beautiful untouched body, <br />
but I don’t do it. I want to live. I <br />
take them up like the male and female <br />
paper dolls and bang them together <br />
at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to <br />
strike sparks from them, I say <br />
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-81106363579040777892015-04-16T19:41:00.004-07:002015-04-16T19:41:37.187-07:00<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>A Bird Came Down </b>- Emily Dickinson</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">A bird came down the walk:<br />He did not know I saw; <br />He bit an angle-worm in halves<br />And ate the fellow, raw.<br /><br />And then he drank a dew<br />From a convenient grass,<br />And then hopped sidewise to the wall<br />To let a beetle pass.<br /><br />He glanced with rapid eyes<br />That hurried all abroad,- <br />They looked like frightened beads, I thought; <br />He stirred his velvet head<br /><br />Like one in danger; cautious,<br />I offered him a crumb,<br />And he unrolled his feathers<br />And rowed him softer home<br /><br />Than oars divide the ocean,<br />Too silver for a seam,<br />Or butterflies, off banks of noon,<br />Leap, splashless, as they swim. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span>
Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-966264597089840582015-03-27T00:16:00.002-07:002015-03-27T00:16:30.326-07:00<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>In Blackwater Woods</b> - Mary Oliver<br /><br />Look, the trees<br />are turning<br />their own bodies<br />into pillars<br /><br />of light,<br />are giving off the rich<br />fragrance of cinnamon<br />and fulfillment,<br /><br />the long tapers<br />of cattails<br />are bursting and floating away over<br />the blue shoulders<br /><br />of the ponds,<br />and every pond,<br />no matter what its<br />name is, is<br /><br />nameless now.<br />Every year<br />everything<br />I have ever learned<br /><br />in my lifetime<br />leads back to this: the fires<br />and the black river of loss<br />whose other side<br /><br />is salvation,<br />whose meaning<br />none of us will ever know.<br />To live in this world<br /><br />you must be able<br />to do three things:<br />to love what is mortal;<br />to hold it<br /><br />against your bones knowing<br />your own life depends on it;<br />and, when the time comes to let it go,<br />to let it go.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-34263747954145265622014-08-30T02:38:00.003-07:002014-08-30T02:39:18.799-07:00<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>A Worker Reads History</b> - Bertolt Brecht</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.<br />
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?<br />
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.<br />
Who built the city up each time?<br />
In which of Lima’s houses,<br />
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?<br />
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished<br />
Where did the masons go?<br />
Imperial Rome is full of arcs of triumph.<br />
Who reared them up?<br />
Over whom did the Caesars triumph?<br />
Byzantium lives in song.<br />
Were all her dwellings palaces?<br />
And even in Atlantis of the legend<br />
The night the seas rushed in,<br />
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.<br />
Young Alexander conquered India. He alone?<br />
Caesar beat the Gauls. Was there not even a cook in his army?<br />
<br />
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet was sunk and destroyed.<br />
Were there no other tears?<br />
Frederick the Greek triumphed in the Seven Years War.<br />
Who triumphed with him?<br />
<br />
Each page a victory<br />
At whose expense the victory ball?<br />
Every ten years a great man,<br />
Who paid the piper?<br />
<br />
So many particulars.<br />
So many questions.</span></span><br />
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Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-65924822773536306552011-04-28T14:00:00.000-07:002011-04-28T14:02:52.385-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Anyway</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> - Richard Siken</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">He was dead anyway, a ghost. I'm surprised</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I saw his hand at all. The moon, of course, is always</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">there—day moon, but it's still there; behind the clouds but</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">it's still there. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in a highball glass. The moon? It's free, it doesn't</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">cost you anything so go ahead and look. Sustained attention</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to anything—a focus, a scrutiny—always yields results.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'd live on the moon probably except I think I'd miss</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the moonlight, landscaping craters with clay roses in earthshine</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and a reasonable excuse to avoid visiting hours</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">at the mental hospital. In space, no one can hear you</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">lying to your mom: "Can't make it, Mom. It's</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a really long schlep." The coffee's weak and the coffee cake's</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">imaginary. You're not missing anything. Inside: a day room</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and a day pass. Outside: a gazebo under a jackfruit tree.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The other inside: a deeper understanding of the burden</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and its domestic infrastructure. Make yourself white.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Make yourself snow but the black bears trample</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">your landscape like little black dots that show up on x-rays.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">It is not enough to be a landscape. One must also become</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the path through the landscape, which is creepy. Truly.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The sun melts the snow, the bears wander off, the leaves</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">tremble like all my sad friends. I can still see his hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead. Buried</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">underground, its light was too much to bear. How did it</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">get there? Greed. The brothers who owned it had it</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">buried with them. Later, St. Peter hung it in a tree.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The dead went back to bed, allegedly. One wonders why</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a story like this exists. Who wrote it and to what end?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">An ingenious solution: trees. Cashew, avocado, fig,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">olive. Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">higher. We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">overcoats, the snow falling down. Little black dots.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Some dream of tall things—trees, ladders, a rope trick.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">My dreams are filled with bricks, or things in the shape</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">of bricks. Rectangles in the hot sun. A cow, a car,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a carton of cigarettes. Even my imagination sleeps</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">when I sleep and why not rest? Why crash the party</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">on the astral plane? You'll just be too tired to go</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to the real party later. Have you ever eaten</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Swedish meatballs at a dream party? They taste like</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">your blanket, because they are your blanket.