Randolph! Randolph?
Methinks all this calls for a very special LETTERS project. No? There's such
fine letters-poetry coming through right now it all makes me itchin' to
write poems again.
Best
Árni
--
Árni Ibsen
Stekkjarkinn 19,
220 Hafnarfjördur,
Iceland
tel.: +354-555-3991
e-mail: [log in to unmask]
http://www.centrum.is/~aibsen/
on 12/7/02 10:32 PM, Anny Ballardini at [log in to unmask] wrote:
> letter
>
> dear frederick
>
> there is a time in the year when things get very clear
> because they unfold from depth but i don’t want to cry yet
> my wish is to believe
>
> and Klimtean women come to you through the mirror
> when you ask me from afar how i am
> new pieces of furniture make it home here
> with incense burnt and drops of perfume of rose for venus
>
> she’ll remember and protect - those of pine tree are for plutonic forces
> that they allow me to be prepared
> i often listen to your voice telling me to relax
> and so i do and i breathe
>
> you know that i know that i can stop
>
> it’s maybe this winter, as all winters, not cold but inhospitable
> and the craziness of a vortex of weeks
> well cut in days and hours bombed by people’s interests
> no space left for thoughts and the eagle’s eye pulled inside by a scarf
> gloves
> to guard paul’s cry it got through the fissures of the windows
> and since then they’ve never left
>
> you see they are eating i told them i picked up the apples
> it is not true but i don’t consider it a lie
> the text of the boy recited: psychological displacement
> to avoid pain
> it is the essence of poetry
>
> love you dearly frederick, i’ll be waiting for your thoughts
>
> (not forcibly pollack)
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