The Language of Love “Without arts, the inner life would wither.” Mark Strand Take three bus transfers anywhere. Get off at the last possible spot. Look around—you will be surrounded by Chicago, but you won’t be lost. Doubtless you will see Mark Strand wandering State Street in an overcoat. Maybe you see a thousand such poets, falling from the sky like a Magritte painting. Open your umbrella to protect your face from their tears. Watch as their broken legs and blood smears the sidewalk. Step over their bodies. Don’t steal their bowler hats. Walk up to Strand and shake his hand. Fan the inner flame of art—protect your fragile and illuminated heart. Caroline Johnson This poem was first published in Two Cities Review. Caroline Johnson has two poetry chapbooks and more than 100 poems in print. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she has won numerous national poetry awards, including the 2012 Chicago Tribune’s Printers Row Poetry Contest, and her poetry has been featured on Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. A former English teacher, she is president of Poets & Patrons of Chicago. Her full-length collection of poems, The Caregiver (Holy Cow! Press, 2018), was inspired by years of family caregiving. Visit her at www.caroline-johnson.com.
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Pamplona hot breath curls like a noose around elbow, horn prods rib cage. bellows squeeze the air out of his lungs and he imagines them peeling apart like the flowers in the square. the bulls are close enough that shirt, untucked, catches on a gleaming horn, loops around it, ties him to a fate of thundering hooves and red-eyed death. el diablo / el toro the words meld together in his mind. the crowd screams at him run run run, and the rhythm matches the thundering on the cobblestone. but the streets underfoot seem to rise up, uneven and rough, undulating waves slippery with something he thinks might be fear but cannot bring himself to look. something in the crowd catches his eye: red silk, fluttering in July wind. he stumble and the bulls are upon him— he can hear the hooves crashing down and realizes too late that the red silk is blood-stained. Yong-Yu Huang Yong-Yu Huang is a Taiwanese teenager who has lived in Malaysia for most of her life. Her work has been previously published by or is forthcoming in The Heritage Review, Eunoia Review, and Parallax Literary Journal. In her free time, she can be found struggling with the flute or watching Doctor Who. An Old Tune Maria Laura do Amaral Gurgel slips out of her lover’s mind abruptly, as the burden of his work permits a lull. He must meet her later at their hotel. But sitting, smoking and joking with Euterpe, between long sessions, suits him all too well. They must not overdo such intervals, when the muse touches an old tune superbly, taking her fingers for a lively stroll up and down the scale of his approval. The mandolin vibrates, and joins in warmly. . . . Maria Laura do Amaral Gurgel, wife of the painter’s cousin, never shall touch anything but Haydn, rather primly, and never hears of this remote betrayal. When, seventeen years on, her husband kills her lover, at that same Hotel Central, she has to go on living. In the gallery, they mourn him as the finest in all Brazil. Michael Caines Michael Caines was longlisted for this year's National Poetry Competition and highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly competition for winter 2019 ** Painting Rest He’s a young man with a vision into the future, Almeida paints himself an old man into the corner, colors immerse with a certain darkness, but tender light and shadow falls on his model. He loves her pose and applauds her performance, which might extend beyond repertoire, perhaps this is why she is resting. He is sober and realistic, committed to her description, and the routine of the everyday life of an artist, his moments of intimacy, details of living even well into the future. There’s no interest in painting historical subjects or even Biblical ones unless they have that compelling allure of Eve. He frames himself in the recesses of empathy with that look of lust. His thoughts spiral like smoke from a cigarette while looking at the nude with approval. Ten years later, he fancies young Maria Laura, his cousin’s wife, painting her at her wedding. The shape of her head, and her hair, unmistakenly familiar, similar to the nude he lusted years earlier, and she, Maria, with that hopeless family arrangement with a Sampaio, the man who doesn’t show affection as he does the whores, falls in love with the older Almeida. It is a betrayal by love letters. Enraged, Sampaio defends his name by getting rid of his wife and sticking a knife into the painter’s collar bone, saying, I wash