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">My imagination wants breakfast burritos. It refuses</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to punch the clock until then. I could eat six but then</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'd need a nap. A breakfast that puts you back to sleep</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">is useless. Dear bears, we must not hibernate!</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The bathroom tile is always wet and slippery and the door</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">from sleeping to waking always sticks and squeeks</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but I have arrived, triumphant, with corporate coffee!</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Tawnya has written our names on the paper cups</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in her immaculate cursive. Her eyes are dead</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and lusterless but her heart is in the right place, I guess.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Somewhere deep in her chest, I guess.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">We take our hats off and get down</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to business. "You got plans tonight, Dick?"</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Eight dollar spaghetti dinner and all you can sing</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">karaoke at the Best Western. Gonna school</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Pace and Killian in the finer points of falsetto."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Not even one hour later: smoke break</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in the breezeway by the handicapped bathroom.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Why is it we believe we only have one soul?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Because it's easier to set the table for one. And you can</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">sing your dinner tune to yourself while you eat over the sink.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The throat of the sink: silent. The throat of the argument:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">more silverware, a tablecloth, gratitude, more souls.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">A kid under a tablecloth insists he's a ghost. A table</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">underneath a tablecloth is, I guess, like the rest of us,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">only pretending to be invisible. Or worse:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">dressed for work and not in the mood for, you know,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">how it all plays out, always the same ways, boring times infinity.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"When I grow up I'm going to be a truck,"</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">says the kid underneath the tablecloth, and that's one way</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to deflect the weight of the inevitable, to insist on possibility</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in the face of grownups and the pumace of their compromises.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The trees die standing. My Spanish teacher told me this.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I had conjugated the verbs beforehand and taped them</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to the bottom of my sneaker. Cheater, yes. Also uninvested</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in the outcome. She could tell. Nothing to be done about it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Verbs of being and verbs of action. We, neither</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">of us, were doing much anyway at the time and the room was</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">too hot. I think she meant unroot, which is a good thing to mean</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but a difficult thing to hear when you're living under someone</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">else's roof. I climbed trees then, too. Then climbed back down.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">How do I tell you how I got here without getting trapped</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in the past? I suppose that's a bigger question than I expected.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Hey Dick, tell ‘em about that one time when we made out.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">That was a good time." Yes, it was. And yet</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">should we really spend our velocities on backwards motion?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Yes. Any motion, every motion. It's spring, green, take off</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">your coat, pull down your cap, roll up your sleeves, we're</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">hunting, we're arrows, we're stag in a meadow, in a frenzy.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Like I said, Dick. That was a good time."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 1: Was it a good time?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 2: I had fun. You seemed to like it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 3: He's no Neil Armstrong.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 2: Few are.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Neil Armstrong: Hush.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"He was such a colicky baby. Always fussing and crying.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">As if he didn't want to be here at all. Right, Dicky?"</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">No, mom. I don't remember. And you're not supposed to be</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in this part of the poem. You come back later, near the end,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">with the ghost and the hand and the moon, after dark, after</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the gimlets. "Sweetie, you asked for prompts and it's getting dark</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">on the East Coast. Tick tock. And don't type drunk."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Dear East Coast, I'm sorry it's getting dark. It must be problematic,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">living in the future, always a few steps ahead, knowing</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">things you shouldn't say, since they haven't happened</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to the rest of us yet. And Poland? I don't dare wonder</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">what you know about tomorrow. "Your grandma was from Poland."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I know, mom. And grandpa was handsome and you</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">were the smart one and the pretty one. "Still am. Poor Barbara.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">You know, Dicky, I've been out of the hospital for a while now.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Remember how you promised you wouldn't write about me</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">while I was alive, Dicky? Remember? So if you're</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">writing about me that must mean something, yes?"</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">You're not sticking around for the end, then. "No, you're</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">doing fine, Squish. And yes, I miss you, too."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">We cannot tarry here. We must march, we must bear the brunt.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Smoke break: in the alley by the oleanders, the pink ones.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Dear East Coast, it is getting dark here too now. Suddenly.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"It's getting late, Little Moon. Sing them the song."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">It's not that late, Mr. Kitten.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"You are my moon, Little Moon. And it's late enough.