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poems: Coming Home
http://carolpeterspoems.blogspot.com/2013/08/coming-home.html
Thursday, August 15, 2013. I mistake my kitten for a demon. Breathing sparks and trailing fire. He grew wilder. While I was gone. When I crouch low. Outside the front screen door, he raises his paws. Mewing like a child lost, now found. Back when I was eighteen, stranded. Without my car, the aged Pontiac I lived in. That summer between high school and college,. I saved my tips to buy. A Ducati —. All I could afford. Freshmen couldn’t have cars. At this women’s school, but no one thought. My mother aiming...
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Way: Bhanu Kapil
http://carolpeters2013.blogspot.com/2013/11/30-november-2013.html
Saturday, November 30, 2013. Pratt Institute Writers' Forum. 3 A Healing Narrative. Fragments attract each other, a swarm of iron filings, black with golden flecks but without a soul. I stroke them with my finger so they scatter then relax. In the involuntary response to being touched. Against the tree, a woman is pinned, upright and strung with lights or gunpowder flares and nodes. Who stuck her there? Can you smell her burning fur? One day per room. It's raining. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom).
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Days: 2011-2012: Playing the Dozens
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Sunday, December 18, 2011. Towns that look like pebbles or flushed quail. 8211; Jorge Teillier. Parrots that shriek like tickled babies or goosed nuns. Horses that pair head to tail like boxed shoes or mannikin feet. Beetles that twine in long hair like rope climbers or plastic beads. Blond skinks that speckle black like bananas or sand. Foxes that scale and rifle garbage bins like urchins or druggies. Ducks that dive like high school grades or barnstormers at town fairs. December 19, 2011 at 10:21 AM.
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poems: After Watching Another Video of the Tsunami
http://carolpeterspoems.blogspot.com/2013/08/after-watching-another-video-of-tsunami.html
Thursday, August 15, 2013. After Watching Another Video of the Tsunami. Half a city flooded on top of the other,. Houses broken apart, whoever. Was inside them gone, whether. Or not anyone reported them missing. Gone because the houses are downriver. Once these were homes. Many who lived in these homes. Don’t care, they’re dead. After Fukushima. Who remembers how many died —. Many more, we suspect, will die. Why not watch, again and again. The wave when it arrived, how it damaged. 8212; 13 August 2013.
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poems: Mrs. X
http://carolpeterspoems.blogspot.com/2013/07/mrs-x.html
Wednesday, July 31, 2013. The woman pulls her wealth behind her. In a wheeled cart. If she’s my mother. It’s because between our last visit. The day my family told me she died —. Alone in her sleep — she escaped,. Queened herself onto a plane. To San Francisco, a bus to Santa Cruz,. Her white blouse tucked into frayed slacks,. Permanent curls though she’s transient —. She’s taller now, seems thinner. But bustier, if foundered swells signify —. Cratered-moon face, moth-wing hands,. 8212; 9 September 2013.
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Days: 2011-2012: The Dawn of Summer
http://carolpeterspo.blogspot.com/2011/12/dawn-of-summer.html
Saturday, December 17, 2011. The Dawn of Summer. These days of half sun,. Half cloud at the dawn of summer. When cool drops fall from a blue sky,. The violent spring winds. At last have died. Sheets hang motionless,. At noon pillowcases merely sway. This Saturday, two more left in December,. Running out of things to say. Aware of a noise. Above the vigorous digging of its hole,. Climbs to the top, listens,. Climbs higher and sees me. Northern peaks are lost in fog,. Southerns gray and black.
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Way: Denise Levertov
http://carolpeters2013.blogspot.com/2015/06/denise-levertov.html
Saturday, June 27, 2015. The Allen Ginsburg Project. When she cannot be sure. Which of two lovers it was with whom she felt. This or that moment of pleasure, of something fiery. Streaking from head to heels, the way the white. Flame of a cascade streaks a mountainside. Seen from a car across a valley, the car. Changing gear, skirting a precipice,. Climbing . . . When she can sit or walk for hours after a movie. Talking earnestly and with bursts of laughter. With friends, without worrying. The old roads, ...
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translations: January 2011
http://carol-peters.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html
Sunday, January 30, 2011. Now the ballerina dances. The dance of losing all. Everything she's owned she lets fall,. Parents and siblings, country and gardens,. Sound of her river, her roads,. Her story of home, her face. Name and childhood games. Like one who lets whatever she had. Fall from her neck, her breast, her soul. At dawn of day and solstice. Smiling she dances her perfect ruin. Her arms fling to the wind the world. That loves and hates, smiles and kills,. The land ripe for a blood harvest.
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translations: Vision
http://carol-peters.blogspot.com/2011/08/vision.html
Tuesday, August 30, 2011. In desire’s deep mirror,. Or was it divine, simply life. Where I saw you watch me sleep the other night? In my alcove swelled by loneliness and fear,. You appeared at my side mute. As a giant mushroom, dead and alive,. Spawned in night’s corners. Slimy with shadowy loneliness. You bent to me, slung. Like a lake’s cup of crystal. Over desert’s slick of fire;. You bent to me, as sickness. Gives life to faultless opiates. Stony bindings of Death. You bent to me like a believer.
SOCIAL ENGAGEMENT