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DYLAN THOMAS
Love in the Asylum
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds
Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.
She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies
She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.
And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
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TPB's notes: n/a
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
the priest and the matador
in the slow Mexican air I watched the bull die
and they cut off his ear, and his great head held
no more terror than a rock.
driving back the next day we stopped at the Mission
and watched the golden red and blue flowers pulling
like tigers in the wind.
set this to metric: the bull, and the fort of Christ:
the matador on his knees, the dead bull his baby;
and the priest staring from the window
like a caged bear.
you may argue in the market place and pull at your
doubts with silken strings: I will only tell you
this: I have lived in both their temples,
believing all and nothing—perhaps, now, they will
die in mine.
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TPB's notes: n/a
TOGARA MUZANENHAMO
Hunters’ Society
Hunters’ Society
Evening falls to the contrabass of bullfrogs,
the velvet musk of Davidoff and Calvados
faint behind his back. Those who had come
the velvet musk of Davidoff and Calvados
faint behind his back. Those who had come
out for the sunset stood watching the brass
white moon rise above the grand hypnotic
veldt; the waterhole pewter-still, wild plum
white moon rise above the grand hypnotic
veldt; the waterhole pewter-still, wild plum
on the banks. He breathed in the heavy air
and thought how he had travelled the world
to lose his mind in such untamed country.
and thought how he had travelled the world
to lose his mind in such untamed country.
A shadow on the water rippled out in circles
Gun oils railed off teak. The old belvedere
glowing weak, a soft flame in a lost century.
Gun oils railed off teak. The old belvedere
glowing weak, a soft flame in a lost century.
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TPB's notes: see http://www.centreforafricanpoetry.org
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