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">So climb down out of the tree."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Is it safe? "Safe enough." Are you dead as well?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 1: Sing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 2: Sing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Soul 3: Sing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Stag In The Meadow: Sing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The Black Bears: Sing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Kid Under The Tablecloth: Sing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I've been singing all day.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Yes, you've been singing all day. And no, I'm not dead, not</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">everyone is dead, Little Moon. But the big moon needs the tree."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">There is a ghost at the end of the song.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"Yes, there is. And you see his hand, and then you see the moon."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Am I the ghost at the end of the song?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">"No, you are the way we bounce the light to see the ghost."</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">He was looking at the moon by I was looking at his hand.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">He was dead anyway, a ghost. I'm surprised I saw</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">his hand at all. Once, in a fable, the moon woke the dead.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">One wonders why a story like this exists. Who wrote it</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and to what end? Sure, everyone wants the same things—</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to belong, and to not be left behind—but still, does it help?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Perhaps. Once, in a fable: a man in a tree. Once,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in a fable: the trace of his thinking, the sound of his singing.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">The light of the mind illuminating the mind itself.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb higher.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the snow falling down.<br /><br /></span><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-79894653105729094262011-03-20T16:55:00.000-07:002011-03-20T16:57:48.775-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">A History of White People</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> - Jerome Sala</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">white people were paid well</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">not to witness</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the fact that they were white</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">you know the theory</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">white isn't a color</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but color's unlimited absence</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">white goes with anything</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">that's why it seemed fair that white people</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">conquered the world</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">they were the real invisible men</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">cause they could perch on top of a country</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and say they weren't there</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">they could move through its neighborhoods</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">like mysterious aliens</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">with this difference:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in ufological lore</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">aliens often infiltrate a world</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">without its inhabitants knowing about it</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but when white people invaded</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">everyone could see them</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but themselves</span><br /><br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-89471652333807309262011-03-20T13:00:00.000-07:002011-03-20T13:02:18.578-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Notes Towards a Poem That Can Never Be Written</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> - Margaret Atwood</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">This is the place</span></span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">you would rather not know about</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">This is the place that will inhabit you</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">This is the place you cannot imagine</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">This is the place that will finally defeat you</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> where the word why shrivels and empties</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">itself. This is famine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> There is no poem you can write</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">about it, the sandpits</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> where so many were buried</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">& unearthed, the unendurable</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">pain still traced on their skins.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> We make wreaths of adjectives for them,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">we count them like beads,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">we turn them into statistics and litanies</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and into poems like this one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> Nothing works,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">They remain what they are.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> The woman lies on the wet cement floor</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">under the unending light,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">needle marks on her arms put there</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to kill the brain</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and wonders why she is dying</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> She is dying because she said.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">She is dying for the sake of the word.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">It is her body, silent</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and fingerless, writing this poem.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> It resembles an operation</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but it is not one</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> nor despite the spread legs, grunts</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">& blood, is it a birth.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> Partly, it's a job</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">partly it's a display of skill</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">like a concerto.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> It can be done badly</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">or well, they tell themselves.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> Partly, it's an art.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> The facts of this world seen clearly</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">are seen through tears;</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">why tell me then</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">there is something wrong with my eyes?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> To see clearly and without flinching,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">without turning away,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">this is agony, the eyes taped open</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">two inches from the sun.