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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


from The Carmody-Blight Dialogues: 31
Charles Tarlton

 

     CARMODY: Perhaps only the ancient thinkers and writers could see into the tragedy of life.
     BLIGHT:  And into its absurdity. [Pause.] Altogether too many serious questions.
     CARMODY: What about death?
     BLIGHT: What about getting through this afternoon?

Even as we got off the plane in Paris, you felt something was wrong. You know how Pissaro's
Boulevard Montmartre la nuit seems so perfect?  That was my idea of Paris. But, everywhere I
saw and heard only crass commercialism, cars and trucks and busses, and American tourists.
Right from the start the perfect Paris was set aside; we had to make do with something more like
Harrisburg. This is the kind of conflict from which life's serious questions arise when the idea of
perfection runs aground.

So what?  I know
how lawless tongues incite us
reputations
suffer in the wake of
gossip. You're breaking my heart

instinct fails me
I am thrown under questions
against the grain
are you serious?  Can you
go forward through the wreckage?

radical lust
often kindled poetry
of tender love
as well as frothing passions
sad, so sad, in their defeats

 

 

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