Yeongsil hiking trail (1:12 p.m.)

The above pic is not from Yeongsil Trail, but Donnaeko Trail, which is connected. The pic captures a hazy view of Seogwipo, the 2nd, other, southern city of Jeju. Donnaeko is, for roughly 6km a steep path, sheltered by dark umbrage most of the way—you suddenly come out of the trial & are met with…

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Stephanie L. Harper (7 Poems)

Originally posted on Underfoot Poetry:
To the Dead White-Throated Sparrow in my driveway: Would you at least do me the courtesy of an explanation? What’s with your belly-mound-cenotaph arisen from the stony gloom spiel? And why this exquisite bundle of yours, with its still-tender russets folded in the unbounded repose of a napping cherub, as…

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A funeral rite was once an art…

This is not a Christmas poem (i’ll pretend that isn’t happening), neither is it exclusively about Shelley, despite the Louis Edouard Fournier painting suggesting otherwise. i suppose, if the man being cremated is a poet, then the funeral rite, through contagious magic, becomes a work of art. ∞ A funeral rite was once an art but…

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Rodge

∞ A spartan living room | old 3 bar fire on full pelt | a Wedgewood Elizabeth II 50th anniversary coronation plate on the mantelpiece with a chipped edge | next to a pair of dice & an incomplete Rubik’s Cube. Rodge |late middle age & peculiar | far away glazed expression | is sat…

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The Pansori Singer

If you don’t know what the voice of a Pansori singer sounds like, i recommend you search it on Youtube. It has an overwhelming effect on me whenever i hear it. i become frozen, my skin horripilates & i just want to weep. The force with which they sing is far more intense & emotional…

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Let’s call it a sacrifice

A new poem. Photograph by me. Let’s call it a sacrifice It must have worked, whatever killed it : the drought has lost its footing; except now, the once named, being dead, is just that —or a sacrifice, sufficient enough to sate the appetite of a god. i don’t believe in such fads, but many…

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Grenfell Tower

This poem just happened. i have been so angry about this, the senselessness of it & the cruel irony that some of these people immigrated to England for a better, safer & more secure life & then this happened to them, when a few basic requirements would have averted the tragedy. This is what greed…

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Opus Posthumous

One of the poems from my short series on Wallace Stevens. Here we have Wallace returning from the dead. In the category Mining the Library of Babel, if you scroll through, any post with this photo of Wallace accompanying the poem, is also from this series. Opus posthumous I A student fist bumped Wallace &…

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