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">What is it you see then?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Is it a bad dream, a hallucination?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Is it a vision?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">What is it you hear?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> The razor across the eyeball</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">is a detail from an old film.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">It is also a truth.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Witness is what you must bear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">In this country you can say what you like</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">because no one will listen to you anyway,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">it's safe enough, in this country you can try to write</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the poem that can never be written,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the poem that invents</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">nothing and excuses nothing,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">because you invent and excuse yourself each day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"> Elsewhere, this poem is not invention.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Elsewhere, this poem takes courage.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Elsewhere, this poem must be written</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">because the poets are already dead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Elsewhere, this poem must be written</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">as if you are already dead,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">as if nothing more can be done</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">or said to save you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Elsewhere you must write this poem</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">because the is nothing more to do.<br /><br /></span></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-40437964376363389112011-03-17T23:21:00.000-07:002011-03-17T23:22:47.589-07:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><b style="font-family: arial;">There is a pleasure in the pathless woods - </b><span style="font-family: arial;">George Gordon, Lord Byron </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">There is a rapture on the lonely shore,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">There is society, where none intrudes,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">By the deep sea, and music in its roar:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I love not man the less, but Nature more,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">From these our interviews, in which I steal</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">From all I may be, or have been before,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">To mingle with the Universe, and feel</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.</span></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-21890642426640684482011-01-29T13:08:00.000-08:002011-01-29T13:10:43.697-08:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">from A Life for a Life</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> - Dinah Maria Mulock Craik</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Oh, the comfort—</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person—</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">but pouring them all right out,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">just as they are,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">chaff and grain together;</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">keep what is worth keeping,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.</span><br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-40933225061552733702011-01-19T12:03:00.000-08:002011-01-19T12:04:35.535-08:00<p style="font-family: arial;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><b>Love is a Deep and a Dark and a Lonely</b> - Carl Sandburg</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span> </p><div style="font-family: arial;" class="entryText"><span style="font-size:100%;">love is a deep and a dark and a lonely<br />and you take it deep take it dark<br />and take it with a lonely winding<br />and when the winding gets too lonely<br />then may come the windflowers<br />and the breath of wind over many flowers<br />winding its way out of many lonely flowers<br />waiting in rainleaf whispers<br />waiting in dry stalks of noon<br />wanting in a music of windbreaths<br />so you can take love as it comes keening<br />as it comes with a voice and a face<br />and you make a talk of it<br />talking to yourself a talk worth keeping<br />and you put it away for a keen keeping<br />and you find it to be a hoarding<br />and you give it away and yet it stays hoarded<br /><br />like a book read over and over again<br />like one book being a long row of books<br />like leaves of windflowers bending low<br />and bending to be never broken<br /><br /></span></div>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-80451927479990985432010-12-14T03:59:00.000-08:002010-12-14T09:52:46.760-08:00<span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica;font-size:100%;" ><b>Black Rook in Rainy Weather </b>- Sylvia Plath</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> On the stiff twig up there</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Hunches a wet black rook</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I do not expect a miracle</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Or an accident</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">To set the sight on fire</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In my eye, nor seek</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Any more in the desultory weather some design,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Without ceremony, or portent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Although, I admit, I desire,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Occasionally, some backtalk</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">From the mute sky, I can’t honestly complain:</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A certain minor light may still</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Lean incandescent</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Out of kitchen table or chair</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As if a celestial burning took</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then —</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Thus hallowing an interval</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Otherwise inconsequent</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">By bestowing largesse, honor</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One might say love. At any rate, I now walk</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wary (for it could happen</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Yet politic; ignorant</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Of whatever angel any choose to flare</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Ordering its black feathers can so shine</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As to seize my senses, haul</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My eyelids up, and grant</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A brief respite from fear</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Of total neutrality. With luck,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Trekking stubborn through this season</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Of fatigue, I shall</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Patch together a content</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Of sorts. Miracles occur.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If you care to call those spasmodic</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The long wait for the angel,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For that rare, random descent.