SUBJECT>Re: Fourth Sunday POSTER>Laurel EMAIL> DATE>1107709952 EMAILNOTICES>no IP_ADDRESS>cpe-204-210-183-225.neo.rr.com PASSWORD>aaFRbor6/KzWk PREVIOUS>83072 NEXT> IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Thank god for this again. I read this over on the other side and liked it alot. Also enjoyed reading Bern's comments. The last 3 lines knock me down to the ground. But then, the whole poem does.

This, my dear, is sublime:

The cherry is in two cycles at once.
Late autumn witherings, inebriated bats, cling:
intermittering dithering blossoms
as if no branch
decides.

Oh, damn---the whole poem is.

We flee to the hearth, not from it---meanwhile, I just mistyped hearth as heart.

I learn so much reading your poems, Annmarie. I like reading poetry that makes me aspire to more in my own. You've got the bar raised out of my reach, but I can stand on tippy toes and dream, can't I? (grin)

A pleasure, ma'am, to read you.

Laurel

: again!!

: Fourth Sunday

: A baragnotic sky: from here should I have
: followed its trammelled droppings,
: mud unparalleled. But windings

: are not clear. There is the Abbey which repels
: or magnetises according to the direction
: approached. This uncomplicated,

: yet eschatological, near
: vertical, a
: grace

: merely pinioned, quasi-simple – led.
: A hysteresis threaded flat
: within all travels shies
: us where-

: ever we dare not yet think
: we can. We end(ed) up where
: we end, driven somehow, pushed by signs. I spy

: Romney sheep, glutinous hyphens
: expostulating upon half-dead baize.
: Rooks splay a disjectorous cuneiform.

: Plainsong was not that but a lazy circuitous
: and hard. The typo read: and is the music upon
: which the prayer of Benedictine monks is based.
: It includes some of the oldest melodies eve
: created.

: The cherry is in two cycles at once.
: Late autumn witherings, inebriated bats, cling:
: intermittering dithering blossoms
: as if no branch
: decides.

: As such, hedges too look confused, dirty
: and irritable. A returning crow morses across
: hastily pastelled haar,
: aching to scape from throat some heart. We flee

: to the hearth, not from it. I may have said
: many things from afar. But the straight
: is always anspoggic.

: Like you, I have shed my corrections.
: Unheroic. Written.

: Most paths are.