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Archive for the 'exercises' Category

revised sonnet

Miss Coca-Cola 1943 For my grandmother, Isabel Blackwell Roberts (b.1925-1977) “Passion moves inward, striking and blighting the deepest cellular recesses.” – Susan Sontag, Disease and It’s Metaphors Your young figure cinched in by a woolknit, striped bathing-suit, your fingers enclose the waist of a coke bottle, dark and fit as a tiny dressmakers’ dummy, poised […]

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Heroic Couplet revision

Naucrate at the Death-scene of Icarus “In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.” (Matthew 2:18) Hand spun, now crumpled, wings hang like gentle sails, harnessed with leather to his genteel back. Hair, deep as night, […]

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Chimney Swifts It was this same time: an early winter. Columns of black birds undulated across the paling sky at evening, soundless. I’m grown. Where I live now, the cold will bring snow. But there, then, it meant only less light, moderate cold, damp sadness, robbed of lucidity, framed in magnolia, yella pine, and papery […]

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Photograph Sonnet

Miss Coca-Cola 1943 For my grandmother, Isabel Blackwell Roberts, 1925-1977 “Passion moves inward, striking and blighting the deepest cellular recesses.” – Susan Sontag, Disease and It’s Metaphors Her own figure stitched in by a woolknit, striped bathing-suit, her fingers enclose the waist of a coke bottle, dark and fit as a tiny dressmakers’ dummy, poised […]

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Quatrains.

View from a Window: Murrels’ Inlet, S.C. Square, white clapboard planter holds heads of puff-pink crowned geraniums; her hands dead-headed the rest, frail brown casings mingled with plums in the barrel’s heap. Among grass warm bricks lay like honeycombs, held hexagons, each by six neighbors. Giving way to planks lain, felled trees aligned like rows, […]

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(painting by Herbert James Draper) Death-scene of Icarus Hand spun, now crippled, they hang like gentle sails, harnessed with leather to his genteel back. Hair, deep as night, lies in folds, laced through with weeds, on the sky-runner’s quiet brow. Red shadows, like winter trees, stretch across in congealing, rusted rivers. Limbs, traced in blood, […]

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“Crying with the Chimney Swifts” Papery brown blades are folding under the running shoes of a boy. He misses the pigskin football, raised Braille clanging on the iron, ivied lamppost. The tired, nothing sky of winter holds out, and would mean snow if it were not for the long-leafed yella pines and magnolias framing it. […]

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OK, so our first creative assignment is not due for another week, and–until this moment–“Intertextuality” was dedicated solely to Brit Lit to 1800, and hence, Beowulf…BUT, I needed to give this a shot. Kinzie is motivating and enlightening and inspiring to say the least. And this stuff is difficult. (I defy you to figure out […]

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