</span><br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-48919508740519377922010-12-08T18:47:00.000-08:002010-12-08T18:48:12.748-08:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Imagine</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> - John Lennon </span></span> <div style="font-family: arial;" class="feat"> </div> <div style="font-family: arial;" class="authors"> </div> <p style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Imagine there's no heaven<br />It's easy if you try<br />No hell below us<br />Above us only sky<br />Imagine all the people<br />Living for today...<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Imagine there's no countries<br />It isn't hard to do<br />Nothing to kill or die for<br />And no religion too<br />Imagine all the people<br />Living life in peace...<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You may say I'm a dreamer<br />But I'm not the only one<br />I hope someday you'll join us<br />And the world will be as one<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Imagine no possessions<br />I wonder if you can<br />No need for greed or hunger<br />A brotherhood of man<br />Imagine all the people<br />Sharing all the world...<br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You may say I'm a dreamer</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">But I'm not the only one</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I hope someday you'll join us</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And the world will live as one</span><br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-60756407964417252752010-12-06T13:37:00.000-08:002010-12-06T13:38:48.812-08:00<span style="font-family: arial;font-family:Arial,Helvetica;font-size:100%;" ><b>The Queen of Carthage</b></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" > - </span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:Arial,Helvetica;font-size:100%;" >Louise Glück</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Brutal to love,<br />more brutal to die.<br />And brutal beyond the reaches of justice<br />to die of love.<br /><br />In the end, Dido<br />summoned her ladies in waiting<br />that they might see<br />the harsh destiny inscribed for her by the Fates.<br /><br />She said, “Aeneas<br />came to me over the shimmering water;<br />I asked the Fates<br />to permit him to return my passion,<br />even for a short time. What difference<br />between that and a lifetime: in truth, in such moments,<br />they are the same, they are both eternity.<br /><br />I was given a great gift<br />which I attempted to increase, to prolong.<br />Aeneas came to me over the water: the beginning<br />blinded me.<br /><br />Now the Queen of Carthage<br />will accept suffering as she accepted favor:<br />to be noticed by the Fates<br />is some distinction after all.<br /><br />Or should one say, to have honored hunger,<br />since the Fates go by that name also.”<br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-82101698540353010182010-11-26T14:26:00.000-08:002010-11-26T14:27:48.012-08:00<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Gravity</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> - Maura O'Connor</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Today I am fragile</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">pale</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">twitching</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">insane and full of purpose.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm thinking of my lover:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">my soft hips pressing his coarse belly,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">my tongue on a salmon nipple,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">his hand buried in my thick orange hair</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the telephone ringing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm thinking we tend our illnesses</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">as if they are our children:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">fevered</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">screaming</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">demanding attention and twenty dollar bills,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">hours we could have spent making love with the television on.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Faith is a series of calculations</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">made by an idiot savant.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm in love.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm alone</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">in this city of painted boxes</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">stacked like alphabet blocks</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">spelling nothing.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" name="cutid1"></a><span style="font-family: arial;">There are things I know:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">trees don't sing</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">birds don't sprout leaves</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">roses bloom because that's what roses do,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">whether we write poems for them</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">or not.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I concentrate on small things:</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">ivy threaded through chain link,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">giveaway kittens huddled in a soggy cardboard box,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a fat man blowing a harmonica</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">through a beard of rusty wires</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">brown birds chattering furiously on power lines.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I try not to think about</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">lung cancer, AIDS,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the chemicals in the rain;</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">things I can't imagine any more than</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a color I've never seen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">My heart is graffiti on the side of a subway train,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a shadow on the wall made by a child.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Nothing has been fair since my first skinned knee</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I believe death</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">must be.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I cling to love as if it were an answer.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I go on buying eggs and bread,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">boots and corsets,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">knowing I'll burn out before the sun.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm thinking of</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the days I tried to stay awake</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">while the billboards and TV ads</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">for condoms, microwave brownies, and dietetic jello</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">lulled me to sleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">A brown-eyed girl once told me a secret</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">that should have blown this city</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">into a mass of unconnected atoms</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Our sewage is piped to the sea.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Beggars in the street</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">are hated for having the nerve</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to die in public.