honour with blood. While bleeding out, Almeida Júnior says I am dead, but what an ungrateful man. No doubt referring to Sampaio’s unappreciativeness for his wife who is now holding Almeida slumped in the streets as he enters rest, not quite the old man he imagined but one painted into a corner with a certain darkness, a tender light and shadow falling on Maria. He loves her. John C. Mannone John C. Mannone has poems appearing in North Dakota Quarterly, Le Menteur, Blue Fifth Review, Poetry South, Baltimore Review, 2020 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition, and others. His poetry won the Impressions of Appalachia Creative Arts Contest (2020). He was awarded a Jean Ritchie Fellowship (2017) in Appalachian literature and served as celebrity judge for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (2018). His latest collection, Flux Lines: The Intersection of Science, Love, and Poetry, is forthcoming from Linnet’s Wings Press (2020). He edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and other journals. A retired physics professor, he lives near Knoxville, Tennessee. ** Um Interlúdio Perhaps his smile belies his dark intent, eyes seeming to rest too long, or maybe only innocence, listening as she practices her chords, needed to counterbalance stillness. He smokes, the picture of nonchalance; she turns toward him at ease. A crack revealed, smiles as the draping drops, reveals the voyeur captured in the trap of paint – and aren’t we all, enraptured, as the artist shows what has been unseen, unable to avert our eyes in the contrivance of the mise-en-scéne? Betsy Mars Betsy Mars is a poet, photographer, and occasional publisher. She founded Kingly Street Press and released her first anthology, Unsheathed: 24 Contemporary Poets Take Up the Knife,in October 2019. A second anthology, entitled Floored, is in the works and expected to be out later this summer. Her work has recently appeared in The Blue Nib, Live Encounters, and The New Verse News. Her chapbook, Alinea, was published in January 2019. In the Muddle of the Night, with Alan Walowitz, is coming soon from Arroyo Seco Press. ** A Model’s Song Singing At the piano After a long day Of sitting still I hunger to know The stories Of your secrets Across the lands Of colour in your head And the gone days Of your vision As I walk with you Through the lean times Of suffering Beneath your frail existence Awash in the essence Of our laughter Beyond the fractures In the marrow Of our fading art John Drudge John is a social worker working in the field of disability management and holds degrees in social work, rehabilitation services, and psychology. He is the author of two books of poetry: March, and The Seasons of Us (both published in 2019). His work has appeared widely in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies internationally. John is also a Pushcart Prize nominee and lives in Caledon Ontario, Canada with his wife and two children. ** If Only I could capture the form, the tone, all that flows from your fingers, my own would grace the canvas with the beauty before me. Poised in that moment between notes, the keys wait for your touch as the canvas waits to know the true art of the moment. Ken Gierke Ken Gierke is a retired truck driver who enjoys kayaking and photography, but writing poetry brings him the most satisfaction. Primarily free verse and haiku, his poetry has appeared at The Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, Vita Brevis, Eunoia Review, and formidable woman sanctuary, as well as at Tuck Magazine, and can be seen on his blog: https://rivrvlogr.wordpress.com. ** Model’s Rest Resting her fingers on black and white piano keys a naked woman on a stool asks her companion to open a window as he lights the cigarette between his lips. She had imagined being his model, lazy afternoons under his scrutiny— and afterwards, when he’d finished with the day’s grubby paintwork, he’d turn from her unfinished portrait, wash his tender hands and suggest they share a simple meal, a glass or two of wine. Nothing like that happened. Instead, he laboured for hours, hardly talking, while she perched on a hard, wobbly seat. She had been mesmerized by his studio, the artfully placed brass and pewter pots, satin drapery, piles of finger-worn sheet music and a rumpled handwoven rug; and when she grew bored of staring at flower patterned plates, she watched him, and her mind painted his portrait. It is this image she remembers now, the two of them, side by side, at rest, him wearing his shabby artist’s smock and leather slippers, his silly woollen hat, and in his eyes a look of gratefulness. David Belcher David Belcher is aged over 50, he lives on the north coast of Wales, and his most recent