Why they did what they did

There they were, all in a row, crowding the wires strung high over the street, balanced over tight-gripping claws, looking something like small crows.  They were sparrows.

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Filed under creative process, fable draft

Spelling your name, 3 drafts

Last night I fell asleep under only a sheet.  There was a chill rain all night, and my windows were open.  Later I woke from the cold.  My right hand was tracing the name of the man I love in the sheets, which was surprising and memorable.

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Collecting bowls and such

While meditating the other day, these visions flowed in:
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magic fills my air

my body is tired
worn out from pushing
my boat was cast too far inland
and dragging was out of the question

i rode a wave
ten thousand feet tall
no match for the mountain
whose pink walls rise from my imagined eyes

my time at sea is over
i return to my journey inside human kindness
a flood of people into my world
i snap and sketch
and pinch myself
can this be real
only dreams a moment ago

magic fills my air

derek

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Callery pears

Callery pears,
their white lace and cream
like Watteau;
the etchiness of oaks
in bud,
scribbled high.
Reach for the sky,
the sap’s up!
As sweet and raw as a wood fire
am I,
and sad as the sea.
What to do?

© 21 Apr 2009, Heather Quinn, all rights reserved

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Frederick Seidel, poetry, love

On the weekend, I read an article in the NYTimes about Frederick Seidel, whom I’d never heard of.  He reads six of his own poems in a multimedia piece attached to the article. His six readings, which last less than a quarter of an hour, taught me more about what I do wrong when writing than anything I’ve ever come across.

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Patience

I am a desert.

Mirages sprout
on my horizons
big enough to
walk around in.

Then recede,
untouchable as tomorrow.

Yet,
the lost wisdom
of a dozen races
lies hidden beneath
my drifts.

Waiting:
to be jiggled by
some archaeologist’s
spade.

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Filed under poetry drafts