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Charity requires paperwork,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Relief requires medication</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">as if we were the afterthoughts of institutions</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">greater than our rage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Gravity chains us to the asphalt with such grace</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">we think it is kind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">We all go on buying lottery tickets</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Diet Coke and toothpaste</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">as if the sky over our heads</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">were the roof of a gilded cage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">We provide evidence that we were here:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">initials cut into cracked vinyl bus seats,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">into trees growing from squares</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">of concrete,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a name left on a stone, an office building,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a flower, a disease, a museum,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a child.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Tonight the stars glitter like rhinestones</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">on a black suede glove.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">In the coffin my room has become,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I talk to God</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">about the infrequency of rain</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">about people who can't see the current gentleness</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">running under the pale crust of my skin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I tell him under</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the jackhammer crack, the diesel truck rumble,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">even the clicking sound traffic lights make</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">switching from yellow to red,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">there is a silence</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">swallowing</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">every song,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">conversation,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">every whisper made beside graves</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">or in the twisted white sheets of love.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I tell him I can't fill it</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">with dark wine, blue pills,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">a pink candle lit at the altar</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the lover</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">touching my hair.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">God doesn't answer.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">God doesn't know our names.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">He's only the architect</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">designing the places we occupy</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">like high rise offices or ant hills</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I know this</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the way I know</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">sunrise and sunset</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">are caused by the endless turning</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">of the Earth.</span><br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-42238683502356833782010-11-23T10:11:00.001-08:002010-11-23T10:11:51.867-08:00<span style="font-family: arial;font-family:Arial,Helvetica;font-size:100%;" ><b>Not a Sparrow </b>- Tess Gallagher</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Just when I think the Buddhists</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">are wrong and life is not mostly suffering,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I find a dead finch near the feeder.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">How sullen, how free of regret, this death</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">that sinks worlds. I bury her near</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the bicycle shed and return to care for</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">my aged mother, whose suffering</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">is such oxygen we do not consider it,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">meaning life at any point exceeds</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the price. A little more. A little more.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" name="cutid1"></a><span style="font-family: arial;">That same afternoon, having restored balance,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I discover a junco fallen on its back, beak</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to air, rain pelting the prospect. Does</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">my feeder tempt flight through windows?</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">And, despite evidence, do some</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">accomplish it?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Digging a hole for the second bird, I find</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">the first gone. If I don’t think “raccoons”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">or “dogs,” I can have a quiet, unwitnessed</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">miracle. Not a feather remains.</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">In goes the junco. I swipe earth over it,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">set a pot on top. Time</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">to admit the limitations of death as</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">admonition.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Still, two dead birds in an afternoon</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">lets strange sky into the mind: birds flying</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">through windows, flying through</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">earth. Suffering must be like that too: equipped</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">with inexplicable escapes where the mind</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">watches the hand level dirt over the emptied grave</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">and, overpowered by the idea of wings,</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">keeps right on flying</span><br /><br /></span>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9475979.post-49365928970334817962010-11-08T14:04:00.000-08:002010-11-08T14:05:34.791-08:00<p style="font-family: arial;"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><b>it may not always be so; and i say </b>- ee cummings<br /></span></p><dl style="font-family: arial;"><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">it may not always be so; and i say </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">that if your lips,which i have loved, should touch </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">his heart, as mine in time not far away; </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">if on another's face your sweet hair lay </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">in such a silence as i know, or such </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">stand helplessly before the spirit at bay; </span></dt><dd><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></dd><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">if this should be, i say if this should be-- </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">you of my heart, send me a little word; </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">that i may go unto him, and take his hands, </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">saying, Accept all happiness from me. </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird </span></dt><dt><span style="font-size:100%;">sing terribly afar in the lost lands. </span></dt><dd><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></dd></dl>Mareehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02424135776902766867noreply@blogger.com0