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to the literary circle

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  • Cbrady
    Speaking of poetry, this one really blew me away this morning. c/e The Writer s Almanac for Friday, October 14, 2005 Poem: Smell and Envy by Douglas Goetsch
    Message 1 of 2 , Oct 14, 2005
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      Speaking of poetry, this one really blew me away this morning.
      c/e

      The Writer's Almanac for Friday, October 14, 2005
      Poem: "Smell and Envy" by Douglas Goetsch from Nobody's Hell. © Hanging
      Loose Press.

      Smell and Envy

      You nature poets think you've got it, hostaged
      somewhere in Vermont or Oregon,
      so it blooms and withers only for you,
      so all you have to do is name it: primrose
      —and now you're writing poetry, and now
      you ship it off to us, to smell and envy.

      But we are made of newspaper and smoke
      and we dunk your roses in vats of blue.
      Birds don't call, our pigeons play it close
      to the vest. When the moon is full
      we hear it in the sirens. The Pleiades
      you could probably buy downtown. Gravity
      is the receiver on the hook. Mortality
      we smell on certain people as they pass.
    • Gamblin, Glenn
      Great stuff. The Pleiades/you could probably buy downtown Glenn G. Gamblin ________________________________ From: johnbarth@yahoogroups.com
      Message 2 of 2 , Oct 14, 2005
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        Great stuff.  'The Pleiades/you could probably buy downtown'
         
         

        Glenn G. Gamblin

         


        From: johnbarth@yahoogroups.com [mailto:johnbarth@yahoogroups.com] On Behalf Of Cbrady
        Sent: Friday, October 14, 2005 6:33 AM
        To: Undisclosed-recipients
        Subject: [johnbarth] to the literary circle

        Speaking of poetry, this one really blew me away this morning.
        c/e

        The Writer's Almanac for Friday, October 14, 2005
        Poem: "Smell and Envy" by Douglas Goetsch from Nobody's Hell. © Hanging Loose Press.

        Smell and Envy

        You nature poets think you've got it, hostaged
        somewhere in Vermont or Oregon,
        so it blooms and withers only for you,
        so all you have to do is name it: primrose
        —and now you're writing poetry, and now
        you ship it off to us, to smell and envy.

        But we are made of newspaper and smoke
        and we dunk your roses in vats of blue.
        Birds don't call, our pigeons play it close
        to the vest. When the moon is full
        we hear it in the sirens. The Pleiades
        you could probably buy downtown. Gravity
        is the receiver on the hook. Mortality
        we smell on certain people as they pass.

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