I like that Michael, although anecdotal poetry isn't always to my taste this
has a conviction about it. And a sonnet too, eh?!
Best
Dave
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
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Painting Without Numbers
www.paintstuff.20m.com/index.htm
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm
----- Original Message -----
From: "Michael Snider" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Friday, December 21, 2001 2:38 AM
Subject: Re: Hypocrisies
> On Thursday, December 20, 2001, at 09:19 PM, david.bircumshaw wrote:
>
> >> Since none of us has access to
> >> real data, why not just drop it and talk about poetry -- something we,
> >> presumably, know something about.
> >>
> >
> > Michael
> >
> > I did post a poem today, one about the psychological effect on the space
> > poetry requires of the current climate, and Alison and Peter responded
> > in
> > ways that could be furthered in discussion, but since then the bombs
> > have
> > started falling on the list again.
> >
> > Best
> >
> > Dave
> >
>
> And I just dropped one of them.
>
> I'm not sure yet whether I'm sorry, but I do owe a poem:
>
> The Fall
>
>
> When we'd pile in my great-aunt's Chevrolet
> And drive to see the trees turned red and gold,
> Grandma would scowl. "Reminds me of death," she'd say.
> "It means that everything is getting old."
> "Now, Helen, 'after winter comes the spring.'"
> But she'd have none of that. "It came and went
> For you and me, Sister." And then she'd sing
> "Go, tell Aunt Rhody, " just for devilment.
> I have her picture, 19, sure to break
> The heart of every man she ever met --
> Another from her fifties, in a fake
> Nun's habit sucking on a cigarette,
> And both are faithful. Grandma, you were right.
> There's nothing grows in Fall except the night.
>
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