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Poetry Magnum Opus

exile


eclipse

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My son was born without the power of speech,

the secret police beat me while he was still

in the womb. Hassan's bellybutton disappeared

as he grew older and he painted a cave of winds

(a reference to his family I believe) on a butterflys

wings, when Hassan slept a flower grew where his

bellybutton used to be and the butterfly would rest

on the flower as he slept.


The photographs taken of the bombed village we left

slept then blinked woken by desert storms hammering

the shack. I saw a gun balanced on the flower as Hassan

slept and it began to talk of a butterfly choking on the

vapours of war and surviving. My thoughts became formless

like the wind. I wrote our names on two sheets of paper

throwing them into the night like two abandoned wings.


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  • 3 weeks later...
David W. Parsley

Tinker stole my response, but I'll repeat it anyway. WOW. All the imaginative imagery and turns of phrase are there, the sense of wonder that we all can expect from your pieces. But the narrative progression is breathtaking, possessed of a stomach-dropping unity. You step confidently into a country of symbol and image not repeated from your prior work. You take care to craft the piece, so there is nothing to distract the reader from the journey you narrate, its searing and current landscape. Very, very well done!

 

Thank You (I think!),

- Dave

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