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Jul. 17th, 2017 03:00 pm
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M Morgan aka Milda Marjama; 9796
© Bill Pusztai 2011


M Morgan aka Milda Marjama; 9968
© Bill Pusztai 2011


M Morgan aka Milda Marjama; 9727
© Bill Pusztai 2011

words )

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Jul. 16th, 2017 11:22 am
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Hemerocallis 'Kachina Dancer'; 0220
© Bill Pusztai 2017

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Jul. 15th, 2017 01:14 pm
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[personal profile] bitterlawngnome
Crow and the Birds
 
When the eagle soared clear through a dawn distilling of emerald
When the curlew trawled in seadusk through a chime of wineglasses
When the swallow swooped through a woman's song in a cavern
And the swift flicked through the breath of a violet
 
When the owl sailed clear of tomorrow's conscience
And the sparrow preened himself of yesterday's promise
And the heron laboured clear of the Bessemer upglare
And the bluetit zipped clear of lace panties
And the woodpecker drummed clear of the rotovator and the rose-farm
And the peewit tumbled clear of the laundromat
 
While the bullfinch plumped in the apple bud
And the goldfinch bulbed in the sun
And the wryneck crooked in the moon
And the dipper peered from the dewball
 
Crow spraddled head-down in the beach-garbage, guzzling a dropped ice-cream.
 
Ted Hughes, 1971
 

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Jul. 9th, 2017 06:22 pm
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Cottonwood Garden, Vancouver, 2017-07-09; 0119
© Bill Pusztai 2017

Morning in the Burned House Margaret Atwood

In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.

The spoon which was melted scrapes against 
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.

Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,

every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,

the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud 
rises up silently like dark bread. 

I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.

I can’t see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything

in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,

including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

bare child’s feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent. 

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Todd H. Page

June 2010

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