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from Death in the World

At last you're here, at last you leave
us a hollow in the heart of the bitter jungle,
at last you lie stiff between walls
that you won't breach. And every day
the flowers, ike a river of perfume,
joined the river of the dead.
The flowers untouched by life
fell on the hollow that you left.
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from To Envy

The heavy wind of age
brought in its flight
dust, food,
seeds split off from love,
petals wound with snakes,
cruel ash of dead hatred,
and everything
flourished in the wounded mouth.
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from Beyond Your Lands, America

From the blood Stalingrad surges
like an orchestra of water, stone, and iron,
and bread's reborn in the bakeries,
springtime in the schools,
it raises new scaffolds, new trees,
while the old iron Volga pulses on.
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from From My Journey

Why, instead, did this borderland choose me;
and what does this haven offer
but a wind that whips at my face
and flowers blackened and beaten down
by the long winter?
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from Someone

He was so afraid, he found a woman.
She was like a hedgehog, like a chestnut.
She was an edible being,
but man needed her.
The two were unique,
reborn from the earth
and fated for love or destruction.
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XI - Epitaph

This was the wounded lover:
during the night, woven with pathways,
she dreamed of victory,
she embraced the grief.
Her lover was a sword.
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from I Recall the Sea

I recall the sea, the pocked iron coasts
of Coquimbo, the imperious waters of Tralea,
the solitary waves of the South, that formed me.
I recal in Purerto Montt or in the islands, at night,
or returning along the beach, the boat waiting,
and our feet left fire in their tracks,
the mysterious flames of a phosphorescent god.
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from The Long Day Called Thursday

That womb
kept me curled up,
waiting to be born, still and liquid,
a flabby substance
enmeshed in nonexistence,
and I put off getting out
for hours on end,
stirring m legs deliciously,
in the underwater warmth.
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The Bull

The oldest bull crossed the day,
His legs scratched the planet.he continued, traveling to where the sea lives,
He reached the shore, the oldest bull.
On the edge of time, the ocean.
He closed his eyes and grass covered him.
He breathed the whole green distance.
And silence built the rest.
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from Autumn Testament

I'm adaptable as the wind is,
with the yellowest leaves,
with the fallen histories
in the eyes of statues,
and if I come to rest anywhere,
it's in the nub of the fire,
the throbbing crackling part
that flies off to nowhere.
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From Ode to Walt Whitman

But not just earth by itself
was brought into the light
by the work of his shovel:
he disinterred humanity.
And the slaves who were abased
along with him, balancing
the black dignity of their stature,
went on to conquer happiness.
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From Ode to Criticism (iii)

Like a white ship,
half open
like a new rose,
it was
to my eyes
a mill,
from each page
of my book
sprouted the flower of bread;
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from Ode to Ironing

Poetry is white:
it comes from water swathed in drops,
it wrinkles and gathers,
this planet's skin has to spread out,
the sea's whiteness has to be ironed out,
and the hands keep moving,
the sacred surfaces get smoothed,
and things are done this way:

Prompts!

Jan. 1st, 2016 12:24 am
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I've given out prompts to the three of us participating in this challenge, so just let me know if you need a replacement stanza. I'm really excited to see what we come up with this year!
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