Category Archives: Creative Writing

Lost Maps

…as a child, the sun on my cheeks, warm grass under bare feet, running up green, undulating hills, rolling down their far sides. Our laughter. Blue sky, wheeling birds, puffs of clouds, cotton wisps, kite scudding below. Thinking “This. This, … Continue reading

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Russia Idyll

A Russian summer, nostalgic and dreamy, textured and spare, Bunin’s landscape and lovers under the sun, in sunflower fields, awaiting inevitable snow… awaiting, perhaps, the exile’s return from Paris, from Nobel, like Gorky, poor Gorky, the dead son, the shuttered … Continue reading

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Eh…

These things I warrant, and see, these ghosts, aspirations and hopes these fading things. My eyes, in a cracked mirror. This ghost, clattering… I talk so fucking fast. A poet of listicles. Shallower than Plath. No clue where my inner … Continue reading

Posted in Creative Writing, Midlife, Poem, poetry | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

Deserted Son

Some hidden memory, of your time in the womb – your small thoughts flashing, dreaming of desert dancers and gyring dust. A soon to be birthing majnūn, A mum’s janīn, the bitter surprising result of tousled sheets and nights with … Continue reading

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A Ballerina, On a Shaking Shore

for W. C. Williams, and some others There is a flickering of midnight torches along the edges of Atlantic beaches, these shuttering retreats, ghosted fall houses of Eastham, Wellfleet’s quiet drive-in, Truro’s barque emerging above the waterline. Oh, Newman, what … Continue reading

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Dark Waters

On the banks of the enormous Oguta lake we buried the dead, we buried the memories of the living, and the dead. The Black Scorpion scuttling On the banks of the enormous Oguta lake. Oh goddess, oh Uhamiri, we see … Continue reading

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I Would Show You

I would show you how the wind measures each mile of dust sweeps across the edges pierced by missiles caressing the wounded and the dead I would show you how to fold flags as the wind billows the fabric into … Continue reading

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