work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Ink Sweat and Tears and Right Hand Pointing. David reads and writes poetry for enjoyment, and to preserve his sanity. ** I Explain Some Oleanders You ask. where are the oleanders? And the hot summer suns? And the night, empty streets his words filling them with promises? I’ll tell you all that happened. I stayed in Cefalù on Sicily island, our hotel was Santa Lucia by the Tyrrhenian Sea the hotel with tarantella music. From there you could look out over shop shutters across the town. Lacuna that lulled the naïve oleander trees unrested, filled with chimera stone tiles of a dream fugue, that would entwine themselves with my memories. And from then on the mythmaking shilling screenplays and from then on rhyme and lyrical vagaries. And one morning all that was repossessed lime washed walls one morning tinted taupe grey a walled garden remembers an ochre yellow house, remembers children, remembers his fists steep stairway to the white sand beach I have seen the sea grasses. And you ask, why did you stay? Come and see the moon. Come and see the oleanders. Ilona Martonfi Ilona Martonfi is an editor, poet, curator, advocate and activist. Author of four poetry books, the most recent collection is Salt Bride (Inanna, 2019). Forthcoming, The Tempest (Inanna, 2021). Writes in journals, anthologies, and six chapbooks. Her poem “Dachau on a Rainy Day” was nominated for the 2018 Pushcart Prize. Artistic director of Visual Arts Centre Reading Series and Argo Bookshop Reading Series. QWF 2010 Community Award. ** The Model’s Particularity To be naked is to be oneself. To be nude is to be seen naked by others and yet not recognized for oneself. — John Berger, Ways of Seeing She sits on the piano bench nonchalantly totally at ease in her body and with him, the artist who paints her naked. But not as a nude. There is complicity in how she is portrayed, a tenderness perhaps that allows them to sit with mutual comfort in each other’s presence. As unconcerned as if they sat at an elegant tea eating cucumber and watercress, Victoria sponge. The spread of her arms and placement of her hands convince me she could play the scores balanced on the stand. She knows herself as an individual, with talents. For him, she’s a woman with her own particularity. Not Aphrodite or Helen, not Ophelia lying drowned among the reeds. And he is not Odysseus or Paris or even Hamlet. In the style of the day, he can sit with a naked woman, discuss music, listen as she plays, seated on luxurious fabric in loose Turkish pants, her back to the viewer. Is there a hint of exoticism in the room’s furnishings that he projects onto her? Piano, cloisonné vases, mandolin? The golden cloak she has shed like an outer skin? The mystery, the titillation is the painter’s alone. He has made her the center of his rapt contemplation. Sandi Stromberg Sandi Stromberg recently had a poem about her days in the Netherlands translated into Dutch and published with the original and photos in Brabant Cultureel, a well-respected online arts and culture journal. She continues to delight in the biweekly challenges presented by The Ekphrastic Review. ** Interlude for Lorette C. Luzajic & Sukaina Fatima I In the foreground —ruled by the Chinese-gold silk sheet, grass-green fat pot, blood-red and Egyptian-blue carpet knots, hazel-brown wood, shimmering bronze surahi, et alia-- the paleness of my skin is only rendered further paler. But I permit —wrapped in the rainbow dhoti, affixed to the stool-- my fingers to fiddle with the black and white keys in a row on the Victorian style piano, and stir up a cacophony of a few sound waves in an effort to make my background known. The porcelain plates —affixed to the wall at 900 right above my head-- watch over me as the omnipresent Eye of Horus, and the gold-plated candle stands on either side of the piano, like the Kiraman Katibin—Raqib and Atid—supervise me, as I turn to the choreographer of colours for an acknowledgment and approval. II The bearded choreographer —with a Clergyman’s hat and dressed in an attire that resembles that of a Father’s, ready to proceed to hearing a confession, than that of a Michelangelo’s in the streets of Florence-- nods his head and applauds: “You remind me of my youth! We shall continue with our choir: you, with your head, torso and limbs; I, with the magic wand that this paint brush is.” Saad Ali 1. Surahi = an Indian pot which is usually used to store water, alcohol and other drinkable liquids. 2. Dhoti = a traditional Indian trouser—usually made of cotton or linen. 3. In the Islamic theology, the Kiraman Katibin, i.e. Honourable Scribes, are namely Raqib and Atid, who are appointed by God to sit on the right and left shoulder of a person in order to record every good and bad dead of the person for the Final Judgement by God on the Day of Judgement. Saad Ali (b. 1980 C.E. in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. He is an existential philosopher-poet. Ali has authored four books of poetry i.e. Ephemeral Echoes (AuthorHouse, 2018), Metamorphoses: Poetic Discourses (AuthorHouse, 2019), Ekphrases: Book One (AuthorHouse, 2020), and Prose Poems: Βιβλίο Άλφα (AuthorHouse, 2020). By profession, he is a Lecturer, Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com. Get your copy of the ebook The Ekphrastic World today!
