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selected past writing at 42opus

 

Hermann and Dorothea: 2. Terpsichore by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

Ow when of comely mien the son came into the chamber,

Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher upon him,

And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms expression,

Scrutinized well his face and form and his general bearing.

9 June 2005 | poetry, classic, translation

 

Works of Mercy by NEIL DE LA FLOR

The fisherman threatens to climb philodendrons with daisy cutters. Threatens to mount his motorbike barebacked. Ursula emerges from behind stacked bricks. Like hyenas they thrash in ghetto-rage.

6 August 2007 | poetry, prose poem

 

Elegy for What Survives Inside the Body by KEITH MONTESANO

Suddenly she's bawling, tells the entire story, like you do


when your world is unfamiliar, the hazy bodies lost in black.

It takes six years for the pieces to make themselves apparent…

2 August 2006 | poetry, elegy

 

During the Ice Age by CLAUDIA BURBANK

Even when the slapping northerlies subsided

Everything leaned away in visible pain.

Just Keep Moving, in Latin, across our coat of arms…

2 October 2006 | poetry

 

Geography, A Fable by SARA LEVINE

This story takes place years ago when every person was born with geographical destiny printed onto their skin—usually the bottom of the foot, sometimes a thigh or the back of the calf. If the words weren't clear—too faint, improperly formed, or with crucial letters missing—a family waited with great eagerness, checking the bottom of the foot (or the thigh or the back of the calf) every day to see what had emerged, the way one might peer into the murky bloom of a Polaroid. And although some believed a newborn's geographical destiny shouldn't matter, since it might be years before the child went off to meet it, in fact, to many people it did matter; so that parents whose geographical destiny was, for instance, Kansas City found it difficult to love without reproach a child born with the word Albuquerque across its knee.

When you go off to Albuquerque, they'd say, then you can have a skateboard. Or, Your father and I want a house, but we've got to save our money for phone bills and airfares. Oh, what do you care, soon you'll be running off to Albuquerque.

23 May 2008 | fiction, short story

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