Winter 2005



Ira Cohen

Coming to the end of this little notebook
I discover a profusion of perfect petals
embedded in the paper.
Though we are out of the dog days of August
not a sign of red or yellow is yet implied.
They speak of golden years, but I don't
really yearn for the sun to set --
Let the dew rise heavenwards in the
last exhalation of an endless summer.
So much for hallmark feelings.
everywhere the passing stream.

If only I knew what to do would it be
alright with you if the gold & the
black broke the back of the wave,
could we, together at last, leave the
moving past?

"Soso," intones the skinny nerd as two
blondes in pink & fawn colored outfits
show their tresses passing by just as
I was thinking of Dante's ladder to
the sky & the reluctance of Phaeton teaches
in regard to the chariot of the sun.
If love's ardor magnetizes grace, ten
show me without your veil of light
the lineaments of your face.
(A meadow down in its place.)

Ira Cohen

The only real experience
occurs when you are alone,
not when you are part of a
When you come alive it is in the
likeness of spring.
One day you will eat the blue,
then you will know --
When it is all over the word
will remain.
So it is with poetry as with
Praise will issue from the mouths
of strangers.
Then in the Land of Promise
the real struggle begins.



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