A curated collection of 60 paintings and artworks from all over the world, this is the ultimate book of ekphrastic prompts. Your purchase supports The Ekphrastic Review on its fifth anniversary! It also qualifies you to enter 15 poems or five stories or essays, inspired by the artworks inside, for our upcoming anniversary anthology. (Submissions due November 1.) Click here to purchase. Also available is Lorette's new collection of ekphrastic prose poems in ebook form, and Fifty Ekphrastic Approaches. THANK YOU to everyone who has supported the Review by purchasing this ebook! We are most grateful, and look forward to your ekphrastic writing submissions. Pietà At last your sacrifice is done, And I can hold you here, my son. When you could fit within one arm, I used to keep you safe from harm. Those times we shared have long been gone; You grew up fast, too soon moved on. But all of that seemed for the best So humankind could come to rest. Your body crucified extends Beyond what duty comprehends. You, like myself, did what was urged, Yet ended pierced as well as scourged. Your suffering is over now, And I must carry on somehow. Jane Blanchard This sonnet in tetrameter couplets is the work of Jane Blanchard of Georgia (USA), who has published four collections with Kelsay Books, most recently In or Out of Season. False Face Society Masks -Joy of Museums Virtual Tours, May 2020 For this mask: not hallowed horsetail but my own hair—now coronavirus style-- auburn and gray, frizzed, flopped over the elongated features of fear-- ancient eyes, deep-set; nose bent by the diseased scent of death-- dark-grained face chiseled and cut from the living trees in the woods where we’ve wandered too long. Too long we’ve wandered in these woods, invoking the disfigured and hunchbacked, our fractured pleas crying out for that healing Iroquois spirit, “Old Broken Nose,” who once tried to move mountains, but, distracted, looked back and, slapped on the cheek by stone, ran off to hide his shattered countenance in a cave. “Come out,” we pray, “and save us!” But the woods, are just a screen we’re scrolling on this virtual journey to nowhere, the familiar cautionary tale interrupted by the latest digital specter-- ironic black-and-white advertisement for colorful masks: soft cotton, machine-washable, available—today only—in a wide variety of “reasonably priced” and “highly authentic” new-age Native-American designs. Marjorie Maddox This poem was first published at Silver Birch Press. Learn more about False Face masks here. Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lock Haven University, Marjorie Maddox has published 11 collections of poetry—including Transplant, Transport, Transubstantiation (Yellowglen Prize); True, False, None of the Above (Illumination Book Award Medalist); Local News from Someplace Else; Perpendicular As I (Sandstone Book Award)--the short story collection What She Was Saying (Fomite); four children’s and YA books—including Inside Out: Poems on Writing and Readiing Poems with Insider Exercises and A Crossing of Zebras: Animal Packs in Poetry; I’m Feeling Blue, Too!--Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania (co-editor); Presence (assistant editor); and 600+ stories, essays, and poems in journals and anthologies. For more information, please see www.marjoriemaddox.com Braveheart A double portion to the eldest son, the first-born inherits more than equal share, but for him, beyond his father’s will, blood-brother, likewise, not of woman born. Its distant lore from Siam torn, swimming from genetic pool and amniotic sac, after Caesar, each with legs, head, eyes, but both with share core puzzles’ way, cord binding as aortic valve. As jungle law, despite anatomy, first-lifted becomes the heartless one, the second, bonded slave to brother’s will, whose feet must tread where other leads, despite the backward longing glance, suggested sibling rivalry. Will their intentions find accord, though focus views on different points? Where do their interests intersect, Venn unions amongst the envelopes? Is there record of common cause, alongside blooded arteries? Maybe concord in same vein, recorder play, remembered tune, circulated rhythmic pulse? Surgery may have a heart but has it courage to model one, or cordial to stimulate? Is there a future fashion, both cards marked, where one may become as two? Stephen Kingsnorth This poem was first published by Nine Muses Poetry. Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces accepted by some twenty on-line poetry sites, including The Ekphrastic Review; and Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry, The Dawntreader, Foxtrot Uniform Poetry Magazines & Vita Brevis Anthology. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ Garden of Death Three malnourished men dressed all in black present me with a bouquet of white lilies that droop like church bells their polite smiles on their ailing faces make me feel peaceful Anton Pooles Anton Pooles was born in Novosibirsk, Siberia and lives in Toronto. He is the co-editor at Cypress: A Poetry Journal, and his poems have appeared in Long Con Magazine, Half a Grapefruit, Train, and others. His chapbook, Monster 36, was published with Anstruther Press (2018). Wild Hearts Don't Break: 1980 Rumor has it she hung out on the street corner to attract attention. I heard she threw her head back and laughed when she heard that. Someone saw her jaywalk across the street to the Oriental Theater for a Bogie and Bacall film festival over the weekend, and I believe it because she was the type who would drag her fingertips along the red velvet seats and whisper, You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow. At the Oriental Drugstore, she could get anything from bag balm to a hammer to clove cigarettes that she only smoked with friends because she didn’t care about looking beautiful but she sure as hell cared about being cool. I heard she never swore a day in her life but cursed under her breath whenever it snowed. When she ran out of clean clothes before laundry day, she bought wool socks and a sweatshirt there. On the same day, I saw her buy a hard pack of Marlboro for her mom and slap down a ten for a roll of quarters for laundry with no hassle from the cashier. Back then she preferred the company of old people. They ate eggs and toast generously buttered to the crust at the drugstore’s U-shaped Formica counter. A man with cataracts read the paper sideways with peripheral vision and made her giggle until her eyes watered. I heard she never cried in public. The Tina Turner and James Dean pins on her blue jean jacket had been fished from the bottom of the 10¢ bin at the thrift store. Overheard speaking to them, she said they whispered back. She was known for her unique style. After listening to records at a friend’s house, she went to Ma Fisher’s. Ate french fries with malt vinegar, sipped hot coffee through a straw, and skedaddled, the late shift waitress confirmed. At that hour, when anything bad could happen, she must’ve eaten as if it were her last meal—coffee loaded with cream and sugar and a giant plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and cinnamon French toast before heading home to sleep, sleep right through the rumbling of cars passing on the street below her apartment window. She lived a charmed life. We all agree that back in the day, her older sister and her sister’s friends must’ve cast a spell like an impenetrable cloak to protect her from harm. On Saturday night, they shoved a drug dealer to the pavement for messing with her and got her into Century Hall without being carded, years before an arsonist torched the place. Koko Taylor sang, listen, listen, listen, listen to me, girls, and the girls did listen, carefully. Every verse was a caution or a scorch mark. They danced and smelled of cigarette smoke the next day but they didn’t care. At Hooligans Bar, some saw her hanging on the arm of the curly-haired bassist for Marvin and the Dogs, though they could’ve been mistaken because she avoided the rough-and-tumble scene. She could sing along to their rendition of "Mustang Sally" like she meant it. She talked to drunks. I imagine she tried to read their watery minds and wonder how deep they went—an ocean of pressure and darkness where their loneliness could drown. It’s a fact that she carried a matchbook in her pocket in case Keith Richards happened to be in Milwaukee and needed a light. Her mom brought them home from bars around the city and kept a stash in a bowl by the back door of their apartment. She eavesdropped. Not in an obvious way. She listened, really listened for what mattered. My brother dated Andrea, the manager of the restaurant up the block, and Andrea told him and he told me she’d hired the girl when she was only 15 because she was pressured into it by someone, she wouldn’t say who, though we think she could’ve gotten the job on her own. She was young and strong and didn’t annoy people with humming or