A Room For Poetry

deviantArt The new bookkeeper looks disheveled – she is about my age but her eyes are tired. She smiles at times but it appears forced. For the most part, her expression is less – expressionless; and as she sits like that the corners of her mouth turn down just slightly – enough to suggest some complacency and slight unhappiness. There is no real effort. Janet Jarrell

With special permission, I am posting a beautiful poem from Kenia, a fellow avid blogger, writer and poet (not necessarily in that order). The following poem, much to my absolute delight, was dedicated to me. I shared the poem with my children on Thanksgiving as a little toast during our dinner. Kenia has a gift. She has the ability to express truth beautifully through words; what more could be asked from a writer. I love visiting her blog, reading her words, and seeing my own thoughts expressed skillfully in her poems, both in Portuguese and English. For a little taste of her inspiration… http://poesiatorta.blogspot.com/ Vou usar seus olhos alegres Como armadura Quando minha imagem no espelho For difícil demais de olhar E buscarei neles a bravura necessária Para travar minhas intermináveis batalhas Diárias E chegar em casa em tempo de prepara-te o jantar - Porque é exatamente isso que as mães fazem e você não ouse esquecer que por trás de todo o metal há um coração que pulsa por voc

see myself staggering through deep snow lugging blocks of wood yesterday an old man almost falling from bodily weakness - look down on myself from above then front and both sides white hair - wrinkled face and hands it's really not very surprising that love spoken by my voice should be when I am listening ridiculous yet there it is a foolish old man with brain on fire stumbling through the snow - the loss of love that comes to mean more than the love itself and how explain that? - a still pool in the forest that has ceased to reflect anything except the past - remains a sort of half-love that is akin to kindness and I am angry remembering remembering the song of flesh to flesh and bone to bone the loss is better Beyond Remembering - The collected poems of Al Purdy.

THE golden-rod is yellow; The corn is turning brown; The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down. The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun. The sedges flaunt their harvest, In every meadow nook; And asters by the brook-side Make asters in the brook. From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies. By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather, And autumn's best of cheer. But none of all this beauty Which floods the earth and air Is unto me the secret Which makes September fair. 'T is a thing which I remember; To name it thrills me yet: One day of one September I never can forget.

More than a storey high and twice that long, it looks igneous, the Buhler Versatile 2360, possessed of the ecology of some hellacious minor island on which options are now standard. Cresting the sections in a corona part dirt, part heat, it appears risen full blown from our deeper needs, aspirating its turbo-cooled air, articulated and fully compatible. What used to take a week it does in a day on approximately a half mile to the gallon. It cost one hundred fifty grand. We hope to own it outright by 2017. Few things wrought by human hands are more sublime than the Buhler Versatile 2360. Across the road, a crew erects the floodlit derricks of a Texan outfit whose presumptions are consistently vindicated. The ancient seabed will be fractured to 1,000 feet by pressuring through a pipe literal tons of a fluid — the constituents of which are best left out of this — to tap the sweet gas where it lies like the side our bread is buttered on. The earth shakes terribly then, dear Houston, dear p