laughing while she worked. While in high school, she worked one weekend day and one school night each week. All she ever talked about was making enough money to leave the Midwest without stopping to think she might never feel as hopeful as she did then. We didn’t call it flyover because it wouldn’t have made any sense, and we don’t call it flyover now because it’s a new word invented by people who have no idea what they’re talking about. She would never be rich or famous or in the in-crowd. Neither would we. Nights after mopping floors, she walked home while watching the shadows for eyes, sometimes walking backwards to watch for the bus. A romantic at heart, she was known for saying happiness was having fare in her pocket and seeing her bus-driver-in-shining-armor approaching through the dark. I heard she was grateful for the hard, biting cold nights when it seemed no one would attack her because a girl with a fast stride would surely fight back. Every predator knew that. I heard she never panicked but walked with her keys lined between her gloved fingers like a claw. We all did. In high school, we were required to take self-defense in P.E., without the boys, of course. They played hoops in the gym, instead. As it did me, the cold reminded her she was alive. Walking home, she glanced into alleys, behind snow-draped hedges, and past vacant lots with dry weeds poking through the snow. A streetlight cast shadows into a home where someone had left a light on over the stove. It looked safe and respectable. I’m sure she imagined her mother half-asleep at their apartment, waiting for her to come home, or sleepless and leaning over a pot of bones simmering in the kitchen. I know this and other things about her. I know her favorite colour was the creamy yellow of her brick building, the same clay that lives beneath the feet of Milwaukeeans today and made its home along a Great Lake, before she was born, even before Native people gave the place its name, before all human time when snow covered the land in pure, silent love. Marjorie Robertson Marjorie Robertson is a writer, teacher and multi-linguist. She is passionate about the intersection of the mind, body, and spirit. Her first novel, Bitters in the Honey, was a semifinalist in the 2014 William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. She has also completed a collection of ekphrastic short stories. Tanka 1 for my Mother, Mona hide and seek, marbles, spinning tops after school, dolls; windows without glass; dress made of empty dirt brown flour sack—childhood memories. Saad Ali Saad Ali (b. 1980 in Okara, Pakistan) is an existential philosopher and poet. He has been brought up and educated in the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from University of Leicester, UK. Ali has authored three books of verse (so far) i.e. Ephemeral Echoes (AuthorHouse, 2018), Metamorphoses: Poetic Discourses (AuthorHouse, 2019), and Ekphrases: Book One (AuthorHouse, 2020). By profession, he is a Lecturer, Consultant, and Trainer/Mentor. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, and Tagore. He is fond of the Chinese, Greek, and Arabic cuisine. He likes learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities on foot. To learn more about his work, please visit www.saadalipoetry.com. Questions for the Night Drinker He is only one of 164 celebrating with cups of pulque on this fragment discovered deep underground. And so, alone, as a singular celebrant, why not imagine drinking agave on top of Popocatepetl, or sharing his wide cup decorated with ancient Goddesses, with Mayahuel herself, as the eleven serpents writhe about her 400 breasts. You can guess at his tongue as he opens his mouth to drink-- or is he about to sing? O night drinker, will you chant the story of Gods hurling unfortunates into volcano fire… ? I want to ask so many questions-- but you simply answer vas a ver -- ready to dance in syncopated rhythms accelerating, vas, vas, vas your hand clapping a ver, a’ver vas’’a’ver. You hold the cup, your eyes so widely open as we watch. Tell us what you see. Kitty Jospé Editor's Note: Read more about mezcal and art in Cholula, Mexico, here. Kitty Jospé has authored many books and her work has appeared in numerous local and national journals. Bilingual in French/English, (MA French Literature, NYU; worked in Belgium for the International Council of Societies of Industrial Design) she retired from teaching French in 2006 to pursue an MFA (Pacific University, OR). She gives tours in both languages as docent at the Memorial Art Gallery; lectures on language and art as tools for deeper understanding and offers weekly poetry appreciation courses at the public library since February 2008. |
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